Magic's Pawn
Book One of The Last Herald Mage
by Mercedes Lackey
copyright 1989
Melanie Mar—just because
and Mark, Carl, and Dominic
for letting me bounce things off them
"Your
grandfather," said Vanyel's brawny, fifteen-year-old cousin Radevel,
"was crazy."
He has a point, Vanyel thought, hoping they weren't about to take an
uncontrolled dive down the last of the stairs.
Radevel's
remark had probably been prompted by this very back staircase, one that started
at one end of the third-floor servants' hall and emerged at the rear of a linen
closet on the ground floor. The stair treads were so narrow and so slick that
not even the servants used it.
The
manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach was a strange and
patchworked structure. In Vanyel's great-great-grandfather's day it had been a
more conventional defensive keep, but by the time Vanyel's grandfather had held
the lands, the border had been pushed far past Forst Reach. The old reprobate
had decided when he'd reached late middle age that defense was going to be
secondary to comfort. His comfort,
primarily.
Not
that Vanyel entirely disagreed with Grandfather; he would have been one of the
first to vote to fill in the moat and for fireplaces in all the rooms. But the
old man had gotten some pretty peculiar notions about what he wanted
where—along with a tendency to change his mind in mid-alteration.
There
were good points—windows everywhere, and all of them glazed and shuttered.
Skylights lighting all the upper rooms and the staircases. Fireplaces in nearly
every room. Heated privies, part and parcel of the
bathhouse.
Every
inside wall lathed and plastered against cold and damp. The stables, mews,
kennel, and chickenyard banished to new outbuildings.
But
there were bad points—if you didn't know your way, you could really get lost; and there were an awful lot of places you couldn't
get into unless you knew exactly how to get there. Some of those places were
important—like the bathhouse and privies. The old goat hadn't much considered
the next generation in his alterations, either; he'd cut up the nursery into
servant's quarters, which meant that until Lord Withen's boys went into
bachelor's hall and the girls to the bower, they were cramped two and three to
a series of very tiny attic-level rooms.
"He
was your grandfather, too," Vanyel felt
impelled to point out. The Ashkevron cousins had a tendency to act as if they
had no common ancestors with Vanyel and his sibs whenever the subject of
Grandfather Joserlin and his alterations came up.
"Huh."
Radevel considered for a moment, then shrugged. "He was still crazy."
He hefted his own load of armor and padding a little higher on his shoulder.
Vanyel
held his peace and trotted down the last couple of stone stairs to hold the
door open for his cousin. Radevel was doing him a favor, even though Vanyel was
certain that cousin Radevel shared everyone else's low opinion of him. Radevel
was by far and away the best-natured of the cousins, and the easiest to talk
round—and the bribe of Vanyel's new hawking gauntlet had proved too much for
him to resist. Still, it wouldn't do to get him angry by arguing with him; he might decide he had better things to do than help Vanyel out,
gauntlet or no gauntlet.
Oh, gods—let this
work, Vanyel thought as they emerged into the gloomy back
hall. Did I practice enough with Lissa? Is this going to have a chance against
a standard attack? Or am I crazy for even trying?
The
hallway was as cold as the staircase had been, and dark to boot. Radevel took
the lead, feet slapping on the stone floor as he whistled contentedly—and
tunelessly. Vanyel tried not to wince at the mutilation of one of his favorite
melodies and drifted silently in his wake, his thoughts as dark as the hallway.
In three days
Lissa will be gone—and if I can't manage to get sent along, I'll be all alone.
Without Lissa...
If I can just
prove that I need her kind of training, then maybe Father will let me go with
her—
That
had been the half-formed notion that prompted him to work out the moves of a
different style of fighting than what he was supposed to be learning, practicing them in secret with his older
sister Lissa: that was what had ultimately led to this little expedition.
That,
and the urgent need to show Lord Withen that his eldest son wasn't the coward
the armsmaster claimed he was—and that he could succeed on martial ground of his own choosing.
Vanyel
wondered why he was the only boy to realize that there were other styles of
fighting than armsmaster Jervis taught; he'd read of them, and knew that they
had to be just as valid, else why send Lissa off to foster and study with
Trevor Corey and his seven would-be sword-ladies? The way Vanyel had it
figured, there was no way short of a miracle that he would ever succeed at the
brute hack-and-bash system Jervis used—and no way Lord Withen would ever believe
that another style was just as good while Jervis had his ear.
Unless
Vanyel could show him. Then Father would have to
believe his own eyes.
And if I can't
prove it to him—
—oh, gods. I
can't take much more of this.
With
Lissa gone to Brenden Keep, his last real ally in the household would be gone,
too; his only friend, and the only person who cared for him.
This
was the final trial of the plot he'd worked out with Liss; Radevel would try to
take him using Jervis' teachings. Vanyel would try to hold his own, wearing
nothing but the padded jerkin and helm, carrying the lightest of
target-shields, and trusting to speed and agility to keep him out of trouble.
Radevel
kicked open the unlatched door to the practice ground, leaving Vanyel to get it
closed before somebody yelled about the draft. The early spring sunlight was
painful after the darkness of the hallway; Vanyel squinted as he hurried to
catch up with his cousin.
"All
right, peacock," Radevel said good-naturedly, dumping his gear at the edge
of the practice ground, and snagging his own gambeson from the pile. "Get
yourself ready, and we'll see if this nonsense of yours has any merit."
It
took Vanyel a lot less time than his cousin to shrug into his "armor"; he offered tentatively to help Radevel
with his, but the older boy just snorted.
"Botch
mine the way you botch yours? No thanks," he said, and went on
methodically buckling and adjusting.
Vanyel
flushed, and stood uncertainly at the side of the sunken practice ground,
contemplating the thick, dead grass at his feet.
I never botch
anything except when Jervis is watching,
he thought bleakly, shivering a little as a bit of cold breeze cut through the
gambeson. And then I can't do anything right.
He
could almost feel the windows in the keep wall behind him like eyes staring at
his back. Waiting for him to fail—again.
What's wrong with
me, anyway? Why can't I ever please Father? Why is everything I do wrong?
He
sighed, scuffed the ground with his toe, and wished he could be out riding
instead of trying something doomed to failure. He was the best rider in Forst
Reach—he and Star had no equals on the most breakneck of hunts, and he could,
if he chose, master anything else in the stables.
And just because
I won't bother with those ironmouthed brutes Father prefers, he won't even
grant me the accolade there—
Gods. This time I have to win.
"Wake
up, dreamer," Radevel rumbled, his voice muffled inside the helm.
"You wanted to have at—let's get to it."
Vanyel
walked to the center of the practice field with nervous deliberation, waiting
until the last minute to get his helm on. He hated the thing; he hated the
feeling of being closed in, and most of all hated having his vision narrowed to
a little slit. He waited for Radevel to come up to him, feeling the sweat already
starting under his arms and down the line of his back.
Radevel
swung—but instead of meeting the blow with his shield as Jervis would have
done, Vanyel just moved out of the way of the blow, and on his way past
Radevel, made a stab of his own. Jervis never cared much for point-work, but
Vanyel had discovered it could be really effective if you timed things right.
Radevel made a startled sound and got up his own shield, but only just in time,
and left himself open to a cut.
Vanyel
felt his spirits rising as he saw this second opening in as many breaths, and
chanced another attack of his own. This one actually managed to connect, though
it was too light to call a disabling hit.
"Light!"
Vanyel shouted as he danced away, before his cousin had a chance to disqualify
the blow.
"Almost
enough, peacock," Radevel replied, reluctant admiration in his voice.
"You land another like that with your weight behind it and I'll be out.
Try this for size—"
He
charged, his practice blade a blur beside his shield.
Vanyel
just stepped aside at the last moment, while Radevel staggered halfway to the
boundary under his own momentum.
It
was working! Radevel couldn't get near
him—and Vanyel was pecking away at him whenever he got an opportunity. He wasn't
hitting even close to killing strength—but that was mostly from lack of
practice. If—
"'Hold,
damn your eyes!"
Long
habit froze them both in position, and the armsmaster of Forst Reach stalked
onto the field, fire in his bloodshot glare.
Jervis
looked the two of them up and down while Vanyel sweated from more than
exertion. The blond, crag-faced mercenary frowned, and Vanyel's mouth went dry.
Jervis looked angry—and when Jervis was angry, it was generally Vanyel who
suffered.
"Well—"
the man croaked after long enough for Vanyel's dread of him to build up to full
force, "—learning a new discipline, are we? And whose idea
was this?"
"Mine,
sir," Vanyel whispered.
"Might
have guessed sneak-and-run would be more suited to you than an honest fight," the armsmaster sneered.
"Well, and how did you do, my bright young lord?"
"He
did all right, Jervis." To Vanyel's complete amazement Radevel spoke up
for him. "I couldn't get a blow on 'im. An' if he'd put his weight behind
it, he'd have laid me out a time or two."
"So
you're a real hero against a half-grown boy. I'll just bet you feel like
another Veth Krethen, don't you?" Jervis spat. Vanyel held his temper,
counting to ten, and did not protest that Radevel was nearly double his size
and certainly no "half-grown boy." Jervis glared at him, waiting for
a retort that never came—and strangely, that seemed to anger Jervis even more.
"All
right, hero," he snarled, taking Radevel's
blade away and jamming the boy's helm down over his own head. "Let's see
just how good you really are—"
Jervis
charged without any warning, and Vanyel had to scramble to get out of the way
of the whirling blade. He realized then that Jervis was coming for him
all-out—as if Vanyel was wearing full armor.
Which
he wasn't.
He
pivoted desperately as Jervis came at him again; ducked, wove, and spun—and saw
an opening. This time desperation gave him the strength he hadn't used against
Radevel—and he scored a chest-stab that actually rocked Jervis back for a
moment, and followed it with a good solid blow to the head.
He
waited, heart in mouth, while the armsmaster staggered backward two or three
steps, then shook his head to clear it. There was an awful silence—
Then
Jervis yanked off the helm, and there was nothing but rage on his face.
"Radevel,
get the boys, then bring me Lordling Vanyel's arms and armor," the
armsmaster said, in a voice that was deadly calm.
Radevel
backed off the field, then turned and ran for the keep. Jervis paced slowly to
within a few feet of Vanyel, and Vanyel nearly died of fear on the spot.
"So
you like striking from behind, hmm?" he said in that same, deadly quiet
voice. "I think maybe I've been a bit lax in teaching you about honor,
young milord." A thin smile briefly sliced across his face. "But I
think we can remedy that quickly enough."
Radevel
approached with feet dragging, his arms loaded with the rest of Vanyel's
equipment.
"Arm
up," Jervis ordered, and Vanyel did not dare to disobey.
Exactly
what Jervis said, then—other than dressing Vanyel down in front of the whole
lot of them, calling him a coward and a cheat, an assassin who wouldn't stand
still to face his opponent's blade with honor—Vanyel could never afterward
remember. Only a haze of mingled fear and anger that made the words meaningless.
But
then Jervis took Vanyel on. His way, his style.
It
was a hopeless fight from the beginning, even if Vanyel had been good at this
particular mode of combat. In moments Vanyel found himself flat on his back,
trying to see around spots in front of his eyes, with his ears still ringing
from a blow he hadn't even seen coming.
"Get
up," Jervis said—
Five
more times Vanyel got up, each time more slowly. Each time, he tried to yield.
By the fourth time he was wit-wandering, dazed and groveling. And Jervis
refused to accept his surrender even when he could barely gasp out the words.
But
he'd figured that Vanyel was just going to get a bit of a thrashing. He'd never figured on being an unwilling witness to a deliberate—
—massacre.
That was all he could think it. Van was no match for Jervis, and Jervis was
coming at him all out—like he was a trained, adult fighter. Even Radevel could
see that.
He
heaved a sigh of relief when Vanyel was knocked flat on his back, and mumbled
out his surrender as soon as he could speak. The worst the poor little snot had
gotten was a few bruises.
But
when Jervis had refused to accept that surrender—when he beat at Van with the
flat of his blade until the boy had
to pick up sword and shield just to get the beating to stop—Radevel got that
bad feeling again.
And
it got worse. Five times more Jervis knocked him flat, and each time with what
looked like an even more vicious strike.
But
the sixth time Vanyel was laid out, he couldn't get up.
Jervis
let fly with a blow that broke the wood and copper shield right in the middle—and
to Radevel's horror, he saw when the boy fell back that Vanyel's shield arm had
been broken in half; the lower arm was bent in the middle, and that could only
mean that both bones had snapped. It was pure miracle that they hadn't gone
through muscle and skin—
And
Jervis' eyes were still not what Radevel would call sane.
Radevel
added up all the factors and came up with one answer: get Lissa. She was
adult-rank, she was Van's protector, and no matter what the armsmaster said in
justification for beating the crud out of Van, if Jervis laid one finger in
anger on Lissa, he'd get thrown out of the Keep with both his arms broken. If Withen didn't do it, there were others who
liked Liss a lot who would.
Radevel
backed off the field and took to his heels as soon as he was out of sight.
When
he came to, Lissa was bending over him, her horsey face tight with worry. She
was pale, and the nostrils of that prominent Ashkevron nose flared like a
frightened filly's.
"Don't
move—Van, no—both the bones of your arm are broken." She was kneeling next to him, he realized, with one knee gently but firmly
holding his left arm down so that he couldn't move it.
"Lady,
get away from him—" Jervis' voice dripped boredom and disgust. "It's
just his shield arm, nothing important. We'll just strap it to a board and put
some liniment on it and he'll be fine—"
She
didn't move her knees, but swung around to face Jervis so fast that her braid
came loose and whipped past Vanyel's nose like a lash. "You have done quite enough for one day, Master Jervis,"
she snarled. "I think you forget your place."
Vanyel
wished vacantly that he could see Jervis' face at that moment. It must surely
be a sight.
But
his arm began to hurt—and that was more than enough to
keep his attention.
"Oh,
Van—" Lissa folded herself inelegantly on the edge of Vanyel's bed and
sighed. "How did you manage to get into this mess?"
That
beaky Ashkevron nose and her determined chin combined with her anxiety to make
her look like a stubborn, mulish mare. Most people were put off by her
appearance, but Vanyel knew her well enough to read the heartsick worry in her
eyes. After all, she'd all but raised him.
Vanyel
wasn't certain how clear he'd be, but he tried to explain. Lissa tucked up her
legs, and rested her chin on her knees, an unladylike pose that would have
evoked considerable distress from Lady Treesa. When he finished, she sighed
again.
"I
think you attract bad luck, that's all I can say. You don't do anything wrong, but somehow things seem to happen to you."
Vanyel
licked his dry lips and blinked at her. "Liss—Jervis was really angry this time, and what you told him didn't help. He's going to
go right to Father, if he isn't there already."
She
shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? Van, all I was
thinking about was getting him away from you."
"I—I
know Liss, I'm not blaming you, but—"
"But
I made him mad. Well, I'll see if I can get to Father before Jervis does, but
even if I do he probably won't listen to me. I'm just a female, after all."
"I
know." He closed his eyes as the room began to swing. "Just—try,
Liss—please."
"I
will." She slipped off the bed, then bent over and kissed his forehead.
"Try and sleep, like the Healer told you, all right?"
He
nodded.
Tough-minded
and independent, like the grandmother who had raised her, Lissa was about the only one in the keep willing to stand
up to Lord Withen now that Grandmother Ashkevron had passed on. Not surprising,
that, given Grandmother. The Ashkevrons seemed to produce about one
strong-willed female in every generation, much to the bemusement of the
Ashkevron males, and the more compliant Ashkevron females.
Lady
Treesa (anything but independent) had been far too busy with pregnancy and all
the vapors she indulged in when pregnant to have anything to do with the
resulting offspring. They went to the hands of others until they were old
enough to be usefully added to her entourage. Lissa went to
Grandmother.
But
Vanyel went to Liss. And they loved each other from the moment she'd taken him
out of the nursery. She'd stand up to a raging lion for his sake.
So
Lissa went in search of their father. Unfortunately that left him alone. And
unfortunately Lissa didn't return when she couldn't immediately find Lord
Withen. And that, of course, left him vulnerable when his father chose to
descend on him like the god of thunders.
Vanyel
was dizzy with pain as well as with the medicines the Healer had made him drink
when Lord Withen stormed into his tiny, white-plastered room. He was lying flat
on his back in his bed, trying not to move, and still the room seemed to be
reeling around him. The pain was making him nauseous, and all he wanted was to
be left in peace. The very last thing he wanted to see was his lord father.
And
Withen barely gave him enough time to register that his father was there before laying into him.
"What's
all this about your cheating?" Withen roared, making Vanyel wince and wish
he dared to cover his ears. "By the gods, you whelp, I ought to break your
other arm for you!"
"I
wasn't cheating!" Vanyel protested,
stung, his voice breaking at just the wrong moment. He tried to sit upright—which
only made the room spin the more. He fell back, supporting himself on his good
elbow, grinding his teeth against the pain of his throbbing arm.
"I
was," he gasped through clenched teeth, "I was just doing what
Seldasen said to do!"
"And
just who might this 'Seldasen' be?" his father growled savagely, his dark
brows knitting together. "What manner of coward says to run about and
strike behind a man's back, eh?"
Oh, gods—now what
have I done? Though his head was spinning,
Vanyel tried to remember if Herald Seldasen's treatise on warfare and tactics
had been one of the books he'd "borrowed" without leave, or one of
the ones he was supposed to be studying.
"Well?" When Lord Withen scowled, his dark hair and beard
made him look positively demonic. The drugs seemed to be giving him an aura of
angry red light, too.
Father, why can't
you ever believe I might be in the right?
The
book was on the "approved" list, Vanyel remembered with relief, as he
recalled his tutor Istal assigning certain chapters to be memorized. "It's
Herald Seldasen, Father," he said
defiantly, finding strength in rebellion. "It's from a book Istal assigned
me, about tactics." The words he remembered strengthened him still more,
and he threw them into his father's face. "He said: 'Let every man that
must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to any one
school. Let the agile man use his speed, let his armoring be light, and let him
skirmish, but not close with the enemy. Let the heavy man stand shoulder to
shoulder with his comrades in the shield wall, that the enemy may not break
through. Let the small man of good eye make good use of the bow, aye, and let
the Herald fight with his mind and not his body, let the Herald-Mage combat
with magic and not the sword. And let no man be called coward for refusing the place
for which he is not fit.' And I didn't once hit anybody
from behind! If Jervis says I did—well—I didn't!"
Lord
Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one moment
Vanyel actually thought he'd gotten through to his father, who was more
accustomed to hearing him quote poetry than military history.
"Parrot
some damned book at me, will you?" Lord Withen snarled, dashing Vanyel's
hopes. "And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about fighting? You listen to me, boy—you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned well better learn what Jervis has to teach you if you want
to sit in my place when I'm gone! If he says you were cheating, then by damn you were cheating!"
"But
I wasn't cheating and I don't want your
place—" Vanyel protested, the drugs destroying his self-control and making
him say things he'd sooner have kept behind his teeth.
That
stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he'd gone mad, grown a
second head, or spoken in Karsite.
"Great
good gods, boy," he managed to splutter
after several icy eternities during which Vanyel waited for the roof to cave
in. "What do you want?"
"I—"
Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to be a
Bard—
"You
ungrateful whelp—you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order you to do! You're my heir and you'll do your duty to me and
to this holding if I have to see you half dead to get you to do it!"
And
with that, he stormed out, leaving Vanyel limp with pain and anger and utter
dejection, his eyes clamped tight against the tears he could feel behind them.
Oh, gods, what
does he expect of me? Why can't I ever please him? What do I have to do to
convince him that I can't be what he wants me to be? Die?
And now—now my
hand, oh, gods, it hurts—how much damage did they do to it? Am I ever going to
be able to play anything right again?
"Heyla,
Van—"
He
opened his eyes, startled by the sound of a voice.
His
door was cracked partway open; Radevel peered around the edge of it, and Vanyel
could hear scuffling and whispers behind him.
"You
all right?"
"No,"
Vanyel replied, suspiciously.
What the hell
does he want?
Radevel's
bushy eyebrows jumped like a pair of excited caterpillars. "Guess not. Bet
it hurts."
"It
hurts," Vanyel said, feeling a sick and sullen anger burning in the pit of
his stomach.
You watched it
happen. And you didn't do anything to stop it, cousin. And you didn't bother to
defend me to Father, either. None of you did.
Radevel,
instead of being put off, inched a little farther into the room.
"Hey," he said, brightening, "you should have seen it! I mean, whack, an' that whole shield just split—an' you fell down an'
that arm—"
"Will
you go to hell?" Vanyel snarled, just about
ready to kill him. "And you can take all those ghouls lurking out there
with you!"
Radevel
jumped, looked shocked, then looked faintly offended.
Vanyel
didn't care. All that mattered was that Radevel—and whoever else was out
there—took themselves away.
Left
finally alone, Vanyel drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with fragmented
bits of unhappy dreams. When he woke again, his mother was supervising the
removal of his younger brother Mekeal and all Mekeal's belongings from the room.
Well,
that was a change. Lady Treesa usually didn't interest herself in any of her
offspring unless she had something to gain from it. On the other hand, Vanyel
had been a part of her little court since the day he'd evidenced real talent at
music about five years ago. She wouldn't want to lose her own private
minstrel—which meant she'd best make certain he healed up all right.
"I
won't have you racketing about," she was whispering to Mekeal with
unconcealed annoyance on her plump, pretty face. "I won't have you keeping
him awake when he should be sleeping, and I won't have you getting in the
Healer's way."
Thirteen-year-old
Mekeal, a slightly shrunken copy of his father, shrugged indifferently.
"'Bout time we went to bachelor's hall anyway, milady," he replied,
as Lady Treesa turned to keep an eye on him. "Can't say as I'll miss the caterwauling an' the plunking."
Although
Vanyel could only see his mother's back, he couldn't miss the frown in her
voice. "It wouldn't hurt you to acquire a bit of Vanyel's polish,
Mekeal," Lady Treesa replied.
Mekeal
shrugged again, quite cheerfully. "Can't make silk out 'o wool, Lady
Mother." He peered through dancing candlelight at Vanyel's side of the
room.
"Seems
m'brother's awake. Heyla, peacock, they're movin' me down t' quarters; seems
you get up here to yourself."
"Out!"
Treesa ordered; and Mekeal took himself off with a heartless chuckle.
Vanyel
spent the next candlemark with Treesa fussing and weeping over him; indulging
herself in the histrionics she seemed to adore. In a way it was as hard to deal
with as Withen's rage. He'd never been on the receiving end of her vapors
before.
Oh, gods, he kept thinking confusedly, please make her
go away. Anywhere, I don't care.
He
had to keep assuring her that he was going to be all right when he was not at
all certain of that himself, and Treesa's shrill, borderline hysteria set his
nerves completely on edge. It was a decided relief when the Healer arrived
again and gently chased her out to give him some peace.
The
next few weeks were nothing but a blur of pain and potions—a blur endured with
one or another of his mother's ladies constantly at his side. And they all
flustered at him until he was ready to scream, including his mother's maid,
Melenna, who should have known better. It was like being nursemaided by a covey
of agitated doves. When they weren't worrying at him, they were preening at
him. Especially Melenna.
"Would
you like me to get you a pillow?" Melenna cooed.
"No,"
Vanyel replied, counting to ten. Twice.
"Can
I get you something to drink?" She edged a little closer, and leaned
forward, batting her eyelashes at him.
"No,"
he said, closing his eyes. "Thank you."
"Shall
I—"
"No!" he growled, not sure which was worse at this moment,
the pounding of his head, or Melenna's questions. At least the pounding didn't
have to be accompanied by Melenna's questions.
Sniff.
He
cracked an eyelid open, just enough to see her. She sniffed again, and a fat
tear rolled down one cheek.
She
was a rather pretty little thing, and the only one of his mother's ladies or maidservants who had managed to pick up Treesa's knack of
crying without going red and blotchy. Vanyel knew that both Mekeal and Radevel
had tried to get into her bed more than once. He also knew that she had her
heart set on him.
And
the thought of bedding her left him completely cold.
She
sniffed a little harder. A week ago he would have sighed, and apologized to
her, and allowed her to do something for him. Anything, just to keep her happy.
That was a week
ago. Now—It's just a game for her, a game she learned from Mother. I'm tired of
playing it. I'm sick to death of all their games.
He
ignored her, shutting his eyes and praying for the potions to work. And finally
they did, which at least gave him a rest from her company for a little while.
That
voice would bring him out of a sound sleep, let alone the restless drug-daze he
was in now. He struggled up out of the grip of fever-dreams to force his eyes
open.
Lissa
was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in riding leathers.
"Liss—?"
he began, then realized what riding leathers
meant. "—oh, gods—"
"Van,
I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave you, but Father said it was now or never."
She
was crying, not prettily like Lady Treesa, but with blotched cheeks and
bloodshot eyes. "Van, please say you don't mind too much!"
"It's...
all right, Liss," he managed, fighting the words out around the cold lump
in his throat and the colder one in his gut. "I... know. You've got to do
this. Gods, Liss, one of us has to get away!"
"Van—I—I'll
find some way to help you, I promise. I'm almost eighteen; I'm almost free.
Father knows the Guard is the only place for me;
he hasn't had a marriage offer for me for two years. He doesn't dare ruin my
chances for a post, or he'll be stuck with me. The gods know you're safe enough
now—if anybody dared do anything before
the Healer says you're fit, he'd make a protest to Haven. Maybe by the time you
get the splints off, I'll be able to find a way to have you with me...."
She
looked so hopeful that Vanyel didn't have the heart to say anything to
contradict her. "Do that, Liss. I—I'll be all right."
She
hugged him, and kissed him, and then left him.
And
then he turned to the wall and cried.
Lissa was the only support he had had. The only person who loved him without
reservations. And now she was gone.
After
that, he stopped even pretending to care about anything. They didn't care
enough about him to let Liss stay until he was well—so why should he care about
anything or anyone, even enough to be polite?
Seldasen had that right. Just like those two down there.
The
cruel, blank stares of the helm-slits gave no clues to the minds within. The
two opponents drew their blades, flashed identical salutes, and retreated
exactly twenty paces each to end at the opposite corners of the field. The sun
was straight overhead, their shadows little more than pools at their feet.
Twelve restive armored figures fidgeted together on one side of the square. The
harsh sunshine bleached the short, dead grass to the color of light straw, and
lit everything about the pair in pitiless detail.
Hmm. Not such
enigmas once they move.
One
fighter was tall, dangerously graceful, and obviously well-muscled beneath the
protection of his worn padding and shabby armor. Every motion he made was
precise, perilous—and professional.
The
other was a head shorter. His equipment was new, the padding unfrayed, the
metal lovingly burnished. But his movements were awkward, uncertain, perhaps
fearful.
Still,
if he feared, he didn't lack for courage. Without waiting for his man to make a
move, he shouted a tremulous defiant battle cry and charged across the
sun-burnt grass toward the tall fighter. As his boots thudded on the hard, dry
ground, he brought his sword around in a low-line attack.
The
taller fighter didn't even bother to move out of his way; he simply swung his
scarred shield to the side. The sword crunched into the shield, then slid off,
metal screeching on metal. The tall fighter swept his shield back into guard
position, and answered the blow with a return that rang true on the shield of
his opponent, then rebounded, while he turned the momentum of the rebound into
a cut at the smaller fighter's head.
The
pale stone of the keep echoed the sound of the exchange, a racket like a madman
loose in a smithy. The smaller fighter was driven back with every blow, giving
ground steadily under the hammerlike onslaught—until he finally lost his
footing and fell over backward, his sword flying out of his hand.
There
was a dull thud as he hit his head on the flinty,
unforgiving ground.
He
lay flat on his back for a moment, probably seeing stars, and scarcely moving,
arms flung out on either side of him as if he meant to embrace the sun. Then he
shook his head dazedly and tried to get up—
Only
to find the point of his opponent's sword at his throat.
"Yield,
Boy," rumbled a harsh voice from the shadowed mouth-slit of the helmet.
"Yield, or I run you through."
The
smaller fighter pulled off his own helm to reveal that he was Vanyel's cousin
Radevel. "If you run me through, Jervis, who's going to polish your mail?"
The
point of the sword did not waver.
"Oh,
all right," the boy said, with a rueful grin. "I yield."
The
sword, a pot-metal practice blade, went back into its plain leather sheath.
Jervis pulled off his own battered helm with his shield hand, as easily as if
the weight of wood and bronze wasn't there. He shook out his sweat-dampened,
blond hair and offered the boy his right, pulling him to his feet with the same
studied, precise movements as he'd used when fighting.
"Next
time, you yield immediately, Boy," the armsmaster rumbled, frowning.
"If your opponent's in a hurry, he'll take banter for refusal, and you'll
be a cold corpse."
Jervis
did not even wait to hear Radevel's abashed assent. "You—on the
end—Mekeal." He waved to Vanyel's brother at the side of the practice
field. "Helm up."
Vanyel
snorted as Jervis jammed his own helm back on his head, and stalked back to his
former position, dead center of the practice ground. "The rest of you
laggards," he growled, "let's see some life there. Pair up and have
at."
Jervis doesn't
have pupils, he has living targets, thought Vanyel,
as he watched from the window. There isn't anyone except Father who could even give
him a workout, yet he goes straight for the throat every damned time; he gets
nastier every day. About all he does give them is that he only hits half force.
Which is still enough to set Radev on his rump. Bullying bastard.
Vanyel
leaned back on his dusty cushions, and forced his aching hand to run through
the fingering exercise yet again. Half the lute strings plunked dully instead
of ringing; both strength and agility had been lost in that hand.
I am never going
to get this right again. How can I, when half the time I can't feel what I'm
doing?
He
bit his lip, and looked down again, blinking at the sunlight winking off
Mekeal's helm four stories below. Every one of them will be moaning
and plastering horse liniment on his bruises tonight, and boasting in the next
breath about how long he lasted against Jervis this time. Thank you, no. Not I.
One broken arm was enough. I prefer to see my sixteenth birthday with the rest
of my bones intact.
This
tiny tower room where Vanyel always hid himself when summoned to weapons
practice was another legacy of Grandfather Joserlin's crazy building spree. It
was Vanyel's favorite hiding place, and thus far, the most secure; a storage
room just off the library. The only conventional access was through a tiny
half-height door at the back of the library—but the room had a window—a window
on the same side of the keep as the window of Vanyel's own attic-level room.
Any
time he wanted, Vanyel could climb easily out of his bedroom, edge along the
slanting roof, and climb into that narrow window, even in the worst weather or
the blackest night. The hard part was doing it unseen.
An
odd wedge-shaped nook, this room was all that was left of the last landing of
the staircase to the top floor—an obvious change in design, since the rest of
the staircase had been turned into a chimney and the hole where the roof
trapdoor had been now led to the chimney pot. But that meant that although
there was no fireplace in the storeroom itself, the room stayed comfortably
warm in the worst weather because of the chimney wall.
Not
once in all the time Vanyel had taken to hiding here had anything new been
added to the clutter or anything been sought for. Like many another of the old
lord's eccentricities, its inaccessibility made it easy to ignore.
Which
was fine, so far as Vanyel was concerned. He had his instruments up here—two of
which he wasn't even supposed to own, the harp and the gittern—and any time he
liked he could slip into the library to purloin a book.
At
the point of the room he had an old chair to sprawl in, a collection of candle
ends on a chest beside it so that he could read when the light was bad. His
instruments were all safe from the rough hands and pranks of his brothers, and
he could practice without anyone disturbing him.
He
had arranged a set of old cushions by the window so that he could watch his
brothers and cousins getting trounced all over the moat while he played—or
tried to play. It afforded a ghost of amusement, sometimes. The gods knew he
had little enough to smile about.
It
was lonely—but Vanyel was always lonely, since Lissa had gone. It was bloody
awkward to get to—but he couldn't hide in his room.
Though
he hadn't found out until he'd healed up, the rest of his siblings and cousins
had gone down to bachelor's hall with Mekeal while he'd been recovering from
that broken arm. He hadn't, even when the Healer had taken the splints off.
His
brothers slandered his lute playing when they'd gone, telling his father they
were just as happy for Vanyel to have his own room if he wanted to stay up
there. Probably Withen, recalling how near the hall was to his own quarters,
had felt the same. Vanyel didn't care; it meant that the room was his, and his
alone—one scant bit of comfort.
His
other place of refuge, his mother's solar, was no longer the retreat it had
been. It was too easy for him to be found there, and there were other
disadvantages lately; his mother's ladies and fosterlings had taken to flirting
with him. He enjoyed that, too, up to a point—but they kept wanting to take it
beyond the range of the game of courtly love to the romantic, for which he still wasn't ready. And Lady Treesa kept encouraging them at it.
Jervis
drove Mekeal back, step by step. Fools,
Vanyel thought scornfully, forcing his fingers through the exercise in time
with Jervis' blows. They must be mad, to let that sour old man make idiots
out of them, day after day—maybe break their skulls, just like he broke my arm! Anger tightened his mouth, and the memory of the shuttered
satisfaction he'd seen in Jervis' eyes the first time Vanyel had encountered
him after the "accident" roiled in his stomach. Damn
that bastard, he meant to break my arm, I know he did; he's good enough to
judge any blow he deals to within a hair.
At
least he had a secure hiding place; secure because getting into it took nerve,
and neither Jervis, nor his father, nor any of the rest of them would ever have
put him and a climb across the roof together in the same thought-even if they
remembered the room existed.
The
ill-assorted lot below didn't look to be relatives; the Ashkevron cousins had
all gone meaty when they hit adolescence; big-boned, muscled like plow horses—
—and about as
dense—
—but
Withen's sons were growing straight up as well as putting on bulk.
Vanyel
was the only one of the lot taking after his mother.
Withen
seemed to hold that to be his fault, too.
Vanyel
snorted as Mekeal took a blow to the helm that sent him reeling backward. That
one should shake up his brains! Serves him right, too, carrying on about what a
great warrior he's going to be. Clod-headed beanpole. All he can think about is
hacking people to bits for the sake of "honor."
Glorious war,
hah. Fool can't see beyond the end of his nose. For all that prating, if he
ever saw a battlefield he'd wet himself.
Not
that Vanyel had ever seen a real battlefield,
but he was the possessor of a far more vivid imagination than anyone else in
his family. He had no trouble in visualizing what those practice blades would be doing if they were real. And he had no difficulty at all
in imagining the "deadlie woundes" of the ballads being inflicted on
his body.
Vanyel
paid close attention to his lessons, if not to weapons work. He knew all of the
history ballads and unlike the rest of his peers, he knew the parts about what
happened after the great battles as well—the lists
of the dead, the dying, the maimed. It hadn't escaped his notice that when you
added up those lists, the totals were a lot higher than the number of heroes
who survived.
Vanyel
knew damned well which list he'd be on if it ever came to armed conflict.
He'd learned his lesson only too well: why even try?
Except
that every time he turned around Lord Withen was delivering another lecture on
his duty to the hold.
Gods. I'm just as
much a brute beast of burden as any donkey in the stables! Duty. That's bloody
all I hear, he thought, staring out the
window, but no longer seeing what lay beyond the glass. Why
me? Mekeal would be a thousand times better Lord Holder than me, and he'd just
love it! Why couldn't I have gone with Lissa?
He
sighed and put the lute aside, reaching inside his tunic for the scrap of
parchment that Trevor Corey's page had delivered to him after he'd given Lissa's "official" letters into
Treesa's hands.
He
broke the seal on it, and smoothed out the palimpsest carefully; clever Lissa
to have filched the scraped and stained piece that no one would notice was
gone! She'd used a good, strong ink though; even though the letters were a bit
blurred, he had no trouble reading them.
Dearest Vanyel;
if only you were here! I can't tell you how much I miss you. The Corey girls
are quite sweet, but not terribly bright. A lot like the cousins, really. I
know I should have written you before this, but I didn't have much of a chance.
Your arm should be better now. If only Father wasn't so blind! What I'm
learning is exactly what we were working out together.
Vanyel
took a deep breath against the surge of anger at Withen's unreasonable attitude.
But we both know
how he is, so don't argue with him, love. Just do what you 're told. It won't
be forever, really it won't. Just—hold on. I'll do what I can from this end.
Lord Corey is a lot more reasonable than Father ever was and maybe I can get
him talked into asking for you. Maybe that will work. Just be really good, and
maybe Father will be happy enough with you to do that. Love, Liss.
He
folded the letter and tucked it away. Oh, Liss. Not a chance. Father would
never let me go there, not after the way I've been avoiding my practices.
"It won't be forever," hmm? I suppose that's right. I probably won't
live past the next time Jervis manages to catch up with me. Gods. Why is it
that nobody ever asks me what I want—or when they do ask, why can't they mean
it and listen to me?
He
blinked, and looked again at the little figures below, still pounding away on
each other, like so many tent pegs determined to drive each other into the
ground.
He
turned restlessly away from the window, stood up, and replaced the lute in the
makeshift stand he'd contrived for it beside his other two instruments.
And everywhere I
turn I get the same advice. From Liss—"don't fight, do what Father
asks." From Mother—crying, vapors, and essentially the same thing. She's
not exactly stupid; if she really cared about me, she could manage Father
somehow. But she doesn't care—not when backing me against Father is likely to
cost her something. And when I tried to tell Father Leren about what Jervis was
really like—
He
shuddered. The lecture about filial duty was bad enough—but the
one about "proper masculine behavior"—you'd have thought I'd been
caught fornicating sheep! And all because I objected to having my bones broken.
It's like I'm doing something wrong somewhere, but no one will tell me what it
is and why it's wrong! I thought maybe Father Leren would understand since he's
a priest, but gods, there's no help coming from that direction.
For
a moment he felt trapped up here; the secure retreat turned prison. He didn't
dare go out, or he'd be caught and forced into that despised armor—and Jervis
would lay into him with a vengeful glee to make up for all the practices he'd
managed to avoid. He looked wistfully beyond the practice field to the wooded
land and meadows beyond. It was such a beautiful day; summer was just beginning,
and the breeze blowing in his open window was heady with the aroma of the
hayfields in the sun. He longed to be out walking or riding beneath those
trees; he was as trapped by the things he didn't dare do as by the ones he had
to.
Tomorrow I'll
have to go riding out with Father on his rounds,
he gloomed, And no getting out of that. He'll have me as soon as I
come down for breakfast.
That
was a new torment, added since he'd recovered. It was nearly as bad as being
under Jervis' thumb. He shuddered, thinking of all those farmers, staring,
staring—like they were trying to stare into his soul. This was not going to be
a pleasure jaunt, for all that he loved to ride. No, he would spend the entire
day listening to his father lecture him on the duties of the Lord Holder to the
tenants who farmed for him and the peasant-farmers who held their lands under
his protection and governance. But that was not the worst aspect of the ordeal.
It
was the people themselves; the way they measured him with their eyes, opaque
eyes full of murky thoughts that he could not read. Eyes that expected
everything of him; that demanded things of him that he did not want to give,
and didn't know how to give even if he had wanted to.
I don't want them looking to me like that! I don't want to be
responsible for their lives! He shuddered again. I
wouldn't know what to do in a drought or an invasion, and what's more, I don't
care! Gods, they make my skin crawl, all those—people, eating me alive with
their eyes—
He
turned away from the window, and knelt beside his instruments; stretched out
his hand, and touched the smooth wood, the taut strings. Oh,
gods—if I weren't me—if I could just have a chance to be a Bard—
In
the days before his arm had been hurt he had often imagined himself a Court
Bard, not in some out-of-the-way corner like Forst Reach, but one of the Great
Courts; Gyrefalcon's Marches or Southron Keep. Or even the High Court of
Valdemar at Haven. Imagined himself the center of a circle of admirers, languid
ladies and jewel-bedecked lords, all of them hanging enraptured on every word
of his song. He could let his imagination transport him to a different life,
the life of his dreams. He could actually see himself surrounded, not by the
girls of Treesa's bower, but by the entire High Court of Valdemar, from Queen
Elspeth down, until the visualization was more real than his true surroundings.
He could see, hear, feel, all of them waiting in impatient anticipation for him
to sing—the bright candles, the perfume, the pregnant silence—
Now
even that was lost to him. Now practices were solitary, for there was no Lissa
to listen to new tunes. Lissa had been a wonderful audience; she had a good
ear, and knew enough about music to be trusted to tell him the truth. She had
been the only person in the keep besides Treesa who didn't seem to think there
was something faintly shameful about his obsession with music. And she was the
only one who knew of his dream of becoming a Bard.
There
were no performances before his mother's ladies, either, because he refused to
let them hear him fumble.
And
all because of the lying, bullying bastard his father had made armsmaster—
"Withen—"
He
froze; startled completely out of his brooding by the sound of his mother's
breathless, slightly shrill voice just beyond the tiny door to the library. He
knelt slowly and carefully, avoiding the slightest noise. The last thing he
wanted was to have his safe hiding place discovered!
"Withen,
what is it you've dragged me up here to
tell me that you couldn't have said in my solar?" she asked. Vanyel could
tell by the edge in her voice that she was ruffled and not at all pleased.
Vanyel
held his breath, and heard the sound of the library door being closed, then his
father's heavy footsteps crossing the library floor.
A
long, ponderous silence. Then, "I'm sending Vanyel away," Withen
said, brusquely.
"What?" Treesa shrilled. "You—how—where—why? In the gods' names, Withen, why?"
Vanyel
felt as if someone had turned his heart into stone, and his body into clay.
"I
can't do anything with the boy, Treesa, and neither can Jervis," Withen
growled. "I'm sending him to someone who can make something of him."
"You
can't do anything because the two of you seem to think to 'make something of him'
you have to force him to be something he can never be!" Treesa's voice was
muffled by the intervening wall, but the note of hysteria was plain all the
same. "You put him out there with a man twice his weight and expect him
to—"
"To
behave like a man! He's a sniveler, a whiner, Treesa. He's more worried about
damage to his pretty face and delicate little hands than damage to his honor,
and you don't help matters by making him the pet of the bower. Treesa, the
boy's become nothing more than a popinjay, a vain little peacock—and worse than
that, he's a total coward."
"A
coward! Gods, Withen—only you would say that!" Lady Treesa's voice was thick with
scorn. "Just because he's too clever to let that precious armsmaster of yours beat him insensible once a day!"
"So
what does he do instead? Run off and hide because once—just once—he got his poor little arm broken! Great good gods, I'd
broken every bone in my body at least once by the time I was his age!"
"Is
that supposed to signify virtue?" she scoffed. "Or stupidity?"
Vanyel's
mouth sagged open. She's—my gods! She's standing up to him! I don't
believe this!
"It
signifies the willingness to endure a little discomfort in order to learn," Withen replied angrily. "Thanks to you and your
fosterlings, all Vanyel's ever learned was how to select a tunic that matches
his eyes, and how to warble a love song! He's too damned handsome for his own
good—and you've spoiled him, Treesa; you've let him trade on that pretty face,
get away with nonsense and arrogance you'd never have permitted in Mekeal. And
now he has no sense of responsibility whatsoever, he avoids even a hint of
obligation."
"You'd
prefer him to be like Mekeal, I suppose," she replied acidly. "You'd
like him to hang on your every word and never question you, never challenge
you—"
"Damned
right!" Withen roared in frustration. "The boy doesn't know his
damned place! Filling his head with book-learned nonsense—"
"He
doesn't know his place? Because he can think for himself?
Just because he can read and write more than his bare name? Unlike certain grown men I could name—gods, Withen, that priest of
yours has you parroting every little nuance, doesn't he? And you're sending Van
away because he doesn't measure up to his
standards of propriety, aren't you? Because Vanyel has the intelligence to
question what he's told, and Leren doesn't like questions!" Her voice
reached new heights of shrillness. "That priest has you so neatly tied around his ankle that you wouldn't breathe unless he declared breathing was orthodox enough!"
—ah, Vanyel thought, a part of his mind still working, while
the rest sat in stunned contemplation of the idea of being "sent
away." Now Treesa's support had a rational explanation. Lady Treesa did
not care for Father Leren. Vanyel was just a convenient reason to try to drive
a wedge between Withen and his crony.
Although
Vanyel could have told her that this was exactly the wrong way to go about doing so.
"I
expected you'd say something like that," Withen rumbled. "You have no
choice, Treesa, the boy is going, whether you like it or not. I'm sending him
to Savil at the High Court. She'll brook no nonsense, and once he's in
surroundings where he's not the only pretty face in the place he might learn to
do something besides lisp a ballad and moon at himself in the mirror."
"Savil? That old harridan?" His mother's voice rose with each
word until she was shrieking. Vanyel wanted to shriek, too.
He
remembered his first—and last—encounter with his Aunt Savil only too well.
It
was a pity that Liss was visiting cousins the one week her idol chose to make
an appearance at the familial holding.
But
then again—maybe that was exactly as Withen had planned.
"So
this is Vanyel," the woman had said, dryly. "A pretty boy, Treesa. I
trust he's something more than ornamental."
Vanyel
went rigid at her words, then rose from his bow and fixed her with what he
hoped was a cool, appraising stare. Gods, she looked like his father in the right light; like Lissa, she had
that Ashkevron nose, a nose that both she and Withen thrust forward like a
sharp blade to cleave all before them.
"Oh,
don't glare at me, child," the woman said with amusement. "I've had
better men than you try to freeze me with a look and fail."
He
flushed. She turned away from him as if he was of no interest, turning back to
Vanyel's mother, who was clutching a handkerchief at her throat. "So,
Treesa, has the boy shown any sign of Gift or Talent?"
"He
sings beautifully," Treesa fluttered. "Really, he's as good as any
minstrel we've ever had."
The
woman turned and stared at him—stared through him. "Potential, but nothing
active," Savil said slowly. "A pity; I'd hoped at least one of your
offspring would share my Gifts. You can certainly afford to spare one to the
Queen's service. But the girls don't even have potential Gifts, your four other
boys are worse than this one, and this one doesn't appear to be much more than
a clotheshorse for all his potential."
She
waved a dismissing hand at him, and Vanyel's face had burned.
"I've
seen what I came to see, Treesa," she said, leading Vanyel's mother off by
the elbow. "I won't stress your hospitality anymore."
Now
his mother was weeping hysterically; his father was making no effort to calm
her. By that, Vanyel knew there was no escaping the disastrous plan. Incoherent
hysterics were his mother's court of last resort; if they were failing, there was no hope for him.
"Give
it up, Treesa," Withen said, unmoved, his voice rock-steady. "The boy
goes. Tomorrow."
"You—unfeeling
monster—" That was all that was
understandable through Treesa's weeping. Vanyel heard the staccato beat of her slippers
on the floor as she ran out the library door, then the slower, heavier sound of
his father's boots.
Then
the sound of the door closing—
—as
leaden and final as the door on a tomb.
Vanyel stumbled over to his old chair and collapsed into its
comfortable embrace.
He couldn't think. Everything had gone numb. He stared
blankly at the tiny rectangle of blue sky framed by the window; just sat, and
stared. He wasn't even aware of the passing of time until the sun began shining
directly into his eyes.
He winced away from the light; that broke his bewildered
trance, and he realized dully that the afternoon was gone—that someone would
start looking for him to call him for supper soon, and he'd better be back in
his room.
He slouched dispiritedly over to the window, and peered out
of it, making the automatic check to see if there was anyone below who could
spot him. But even as he did so it occurred to him that it hardly mattered if
they found his hideaway, considering what he'd just overheard.
There was no one on the practice field now; just the empty
square of turf, a chicken on the loose pecking at something in the grass. From
this vantage the keep might well have been deserted.
Vanyel turned around and reached over his head, grabbing the
rough stone edging the window all around the exterior, and levered himself up
and out onto the sill. Once balanced there in a half crouch, he stepped down
onto the ledge that ran around the edge of the roof, then reached around the
gable and got a good handhold on the slates of the roof itself, and began
inching over to his bedroom window.
Halfway between the
two windows, he paused for a moment to look down.
It
isn't all that far—if I fell just right, the worst I'd do is break a leg—then
they couldn't send me off, could they? It might be worth it. It just might be
worth it.
He thought about that—and thought about the way his broken
arm had hurt—
Not
a good idea; with my luck, Father would send me off as soon as I was patched
up; just load me up in a wagon like a sack of grain. "Deliver to Herald
Savil, no special handling." Or worse, I'd break my arm again, or both
arms. I've got a chance to make that hand work again—maybe—but if I break it
this time there isn't a Healer around to make sure it's set right.
Vanyel swung his legs into the room, balanced for a moment
on the sill, then dropped onto his bed. Once there, he just lacked the spirit
to even move. He slumped against the wall and stared at the sloping,
whitewashed ceiling.
He tried to think if there was anything he could do to get
himself out of this mess.
He couldn't come up with a single idea that seemed at all
viable. It was too late to "mend his ways" even if he wanted to.
No—no.
I can't, absolutely can't face that sadistic bastard Jervis. Though I'm truly
not sure which is the worst peril at this point in the long run, Aunt
Ice-And-Iron or Jervis. I know what he'll do to me. I haven't a clue to her.
He sagged, and bit his lip, trying to stay in control,
trying to think logically. All he knew was that Savil
would have the worst possible report on him; and at Haven—the irony of the
name!—he would have no allies, no hiding places. That was the worst of it;
going off into completely foreign territory knowing that everybody there had been told how awful he was. That
they would just be waiting for him to make a slip. All the time. But there was
no getting out of it. For all that Treesa petted and cosseted him, Vanyel knew
better than to rely on her for anything, or expect her to ever defy Withen. That brief flair during their argument had been the
exception; Treesa's real efforts always lay in keeping her own life comfortable
and amusing. She'd cry for Vanyel, but she'd never defend him. Not like Lissa
might well have—
If Lissa had been here.
When the page came around to call everyone to dinner, he
managed to stir up enough energy to dust himself off and obey the summons, but
he had no appetite at all.
The highborn of Forst Reach ate late, a candlemark after the
servants, hirelings and the armsmen had eaten, since the Great Hall was far too
small to hold everyone at once. The torches and lanterns had already been lit
along the worn stone-floored corridors; they did nothing to dispel the darkness
of Vanyel's heart. He trudged along the dim corridors and down the stone stairs,
ignoring the servants trotting by him on errands of their own. Since his room
was at the servants' end of the keep, he had a long way to go to get to the
Great Hall.
Once there, he waited in the sheltering darkness of the
doorway to assess the situation in the room beyond.
As usual he was nearly the last one to table; as far as he
could tell, only his Aunt Serina was missing, and she might well have eaten
earlier, with the children. Carefully watching for the best opportunity to do
so undetected, he slipped into his seat beside his brother Mekeal at the low
table during a moment when Lord Withen was laughing at some joke of Father
Leren's. The usually austere cleric seemed in a very good mood tonight, and
Vanyel's heart sank. If Leren was pleased, it probably didn't bode Vanyel any good.
"Where were you this afternoon?"
Mekeal asked, as he wiggled over to give Vanyel a place on the bench,
interrupting his noisy inhalation of soup.
Vanyel shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked,
trying to sound indifferent. "It's no secret how I feel about that
nonsense, and it's no secret how Jervis feels about me. So does it really
matter where I was?"
Mekeal chuckled into his bowl. "Probably not. You know
Jervis'll just be harder on you when you do get caught. And you're going to get
caught one of these days. You're looking for another broken arm, if you're
lucky. If that's the way you want it, on your head be it."
So
Father hasn't said anything yet—Vanyel thought with surprise, his spoon poised above the soup.
He glanced over at the head table. Lady Treesa was in her accustomed place
beside her lord. And she didn't look any more upset than she usually did; she
certainly showed no signs of the hysterics Vanyel had overheard this afternoon.
Could
she actually have stood up for me, just this once? Could she have gotten him to
back down? Oh, gods, if only!
The renewal of hope did not bring a corresponding renewal of
appetite; the tension only made his stomach knot up the more. The room seemed
far too hot; he loosened the laces of his tunic, but that didn't help. The
flames of the lamps on the wall behind him made the shadows dance on the table,
until he had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to get his
equilibrium back. He felt flushed and feverish, and after only a few mouthfuls
of the thick, swiftly cooling soup that seemed utterly tasteless, he signaled
to a servant to take it away.
He squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench, and pushed
the rest of his meal around on his plate with one eye always on the high table
and his father.
The high table was high; raised on a dais a good hand above
the rest of the room, and set at the head of the low table like the upper bar
of a "t." That meant that it overlooked and overshadowed the low
table. Vanyel could feel the presence of those sitting there looming over him
even at those few times when he wasn't watching them. With each course his
stomach seemed to acquire another lump, a colder and harder one, until he
finally gave up all pretense of eating.
Then, just at the dessert course, when he thought he might
be saved, his father rose to his feet.
Lord Withen towered over the table as he towered over Vanyel
and everything belonging to Forst Reach. He prided himself on being a
"plain man," close enough in outlook to any of his men that they
could feel easy with him. His sturdy brown leather tunic and linen shirt were
hardly distinguishable from the garb of any of the hireling armsmen; the tunic
was decorated with polished silver studs instead of copper, but that was the
only token of his rank. The tunic strained across his broad shoulders—and
across the barest hint of a paunch. His long, dark hair was confined in a tail
at the nape of his neck by a silver band; his beard trimmed close to his square
jawline.
Vanyel's changeling appearance, especially when contrasted
with Mekeal's, may have been one reason why Withen seemed to be irritated
whenever he looked at his eldest son. Vanyel was lean, and not particularly
tall; Mekeal was tall and muscular, already taller than Vanyel although he was
two years younger. Vanyel's hair was so black it had blue highlights, and his
eyes were a startling silver-gray, exactly like his mother's—and he had no
facial hair to speak of. Mekeal's eyes were a chestnut brown, he already had to
shave, and his hair matched his father's so closely that it would not have been
possible to tell which of them a particular plucked hair came from.
Mekeal made friends as easily as breathing—
I
never had anyone but Lissa.
Mekeal was tone-deaf; Vanyel lived for music. Mekeal
suffered through his scholastic lessons; Vanyel so far exceeded his brother
that there was no comparison.
In short, Mekeal was completely his father's son; Vanyel was
utterly Withen's opposite.
Perhaps that was all in Withen's mind as he rose and spared
a glance for his first-and-second-born sons, before fixing his gaze on nothing
in particular. The lanterns behind Withen danced, and his shadow reached
halfway down the low table. As that stark shadow darkened the table, it
blackened Vanyel's rising hope.
"After due consideration," Withen rumbled, "I
have decided that it is time for Vanyel to acquire education of a kind—more
involved than we can give him here. So tonight will be the last night he is
among us. Tomorrow he will begin a journey to my sister, Herald-Mage Savil at
the High Court of Valdemar, who will take official guardianship of him until he
is of age."
Withen sat down heavily.
Treesa burst into a tearful wail, and shoved herself away from
the table; as she stood, her chair went over with a clatter that sounded, in
the unnatural silence that now filled the Great Hall, as loud as if the entire
table were collapsing. She ran from the room, sobbing into her sleeve, as
Withen maintained a stony silence. Her fosterlings and ladies followed her, and
only Melenna cast an unreadable glance over her shoulder at Vanyel before
trailing off in the wake of the others.
Everyone in the silent room seemed to have been frozen by an
evil spell.
Finally Withen reached forward and took a walnut from the
bowl before him; he nestled it in his palm and cracked it in his bare hands.
Vanyel jumped at the sound, and he wasn't the only one.
"Very good nuts last year, don't you think?"
Withen said to Father Leren.
That seemed to be the signal for the entire room to break
out in frantic babbling. On Vanyel's right, three of his cousins began laying
noisy bets on the outcome of a race between Radevel and Kerle on the morrow. On
his right, Radevel whispered to Mekeal, while across the table from him his
youngest brother Heforth exchanged punches and pokes with cousin Larence.
Vanyel was pointedly ignored. He might just as well have
been invisible, except for the sly, sidelong looks he was getting. And not just
from the youngsters, either. When he looked up at the high table once, he
caught Father Leren staring at him and smiling slyly. When their eyes met, the
priest nodded very slightly, gave Vanyel a look brimming with
self-satisfaction, and only then turned his attention back toward Withen.
During that silent exchange—which nobody else seemed to have noticed—Vanyel had
felt himself grow pale and cold.
As the dessert course was cleared away, the elders left the
hall on affairs of their own, and a few of the girls—more of Vanyel's
cousins—returned; a sign that Lady Treesa had retired for the night.
The boys and young men remaining now rose from their seats;
the young usually reigned over the hall undisturbed after dinner. With the
girls that had returned they formed three whispering, giggling groups; two sets
of four and one of eleven—all three groups blatantly closing Vanyel out. Even
the girls seemed to have joined in the conspiracy to leave him utterly alone.
Vanyel pretended not to notice the muttering, the jealous
glances. He rose from the bench a few moments after the rest had abandoned him,
making it a point of honor to saunter over to stare into the fire in the great
fireplace. He walked with head high, features schooled into a careful mask of
bored indifference.
He could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, but he
refused to turn, refused to show any emotion at all, much less how queasy their
behavior was making him feel.
Finally, when he judged that he had made his point, he
stretched, yawned, and turned. He surveyed the entire room through half-closed
eyelids for a long moment, his own gaze barely brushing each of them, then
paced lazily across the endless length of the Great Hall, pausing only to nod a
cool good night to the group nearest the door before—finally!—achieving the
sanctuary of the dark hallway beyond it.
Eighteen-year-old Joserlin Corveau stared after the lad for
a long moment, putting his thoughts together. He was the oldest of the
fosterlings, and the latest-come. Really, he wasn't properly a fosterling at
all; nor a close cousin. A true cousin, childless after many years, had decided
on Joserlin as his Heir and (as he himself was not in the best of health)
requested he be fostered to Lord Withen to learn the ways of governance of
one's Holdings. He was broad and tall as any of the doors to the keep, and even
Jervis respected the power of his young muscles. After a single practice
session with young Jos, Jervis had decreed that he was old enough to train with
Withen's armsmen. After seeing the way Jervis "trained" the boys, Jos
had been quite content to have it so.
Some of the younger boys had made the mistake of thinking
that his slow speech and large build meant that he was stupid. They had quickly
discovered their mistake when he'd gotten them with well-timed jokes.
He liked to say of himself that while he didn't think
quickly, he did think things through
all the way. And there were aspects of this vaguely disturbing evening that
were not adding together properly in his mind.
Meanwhile the rest of his group continued dissecting
Withen's least-beloved offspring.
"He thinks he is the Heir to the
Throne," giggled Jyllian, swishing her skirts coquettishly. "Or at
least, that the rest of us are that far below him. You should see him, lording it over us in the bower!" She struck her
nose in the air and mimed looking down it while playing a make-believe lute.
"But just try and get anything out
of him besides a song! Brrr! Watch the snow fall! You'd think we were
poison-vellis, the way he pulls away and goes cold!"
Mekeal snorted, tossing his head. "Thinks he's too good
for you, I s'ppose! Nothing high enough for him but a lady of the blood-royal, no doubt! Think girls like
you aren't lofty enough."
"Or not pretty enough," snickered Merthin.
"Havens, give it a thought—none of you little lovelies are even a close
match for His Majesty's sweet face. Can't have his lady less beautiful than he is, after all."
"I don't doubt." Larence put in his bit, coming up
behind Merthin. "Well, he'll find he's not the only pretty face when he
gets to the High Court. He just might find himself
standing in somebody's shadow for a change! Take my word for it, dear little
Vanyel is going to get a rude awakening when he gets to Haven."
"Dammit, it's not fair," Mekeal
grumbled, face clouding at this reminder of Vanyel's destination. "I'd
give my arm to go to Haven! I mean,
think of it; the best fighters in the country are there—it's the center of
everything!" He flung his hands wide, nearly hitting Merthin, in a gesture
of total frustration. "How'm I ever going to get a—an officer's commission
or any kind of position when nobody with any say at Court is ever going to see
me? That's why they sent m'sister off to be fostered right near there! You have
a chance to get noticed at Court! She's going
to be an officer, you can bet on it, an' best I'll ever get is maybe a Sector command, which means not one
damn thing! I need to be at Court; I
ain't going to inherit! I'm the one that should be
going, not Vanyel! It's not fair!"
"Huh. You've got that right," Larence echoed,
shifting his feet restlessly. "Dammit, we're all seconds, thirds—we all need a chance like that, or we'll be stuck doing nothing at
the end of nowhere for the rest of our lives! We're never going to get
anywhere, stuck off here in the back of beyond."
"And think of the ladies," added Kerle, rolling
his eyes up and kissing his hand at the ceiling. "All the loveliest
darlings in the kingdom."
He ducked, laughing, as Jyllian feinted a blow at his head,
then shook her fist at him in mock-anger.
"Dammit, think a bit," Mekeal persisted.
"What in Haven's name has he done to deserve getting
rewarded like that? All he does around here is play he's a minstrel, look down
that long nose of his at the rest of us, and shirk every duty he can!"
Mekeal glowered and pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand to
emphasize his words. "He's Mother's little darling,
but—there's no way she'd have talked Father into sending him off, you all saw
how she acted! So why? Why him, when the
rest of us would die to get a chance to go
to the capital?"
Joserlin continued to stare off into the dark; he was still
putting together what he'd been observing. Everyone looked expectantly at him
when Mekeal subsided and he cleared his throat. They all knew at this point
that he was not the bright intellectual light among his brothers and cousins
that Vanyel was, but he had a knack of seeing to the heart of things, and they
wanted to hear if he had an answer for them. He usually did, and as they had
half expected, this time was no exception.
"What makes you all think it's a reward?" he asked
quietly.
The astonishment in the faces turned to his, followed by the
light of dawning understanding, made him nod as he saw them come to the same
conclusion he had made.
"You see?" he said, just as quietly as before.
"It isn't a reward for Vanyel—it's an exile."
But what he could do—now that he was out
of the range of prying, curious eyes and ears—was run.
So he did, though he ran as noiselessly as he could, fleeing
silently behind his shadow through the dim, uncertain light of the hallways.
His flight took him past the dark, closed doorways leading to the bower, to
bachelor's hall, to the chapel. His shadow sprang up before him every time he
passed a lantern or torch, splaying out thin and spidery on the floor. He kept
his head down so that if anyone should happen to come out of one of those
doorways, they wouldn't see how close he was to tears.
But no one appeared; he reached the safe shelter of the
servants' wing without encountering a single soul. Once there he dashed
heedlessly up the stone staircase. Someone had extinguished the lanterns on the
staircase itself; Vanyel didn't care. He'd run up these stairs often enough
when half blind from trying not to cry, and his feet knew the way of themselves.
He hit the top landing at a dead run, and made the last few
feet to his own door in a few heartbeats. He was sobbing for breath as he
fumbled out his key in the dark and unlocked it—and the tears were threatening
to spill.
Spill they did as soon as he got the door open. He shut and
locked it behind him, leaning his back against it, head thrown back and resting
against the rough wood. He swallowed his sobs out of sheer, prideful refusal to
let anyone know of his unhappiness, even a servant, but hot tears poured down
his cheeks and soaked into the neck of his tunic, and he couldn't make them
stop.
They
hate me. They all hate me. I knew they didn't much like me, but I never knew
how much they hated me.
Never had he felt so utterly alone and nakedly vulnerable.
At that moment if he could have ensured his death he'd have
thrown himself out of his window. But as he'd noted earlier, it wasn't that far
to the ground; and pain was a worse prospect than loneliness.
Finally he stumbled to his bed, pulled his clothing off, and
crawled under the blankets, shivering with the need to keep from crying out
loud.
But despite his best efforts, the tears started again, and
he muffled his sobs in his pillow.
Oh,
Liss—oh, Liss—I don't know what to do! Nobody cares, nobody gives a damn about
me, nobody would ever risk a hangnail for me but you—and they've taken you out
of reach. I'm afraid, and I'm alone, and Father's trying to break me, I know he
is.
He turned over, and stared into the darkness above him,
feeling his eyes burn. I
wish I could die. Now.
He tried to will his heart to stop, but it obstinately
ignored him.
Why
can't they just leave me alone? He closed his burning eyes, and bit his lip. Why?
He lay in his bed, feeling every lump in the mattress, every
prickle in the sheets; every muscle was tensed until it ached, his head was
throbbing, and his eyes still burning.
He lay there for at least an eternity, but the oblivion he
hoped for didn't come. Finally he gave up on trying to sleep, fumbled for the
candle at his bedside, and slid out into the stuffy darkness of the room. He
grabbed up his robe from the foot of the bed and pulled it on over his
trembling, naked body, and began crossing the floor to the door.
Though the room itself was warm—too warm—the tiled floor was
shockingly cold under his feet. He felt his way to the door, and pressed his
ear against the crack at the side, listening with all his might for any sounds
from the corridor and stairs beyond.
Nothing.
He cautiously slipped the inside bolt; listened again. Still
nothing. He cracked the door and peered around the edge into the corridor.
It was thankfully empty. But the nearest lantern was all the
way down at the dead end.
He took a deep breath and drew himself up; standing as tall
and resolutely erect as if he were Lord of the Keep himself. He walked calmly,
surely, down the empty corridor, with just as much arrogance as if all his
cousins' eyes were on him.
Because there was no telling when one of the upper servants
who had their rooms along this hall might take it into their heads to
emerge—and servants talked. Frequently.
And they would talk if one of them got a
glimpse of Vanyel in tears. It would be all over the keep in a candle-mark.
He lit his candle at the lantern, and made another stately
progress back to his room. Only when he had securely bolted the door behind him
did he let go of the harpstring-taut control he'd maintained outside. He began
shaking so hard that the candle flame danced madly, and spilled drops of hot
wax on his hands.
He lit the others in their sconces by the door and over the
bed as quickly as he could, and placed the one he was clutching in the holder
on his table before he could burn himself with it.
He sat down heavily on the rucked-up blankets, sucking the
side of his thumb where hot wax had scorched him, and staring at his
belongings, trying to decide what his father was likely to let him take with
him.
He didn't even bother to consider his instruments. They were
far safer where they were. Maybe someday—if he survived this—he could come back
and get them. But there was no chance, none at all,
that he could sneak them out in his belongings. And if his father found them
packed up—
He'd
smash them. He'd smash them, and laugh, and wait for me to say or do something
about it.
He finally got up and knelt on the chill stone beside the
chest that held his clothing. He raised the heavy, carved lid, and stared down
at the top layer for a long moment before lifting it out.
Tunics, shirts, breeches, hose—all in the deep, jewel-tones
of sapphire and aquamarine and emerald that he knew looked so good on him, or
his favorite black, silvery or smoky gray. All clothing he wore because it was
one tiny way to defy his father—because his father could wear the same three
outfits all year, all of them identical, and never notice, never care. Because
his father didn't give a damn about what he or anyone else wore—and it angered
him that Vanyel did.
Vanyel pondered the clothing, stroking the soft raime of a
shirt without much thinking about what he was doing. He won't dare keep me from taking the
clothes, though I bet he'd like to. I'll have to look presentable when I get
there, or I'll shame him—and the stuff Mekeal and the rest scruff around in is
not presentable.
He began rolling the clothing carefully, and stowing it into
the traveling packs kept in the bottom of the chest. Though he didn't dare take
an instrument, he managed to secrete some folded music, some of his favorite
pieces, between the pages of the books he packed. Bards are thick as birds in a cherry
grove at Haven, he thought with a lump in his throat. Maybe I can get one to
trade an old gittern for a cloak-brooch or something. It won't be the same as
my lovely Woodlark, but it'll be better than nothing. Provided I can keep Aunt
Unsavory from taking it away from me.
It was all too quickly done. He found himself on the floor
beside the filled packs with nothing more to do. He looked around his room;
there was nothing left to pack that he would miss—except for those few things
that he wanted to take but didn't dare.
Pretty
fine life I've led, when all of it fits in four packs.
He got slowly to his feet, feeling utterly exhausted, yet
almost too weary to sleep. He blew out all the candles except the one at his
bedside, slipped out of his robe, tucked it into the top of the last pack, and
climbed back into bed.
Somehow he couldn't bring himself to blow out the last
candle. While there was light in the room he could keep the tears back. But
darkness would set them free.
He lay rigid, staring silently at the candlelight wavering
on the slanted ceiling, until his eyes burned.
So for a while he had this one to himself, at which point he
found that he really hadn't liked being alone after all. He liked company. Now,
though—at least since late spring—he'd shared with Joserlin.
That had been fine with him. Jos was the next thing to an
adult; Mekeal had been excited to have him move in, pleased with his company,
and proud that Jos had treated him like an equal. And Jos talked to him; he
didn't talk much, but when he did it was worth listening to. But he'd already
said his say earlier tonight—so Mekeal had thought.
So he was kind of surprised when Jos' deep voice broke the
silence right after they'd blown the candles out.
"Mekeal, why are you younglings so hard on your
brother?"
Mekeal didn't have to ask which brother, it was pretty plain who Jos meant. But—"hard
on him?" How could you be hard on somebody who didn't give a damn about
anything but himself?
"'Cause he's a—toad," Mekeal said
indignantly. "He's got no more backbone than a mushroom! He's a baby, a coward—an'
the only thing he cares about's his-self! He's just like Mama—she's gone and
made him into a mama-pet, a shirker."
"Hmm? Really? What makes you so sure of that last?"
"Father says, and Jervis—"
"Because he won't let Jervis pound him like a set of
pells." Joserlin snorted with absolute contempt. "Can't says as I
much blame him, myself. If I was built like him, with Jervis on my back, reckon
I'd find a hiding-hole, too. I sure's Haven wouldn't go givin' Jervis more
chances t' hit on me."
Mekeal's mouth fell open in shock, and he squirmed around in
his bed to face where Joserlin was, a dark bulk to his right.
"But—but—Jervis—he's armsmaster!"
"He's a ham-handed lackwit," came the flat reply.
"You forget, Meke, I was fostered with Lord Kendrik; I learned under a real armsmaster; Master Orser, and he's a good one. Jervis
wouldn't be anything but another armsman if he hadn't been an old friend of
your father's. He don't deserve to be
armsmaster. Havens, Meke, he goes after the greenest of you like you was his
age, his weight, and his experience! He don't pull his blows half the time; and
he don't bother to show you how to take 'em, just lets you fumble it out for
yourselves. An' he don't know but one bare style, an' that one's Holy Writ!"
"But—"
"But nothin'. He's no great master, let me tell you; by
my way of thinkin' he's no master at all. If I was Vanyel, I'd'a poisoned
myself before I let the old goat take his spleen out on me again! I heard what
happened this spring—about how he took after Van an' beat him down a half dozen
times, an' then broke his arm."
"But—he was cheating!" Mekeal protested.
"No such thing; Radevel told me what really happened.
Before that bastard managed to convince you lot that you didn't see Van getting
beaten up 'cause he bested the old peabrain. That weren't nothing but plain old
bullying, an' if my old armsmaster had treated one of his pupils that way, he'd
have been kicked off the top of the tower by Lord Kendrick hisself!"
Mekeal could hardly believe what he was hearing.
"But—" he protested again. "But Father—"
"Your father's a damn fool," Joserlin replied
shortly. "An' I won't beg your pardon for sayin' so. He's a damn fool for
keepin' Jervis as Master, an' he's a damn fool for treatin' young Vanyel the
way he does. He's beggin' for trouble ev'ry time he pushes that boy. Half of
what Vanyel does he made him do—to spite him.
You mark my words; I seen this before, only the opposite. Place next to where I
was fostered at your age, old Lady Cedrys at Briary Holding. Old Cedrys, she
was big on scholarly stuff; nothin' would do but for her oldest t' be at the books night and day. 'Cept her oldest
was like you, mad for the Guard. And the more Cedrys pushed books, the more
Liaven ran for the armsmaster at our place, till one day he kept right on
running and didn't stop till he'd signed up with a common mercenary-company,
an' she never saw him again."
"But—Jos—you've seen him, the way he lords
it over us like he was King of the Gods or something—keeping his nose in the
air every time he looks at us."
"Uh-huh," Joserlin replied out of the dark,
"And some of it's 'cause he's spoiled flat rotten by Lady Treesa. I won't
deny that; he's one right arrogant little wart an' he sure knows he's the
prettiest thing on the holding. Makes sure everybody else knows it, too. But I
can't help but wonder how much he sticks that nose in the air around you lot
'cause you seem so bent on rubbin' it in the dirt. Hmm?"
Mekeal could find nothing to say in reply.
He chewed his lip until it bled. If I did, what could I do? Go for
sanctuary? Gods, no—there is no way I was meant to be a priest! I don't write
well enough to be a scribe, and besides, there isn't a lord would hire me once
they found out who I was. Father would see to that, I know he would. Oh, gods,
why didn't you make me a Bard?
He licked the corner of his mouth, struck with a kindred
though. I could try my hand
at minstrelsy, couldn't I? I couldn't, I daren't show my face at any large
courts, but there's a bit of coin to be had singing almost anywhere else.
For a moment it seemed the way out. He need only slip across
to the storeroom and get his instruments, then run off before dawn. He could be
far away before anyone realized he was gone, and not just hiding again.
But—no.
My
hand—my hand. Until it's working right, I can't do anything but the barest
simple music. If I can't play right, there's no way I could look for a place in
a household. And without the kind of noble patronage I can't look for, I won't
be able to do much more than keep myself fed. I can't live like that, I just
can't! I can't sing for farmers in the taverns and the folks in the fairs, I
can't go begging like that, not to peasants. Not unless it looks like Savil is
going to poison me, and I don't bloody think that's likely. She's a Herald;
Heralds don't do that sort of thing even to please their brothers. He sighed, and the
candle went out. No, it
won't work. There's no way to escape.
He waited, feeling the lump growing in his throat,
threatening to undermine him again. The tears were going to come—going to
weaken him still further, push him down into helplessness.
The darkness closed around him like a fist, and he fought
against crying with such single-mindedness that he never quite knew when he
passed from a half-daze into troubled, dream-haunted sleep.
Everywhere
he looked there was nothing but that barren, white plain. Completely empty,
completely featureless. It was so cold he felt numb.
Numb.
Not aching inside. Not ready to weep at a single word. Just—cold.
No
pain. Just—nothing. He just stood, for several long moments, savoring the
unfeeling, the lack of pain.
Safe.
He was safe here. No one could touch him. As long as he stayed in this
isolation, this wilderness, no one could touch him.
He
opened his eyes wide in the dream, and breathed the words out. "If no one
touches me—no one can hurt me. All I have to do is never care."
It
was like a revelation, a gift from the hitherto-uncaring gods. This place, this
wilderness of ice—if he could hold it inside him—if he could not-care enough—he
could be safe. No matter what happened, who hated him, no one could ever hurt
him again.
Not
ever again.
In the morning all he had to do was think of his dream, and
he was cold inside, ice filling the place within him where the hurt and
loneliness had been. He could be as remote and isolated as a hermit on a frozen
mountaintop, any time he chose.
It was like taking a drug against pain. An antidote to
loneliness.
Indifference was a defense now, and not just a pose.
Could this armor of indifference serve as an offensive
weapon too? It was worth a try.
After all, he had nothing to lose; the worst had already
occurred.
He dressed quickly; riding leathers that had originally been
brown that he had ordered redyed to black—without his father's knowledge. He
was very glad that he'd done so, now. Black always made him look taller,
older—and just a little bit sinister. It was a good choice for a confrontation.
It was also the color of death; he wanted to remind his father of just how
often the man had Vanyel—elsewhere.
He had second thoughts about his instruments, at least the lute,
which he had been permitted. He
wouldn't pack it, but it should be here, else Lord Withen
might wonder where it was.
Besides, if he could confront Withen with it, then force the issue by packing it in front of his eyes—
It might gain him something. So he slipped quickly across to
his hiding place and back before the sun actually rose, and when Withen came
pounding on his door, he was ensconced below the window with the instrument in
his hands, picking out a slow, but intricate little melody. One where his right
hand was doing most of the work. He had staged the entire scene with the
deliberate intent to make it seem as if he had been there for hours.
Lord Withen had, no doubt, expected to find his oldest son
still in his bed—had expected to rouse out a confused and profoundly unhappy
boy into the thin, gray light of post-dawn. Had undoubtedly counted on finding
Vanyel as vulnerable as he had been last night.
That
would have pleased you, wouldn't it, Father—it would have given you such
confirmation of my worthlessness....
Instead, he flung the door open after a single knock—to find
Vanyel awake, packed, and already dressed for travel, lute suddenly stilled by
his entrance.
Vanyel looked up, and regarded his father with what he hoped
was a cool and distant arrogance, exactly the kind of expression one would turn
upon a complete stranger who had suddenly intruded himself without invitation.
His surprise and the faint touch of unease in his eyes gave
Vanyel the first feelings of gratification he'd had in a long time.
He placed his lute on the bed beside him, and stood up
slowly, drawing himself up as pridefully erect as he could. "As you see,
sir—" he lifted a single finger and nodded his head very slightly in the
direction of his four packs. "—I am prepared already."
Lord Withen was obviously taken further aback by his tone
and abstracted manner. He coughed, and Vanyel realized with a sudden surge of
vindictive joy that he, for once, had the advantage in a confrontation.
Then Withen flushed as Vanyel stooped quickly and caught up
the neck of his lute, detuning it with swift and practiced fingers and stuffing
it quickly into its traveling bag.
That was a challenge even Withen recognized. He glowered,
and made as if to take the instrument from his son—
And Vanyel drew himself up to his full height. He said
nothing. He only gave back Withen a stare that told him—
Push
me. Do it. See what happens when you do. I have absolutely nothing to lose and
I don't care what happens to me.
Withen actually backed up a pace at the look in his son's
eyes.
"You may take your toy, but don't think this means you
can spend all your time lazing about with those worthless Bards," Withen
blustered, trying to regain the high ground he'd lost the moment he thrust the
door open. "You're going to Savil to learn something other than—"
"I never imagined I would be able to for a
moment—sir," Vanyel interrupted, and produced a bitter not-smile.
"I'm quite certain," he continued with carefully measured venom,
"that you have given my aunt very explicit instructions on the subject.
And on my education. Sir."
Withen flushed again. Vanyel felt another rush of poisonous
pleasure. You know and I
know what this is really about, don't we, Father? But you want me to pretend it's
something else, at least in public. Too bad. I don't intend to make this at all
easy on you, and I don't intend to be graceful in public. I have the high
ground, Father. I don't give a damn anymore, and that gives me a weapon you
don't have.
Withen made an abrupt gesture, and a pair of servants
entered Vanyel's room from the corridor beyond, each picking up two packs and
scurrying out of the door as quickly as they could. Vanyel pulled the shoulder
strap of the lute over his own head, arranging the instrument on his back, as a
clear sign that he did not intend anyone else to be handling it.
"You needn't see me off, sir," he said, when
Withen made no move to follow the servants with their burdens. "I'm sure
you have—more important things to attend to."
Withen winced, visibly. Vanyel strolled silently past him,
then turned to deliver a parting shot, carefully calculated to hurt as much as
only a truth that should not be spoken could.
"After all, sir," he cast calmly over his
shoulder, "It isn't as if I mattered. You have four other potential—and
far worthier—heirs. I am sorry you saw fit not
to inform my mother of my hour of departure; it would have been pleasant to say
farewell to someone who will miss my presence."
Withen actually flinched.
Vanyel raised one eyebrow. "Don't bother to wish me
well, sir. I know what Father Leren preaches about the importance of truth, and
I would not want you to perjure yourself."
The stricken look on Withen's face made a cold flame of
embittered satisfaction spring up in Vanyel's ice-shrouded soul. He turned on
his heel and strode firmly down the corridor after the scuttling servants, not
giving his father the chance to reply, nor to issue orders to the servants.
He passed the two servants with his packs in the dim,
gray-lit hallway, and gestured peremptorily that they should follow him. Again,
he felt that blackly bitter satisfaction; obviously Lord Withen had intended
that his son should have scampered along in the servants' wake. But the sudden
reversal of roles had confused Withen and left the servants without clear
instructions. Vanyel seized the unlooked-for opportunity and held to it with
all his might. For once, just this once, Vanyel had gotten the upper hand in a
situation, and he did not intend to relinquish it until he was forced to.
He led them down the ill-lit staircase, hearing them
stumbling blindly behind him in the darkness and thankful that he was the one
carrying his lute and that there was nothing breakable in the packs. They
emerged at the end of the hall nearest the kitchen; Vanyel decided to continue
to force the issue by going out the servants' door to the stables. It was
closer—but that wasn't why he chose it; he chose it to make the point that he
knew his father's thoughts about him.
The two servitors, laden as they were with the heavy packs,
had to stretch to keep up with him; already they were panting with effort. As
Vanyel's boots crunched in the gravel spread across the yard between the keep
and the stables, he could hear them puffing along far behind him.
The sun was barely over the horizon, and mist was rising
from the meadows where the horses were turned loose during the day. It would
likely be hot today, one of the first days of true high summer. Vanyel could
see, as he came around the side of the stable, that the doors were standing
wide open, and that there were several people moving about inside.
Couldn't
wait to be rid of me, could you, Father dear? Meant to hustle me off as fast as
you could throw me into my clothes and my belongings into packs. I think in
this I will oblige you. It should keep you sufficiently confused.
Now that he had this set of barriers, for the first time in
more than a year he was able to think clearly and calmly. He was able to make
plans without being locked in an emotional morass, and carry them out without
losing his head to frustration. Gods, it was so simple—just don't give a damn.
Don't care what they do to you, and they do nothing.
If
I were staying, I'd never have dared to say those things. But I'm not, and by
the time Father figures out how to react, I'll be far beyond his ability to
punish me. Even if he reports all this to Aunt Unsavory, it's going to sound
really stupid—and what's more, it 'II make him look a fool.
He paused in the open doors, feet slightly apart, hands on
his hips. After a few moments, those inside noticed him and the buzz of
conversation ceased altogether as they turned to gape at him in dumbfounded
surprise.
"Why isn't my mare saddled?" he asked quietly,
coldly. The only two horses bearing riding saddles
were two rough cobs obviously meant for the two armsmen beside them, men who
had been examining their girths and who had suddenly straightened to attention
at the sound of his voice. There was another beast with a riding saddle on it,
but it wasn't a horse—it was an aging, fat pony, one every boy on the holding
had long since outgrown, and a mount that was now given to Treesa's most
elderly women to ride.
"Beggin' yer pardon, m'lord Vanyel," said one of
the grooms, hesitantly, "But yer father—"
"I really could not care less what my father
ordered," Vanyel interrupted, rudely and angrily. "He isn't going to have to ride halfway to the end of the world
on that hobbyhorse. I am the one being sent on this little exile, and I am not
going to ride that. I refuse to enter the
capital on a beast that is going to make me look like a clown. Besides, Star is
mine, not his. The Lady
Treesa gave her to me, and I intend to take
her with me. Saddle her."
The groom continued to hesitate.
"If you won't," Vanyel said, his eyes narrowing,
his voice edged with the coldest steel, "I will. Either way you'll have
trouble. And if I have to do it, and my lady mother finds out, you'll have
trouble from her as well as my father."
The groom shrugged, and went after Star and her tack,
leaving his fellow to strip the pony and turn it into the pasture.
Lovely.
Put me on a mount only a tyro would have to ride, and make it look as if I was
too much a coward to handle a real horse. Make me look a fool, riding into
Haven on a pony. And deprive me of something I treasured. Not this time, Father.
In fact, Vanyel was already firmly in Star's saddle by the
time Lord Withen made a somewhat belated appearance in the stableyard. The
grooms were fastening the last of the packs on the backs of three mules, and
the armsmen were waiting, also mounted, out in the yard.
Vanyel patted the proudly arched neck of his Star, a
delicately-boned black palfrey with a perfect white star on her forehead, a
star that had one long point that trailed down her nose. He ignored his father
for a long moment, giving him a chance to absorb the sight of his son on his
spirited little blood-mare instead of the homely old pony. Then he nudged Star
toward the edge of the yard where Lord Withen stood; by his stunned expression,
once again taken by surprise. She picked her way daintily across the gravel,
making very little sound, like a remnant of night-shadow in the early morning
light. Vanyel had had all her tack dyed the same black as his riding leathers,
and was quite well aware of how striking they looked together.
So was she; she
curved her neck and carried her tail like a banner as he directed her toward
his father.
Lord Withen's expression changed as they approached; first
discomfited, then resigned. Vanyel kept his the same as it had been all this
morning; nonexistent. He kept his gaze fixed on a point slightly above his
father's head.
Behind him, Vanyel could hear the mules being led out to
have the lead rein of the first fastened to the cantle of one of the armsmen's
saddles. He halted Star about then, a few paces from the edge of the yard. He
looked down at his father, keeping his face completely still, completely closed.
They stared at each other for a long moment; Vanyel could
see Withen groping for something appropriate to say. And each time he began to
speak, the words died unspoken beneath Vanyel's cold and dispassionate gaze.
I'm
not going to make this easy for you, Father. Not after what you've done to me; not
after what you tried to do to me just now. I'm going to follow my sire's
example. I'm going to be just as nasty as you are—but I'm going to do it with
more style.
The silence lengthened almost unbearably; even the armsmen
began picking up the tension, and shifted uneasily in their saddles. Their cobs
fidgeted and snorted restlessly.
Vanyel and Star could have been a statue of onyx and silver.
Finally Vanyel decided he had prolonged the agony enough. He
nodded, once, almost imperceptibly. Then, without a word, he wheeled Star and
nudged her lightly with his heels. She tossed her head and shot down the road
to the village at a fast trot, leaving the armsmen cursing and kicking at their
beasts behind him, trying to catch up.
Father's
probably told them that they're to watch for me trying to bolt, he thought cynically,
as Star fought the rein for a moment, then settled into a more-or-less sedate
walk. And indeed, that surmise was confirmed when he saw them exchange
surreptitious glances and not-too-well concealed sighs of relief. Huh. Little do they know.
For once they got beyond the Forst Reach lands that lay
under the plow, they entered the completely untamed woodlands that lay between
Forst Reach and the nearest eastward holding of Prytheree Ford. This forest
land had been left purposely wild; there weren't enough people to farm it at
either Holding, and it supplied all of the wood products and a good half of the
meat eaten in a year to the people of both Holdings.
It took skilled foresters to make their way about in a wood
like this. And Vanyel knew very well that he had no more idea of how to survive
in wilderland than he did of how to sprout fins and breathe water.
The road itself was hardly more than a rutted track of
hard-packed dirt meandering through a tunnel of tree branches. The branches
themselves were so thick overhead that they rode in a kind of green twilight.
Although the sun was dispersing the mist outside the wood, there were still
tendrils of it wisping between the trees and lying across the road. And only an
occasional sunbeam was able to make its way down through the canopy of leaves
to strike the roadway. To either side, the track was edged with thick bushes; a
hint here and there of red among the green leaves told Vanyel that those bushes
were blackberry hedges, probably planted to keep bears and other predators off
the road itself. Even if he'd been thinking of escape, he was not fool enough
to dare their brambly embrace. Even less did he wish to damage Star's tender
hide with the unkind touch of their thorns.
Beyond the bushes, so far as he could see, the forest floor
was a tangle of vegetation in which he would be lost in
heartbeats.
No, he was not in the least tempted to bolt and run, but
there were other reasons not to run besides the logical ones.
There were—or seemed to be—things tracking them under the
shelter of the underbrush. Shadow-shapes that made no sound.
He didn't much like those shadows behind the bushes or
ghosting along with the fog. He didn't at all care for the way they moved,
sometimes following the riders on the track for furlongs before giving up and
melting into deeper forest. Those shadows called to mind far too many stories
and tales—and the Border, with all its uncanny creatures, wasn't all that far from here.
The forest itself was too quiet for Vanyel's taste, even had
those shadows not been slinking beneath
the trees. Only occasionally could he hear a bird call above the dull clopping
of the horses' hooves, and that was faint and far off. No breeze stirred the
leaves above them; no squirrels ran along the branches to scold them. Of course
it was entirely possible that they were frightening all the nearby wildlife
into silence simply with their presence; these woods were hunted regularly.
That was the obvious explanation of the silence beneath the trees.
But Vanyel's too-active imagination kept painting other,
grimmer pictures of what might be lurking unseen out there.
Even though it became very warm and a halt would have been
welcome, he really found himself hoping they wouldn't make one. The armor that
had so far been proof against pressure from without cracked just a little from
the pressure within of his own vivid imagination. He was uneasy when they
paused to feed and water the horses and themselves at noon, and was not truly
comfortable until they saddled up and moved off again. The only way he could
keep his nerves in line was to concentrate on how well he had handled Lord
Withen. Recalling that stupified look he'd last seen on Withen's face gave him
no end of satisfaction. Withen hadn't seen Vanyel the boy—he'd seen a man, in
some sort of control over his situation. And he plainly hadn't enjoyed the
experience.
They rode up the flinty dirt road to the facade of the inn,
then through the entryway into the inn yard. That was where his two guardians
halted, looking about for a stableboy. Vanyel dismounted, feeling very stiff,
and a lot sorer than he had thought he'd be.
When a groom came to take Star's reins, he gave them over
without a murmur, then paced up and down the length of the dusty stableyard,
trying to walk some feeling back into his legs. While he walked, one of the
arms-men vanished into the inn itself and the other removed the packs from the
mules before turning them and their cobs over to more grooms.
It was at that point that Vanyel realized that he didn't
even know his captors' names.
That bothered him; he was going to be spending a lot of time
in their company, yet they hadn't even introduced themselves during the long
ride. He was confused, and uncomfortable. Yet—
The
less I feel, the better off I'll be.
He closed his eyes and summoned his snow-field; could almost
feel it chilling him, numbing him.
He began looking over the inn, ignoring the other guard, and
saw with mild surprise that it was huge; much bigger than it had looked from
the road. Only the front face of it was really visible when he rode up to it;
now he could see the entire complex. It was easily five times the size of the
little village inn at Forst Reach, and two-storied as well. Its outer walls
were of stone up to the second floor, then timber; the roof was thickly
thatched, and the birds Vanyel had missed in the forest all seemed to have made
a happy home here, nestling into the thatch with a riot of calls and whistles
as they settled in for the night. With the stables it formed two sides of a
square around the stable yard, the fourth side being open on a grassy field,
probably for the use of traders and their wagons. The stables were extensive,
too; easily as large as Lord Withen's, and he was a notable horsebreeder.
Blue shadows were creeping from the forest into the
stableyard, although the sky above had not quite begun to darken very much. And
it was getting quite chilly; something Vanyel hadn't expected, given the heat
of the day. He was just as glad when the second armsman finally put in an
appearance, trailed by a couple of inn servants.
Vanyel pretended to continue to study the sky to the west,
but he strained his ears as hard as he could to hear what his guardians had to
say to each other.
"Any problems, Garth?" asked the one who'd
remained with Vanyel, as the first bent to retrieve a pack and motioned to the
servants to take the ones Vanyel recognized as being his own.
"Nay," the first chuckled. "This early in th'
summer they be right glad of custom wi' good coin in hand, none o' yer shifty
peddlers, neither. Just like m'lord said, got us rooms on second story wi' his
Highness there on t' inside. No way he gets out wi'out us noticin'. Besides we
bein' second floor, 'f's needful we just move t' bed across t' door, an' he
won't be goin' nowhere."
Vanyel froze, and the little corner of him that had been
wondering if he could—perhaps—make allies of these two withdrew.
So
that's why they're keeping their distance. He straightened his back, and let that cool,
expressionless mask that had served so well with his father this morning drop
over his features again. I might have guessed as much. I was a fool to think otherwise.
He turned to face his watchers. "I trust all is in
order?" he asked, letting nothing show except, perhaps, boredom.
"Then—shall we?" He nodded slightly toward the inn door, where a
welcoming, golden light was shining.
Without waiting for a reply, he moved deliberately toward it
himself, leaving them to follow.
Inventory: one bed, one chair, one table. No fireplace, but
that wasn't a consideration given the general warmth of the building and the
fact that it was summer. All four of his packs were piled over in the corner,
the lute still in its case leaning up against them.
He'd asked for a bath, and they'd brought him a tub and
bathwater rather than letting him go down to the bathhouse. The water was
tepid, and the tub none too big—but he'd acted as if the notion had been his
idea. At least his guardians hadn't insisted on being in the same room watching
him when he used it.
One of them had escorted him to the
privy and back, though; he'd headed in that direction, and the one called Garth
had immediately dropped whatever it was he'd been working on and attached
himself to Vanyel's invisible wake, following about a half dozen paces behind.
That had been so humiliating that he hadn't spoken a single word to the man,
simply ignored his presence entirely.
And they hadn't consulted him on dinner either; they'd had
it brought up on a tray while he was bathing.
Not that he'd been particularly hungry. He managed the bread
and butter and cheese—the bread was better than he got at home—and a bit of
fresh fruit. But the rest, boiled chicken, a thick gravy, and dumplings, and
all of it swiftly cooling into a greasy, congealed mess on the plate, had stuck
in his throat and he gave up trying to eat the tasteless stuff entirely.
But he really didn't want to sit here staring at it, either.
So he picked up the tray, opened his door, and took it to
the outer room, setting it down on a table already cluttered with oddments of
traveling gear and the wherewithal to clean it.
Both men looked up at his entrance, eyes wide and startled
in the candlelight. The only sound was the steady flapping of the curtains in
the light breeze coming in the window, and the buzzing of a fly over one of the
candles.
Vanyel straightened, licked his lips, and looked off at a
point on the farther wall, between them and above their heads. "Every
corridor in this building leads to the common room, so I can hardly escape you
that way," he said, in as bored and detached a tone as he could muster.
"And besides, there's grooms sleeping in the stables, and I'm certain
you've already spoken with them. I'm scarcely going to climb out the window and
run off on foot. You might as well go enjoy yourselves in the common room. You
may be my jailors, but that doesn't mean you have to endure the jail
yourselves."
With that, he turned abruptly and closed the door of his
room behind him.
But he held his breath and waited right beside the door, his
ear against it, the better to overhear what they were saying in the room beyond.
"Huh!" the one called Garth said, after an interval
of startled silence. "Whatcha think of that?"
"That he ain't half so scatterbrained as m'lord
thinks," the other replied thoughtfully. "He knows damn well what's goin' on. Not that he ain't about as
nose-in-th'-air as I've ever seen, but he ain't addlepated, not a bit of it."
"Never saw m'lord set so on his rump before,"
Garth agreed, speaking slowly.
"Ain't never seen him taken down like that by a lord, much less a grass-green youngling. An' never saw that boy do anythin' like it before, neither. Boy's got sharp
a'sudden; give 'im that. Too sharp?"
"Hmm..No—" the other said. "No, I reckon in
this case, he be right." Silence for a moment, then a laugh. "Y'know,
I 'spect his Majesty just don't want to have t' lissen t' us gabbin' away at
each other. Mebbe we bore 'im, eh? What th' hell, I could stand a beer. You?"
"Eh, if you're buy in', Erek—"
Their voices faded as the door to the hall beyond scraped
open, then closed again.
Vanyel sighed out the breath he'd been holding in, and took
the two steps he needed to reach the table, sagging down into the hard, wooden
chair beside it.
Tired.
Gods, I am so tired. This farce is taking more out of me than I thought it
would.
He stared numbly at the candle flame, and then transferred
his gaze to the bright, flickering reflections on the brown earthenware bottle
beside it.
It's
awful wine—but it is wine. I suppose I could get good and drunk. There
certainly isn't anything else to do. At least nothing they'll let me do. Gods,
they think I'm some kind of prig. "His Majesty" indeed.
He shook his head. What's
wrong with me? Why should it matter what a couple of armsmen think about me?
Why should I even want them on my side? Who are they, anyway? What consequence
are they? They 're just a bare step up from dirt-grubbing farmers! Why should I
care what they think? Besides, they can't affect what happens to me.
He sighed again, and tried to summon a bit more of the
numbing disinterest he'd sustained himself with this whole, filthy day.
It wouldn't come, at first. There was something in the way—
Nothing
matters,
he told himself sternly. Least
of all what they think about you.
He closed his eyes again, and managed this time to summon a
breath of the chill of his dream-sanctuary. It helped.
After a while he shifted, making the chair creak, and tried
to think of something to do—maybe to put the thoughts running round his head
into a set of lyrics. Instead, he found he could hear, muffled, and indistinct,
the distracting sounds of the common room somewhere a floor below and several
hundred feet away.
The laughter, in particular, came across clearly. Vanyel bit
his lip as he tried to think of the last time he'd really laughed, and found he
couldn't remember it.
Dammit,
I am better than they are, I don't need them, I don't need their stupid
approval!
He reached hastily for the bottle, poured an earthenware mug full of the thin,
slightly vinegary stuff, and gulped it down. He poured a second, but left it on
the table, rising instead and taking his lute from the corner. He stripped the
padded bag off of it, and began retuning it before the wine had a chance to
muddle him.
At least there was music. There was always music. And the
attempt to get what he'd lost back again.
Before long the instrument was nicely in tune. That was one
thing that minstrel—What was
his name? Shanse, that was it—had praised unstintingly. Vanyel, he'd said, had a natural
ear. Shanse had even put Vanyel in charge of tuning his instruments while he stayed at Forst Reach.
He took the lute back to the bed, and laid it carefully on
the spread while he shoved the table up against the bedstead. He curled up with
his back against the headboard, the bottle and mug in easy reach, and began
practicing those damned finger exercises.
It might have been the wine, but his hand didn't seem to be
hurting quite as much this time.
The bottle was half empty and his head buzzing a bit when
there was a soft tap on his door.
He stopped in mid-phrase, frowning, certain he'd somehow
overheard something from the next room. But the tapping came a second time,
soft, but insistent, and definitely coming from his door.
He shook his head a little, hoping to clear it, and put the
lute in the corner of the bed. He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts,
uncurled his legs, rose, and paced (weaving only a little) to the door.
He cracked it open, more than half expecting it to be one of
his captors come to tell him to shut the hell up so that they could get some
sleep.
"Oh!" said the young girl who stood there, her
eyes huge with surprise; one wearing the livery of one of the inn's servants.
He had caught her with her hand raised, about to tap on the door a third time.
Beyond her the armsmen's room was mostly dark and quite empty.
"Yes?" he said, blinking his eyes, which were not
focusing properly. When he'd gotten up, the wine had gone to his head with a
vengeance.
"Uh—I just—" the girl was not as young as he'd
thought, but fairly pretty; soft brown eyes, curly dark hair. Rather like a
shabby copy of Melenna. "Just—ye wasn't down wi' th' others, m'lord, an' I
wunnered if ye needed aught?"
"No, thank you," he replied, still trying to
fathom why she was out there, trying to think through a mist of wine-fog.
Unless—that armsman Garth might well have sent her, to make certain he was
still where he was supposed to be.
The ties of the soft yellow blouse she was wearing had come
loose, and it was slipping off one shoulder, exposing the round shoulder and a
goodly expanse of the mound of one breast. She wet her lips, and edged closer
until she was practically nose-to-nose with him.
"Are ye sure, m'lord?" she breathed. "Are ye
sure ye cain't think of nothin'?"
Good
gods, he
realized with a start, she's
trying to seduce me!
He used the ploy that had been so successful with his
Mother's ladies. He let his expression chill down to where it would leave a
skin of ice on a goblet of water. "Quite certain, thank you, mistress."
She was either made of sterner stuff than they had been, or
else the subtler nuances of expression went right over her head.
Or, third possibility, she found either Vanyel or his
presumably fat purse too attractive to let go without a fight.
"I c'd turn yer bed down fer ye, m'lord," she
persisted, snaking an arm around the door to glide her hand along Vanyel's
buttock and leg. He was only wearing a shirt and hose, and felt the unsubtle
caress with a startlement akin to panic.
"No, please!" he yelped in shock; the
high-pitched, strangled shout startled her enough so that she pulled back her
arm. He slammed the door in her face and locked it.
He waited with his ear pressed up against the crack in the
door; waited for an explosion of some kind. Nothing happened; he heard her
muttering to herself for a moment, sounding very puzzled, then finally heard
her retreating footsteps and the sound of the outer door opening and closing
again.
He staggered back to the bed, and sat down on it, heavily.
Finally he reached for the lute, detuned it, and put it back in its traveling
case.
Then he reached for the bottle and gulped the wine as fast
as he could pour it down his throat.
Oh,
lord—oh, gods. A fool. After everything this morning, after I start to feel
like I'm getting a grip on things, and I go and act like a fool. Like a kid.
Like a baby who'd never seen a whore before.
He burned with humiliation as he imagined the girl telling
his guards what had just passed between them. And drank faster.
He did remember to unlock his
door and blow out the candle before he passed out. If Sun and Shadow out there decided
to take it into their heads to check on him, he didn't want them breaking the
door down. That would be even more humiliating than having them follow him to
the privy, or laughing at him with the girl.
I've
never been this drunk before, he thought muzzily, as he sank back onto the bed. I bet I have a head in the morning....
He snorted then, a sound with no amusement in it. At least if I'm hung over, it'll make
Trusty and Faithful happy. If they can't report to Father that I tried to
escape, at least they can tell him I made a drunken sot of myself at the first
opportunity. Maybe I should have let the girl in after all. It wouldn't be the
first time I've bedded something I didn't much care for. And it would have
given them one more story to tell. Oh, gods, what's wrong with me? Mekeal would
have had her tumbled before she blinked twice! What is wrong with me?
He rolled over, and it felt a lot like his head kept on
rolling after he'd stopped moving.
Then
again—I don't think so. Not even for that. The wine's bad enough here. I hate
to think where the girls came from... or where they've been.
But
why can't I react the way everyone else seems to? Why am I so different?
He pulled on his riding leathers and groomed himself as
impeccably as he could manage without a mirror, leaving only the tunic off,
since he intended to soak his aching head in cold water before he mounted
Star—in the horse trough if he had to. He walked out into the morning light
pouring in through the outer room, surveying the pathetic wrecks that had been
his alert and vigilant guardians only the night before with what he hoped was
cool, distant impassiveness.
And he spared a half a moment to hope that the girl hadn't told them—
His guards were in far worse case than he was, having
evidently made a spectacular night of it. Quite a night, judging by
their bleary eyes, surly, yet satiated expressions, and the rumpled condition
of the bedding. And Vanyel was not such an innocent as to be unable to
recognize certain—aromas—when he detected them in the air before Garth opened
the window. He was just as pleased to have been so drunk as to be insensible when
they had been entertaining their temporary feminine acquaintances. Could be the
chambermaid had found what she'd sought in the company of Garth and Erek after
being rebuffed by Vanyel.
They weren't giving him the kind of sly looks he'd have
expected if the girl had revealed his panicked
reaction.
Well—maybe
she was too busy. Thank you, gods.
He managed to deal with his hangover in a fairly successful
fashion. Willowbark tea came for his asking, hot from the kitchen; on the way
to the privy, with the faithful Garth in queasy attendance, he managed to
divert long enough to soak his head under the stable pump until his temples
stopped pounding. The water was very cold, and he saw Garth wincing when he
first stuck his head beneath it.
That dealt with the head; the stomach was easier. He drank
nothing but the tea and ate nothing but bread, very mild cheese, and fruit.
He was perfectly ready to ride out at that point. His guards
were not so fortunate. Or, perhaps, so wise, since their remedies seemed to consist of vile
concoctions of raw eggs and the heavy imbibing of the ale that had caused their problem the night before.
As a result, their
departure was delayed until mid-morning—not that this disturbed Vanyel a great deal.
They'd be outside the bounds of the forest before dark; at least according to
what the innkeeper told Garth. That was all Vanyel cared about.
Garth and Erek were still looking a bit greenish as they
mounted their cobs. And neither seemed much inclined toward talk. That suited
Vanyel quite well; it would enable him to concentrate on putting just a bit
more distance between himself and the world. And it would allow him to do some
undisturbed thinking.
The forest did not seem quite so unfriendly on the eastern
side of the inn—perhaps because it was hunted more frequently on this side. The
underbrush certainly wasn't as thick. The boughs of the trees overhead weren't,
either, and Vanyel got a bit of nasty satisfaction at seeing Garth and Erek
wincing out of the way of sunbeams that were much more frequent on this side of the woods.
But it was hotter than yesterday, and Vanyel finally
stripped off his leather tunic and bundled it behind him.
Seeing no lurking shadows beneath the trees, he felt a bit
easier about turning his attention inward to think about just what, exactly, he
was heading toward.
I
can guess at what Father's told the old bat. That's easy enough. The question
is what she's likely to do about it.
He tried to dig everything he could remember out of the dim
recesses of memory—not just about his aunt in particular, but about Heralds in
general.
He'll
tell her I'm to be weapons-schooled, that's for certain. But how—that's up to
her. And now that I think of it—damn if it wasn't a Herald that wrote that book
that got me in such trouble! I may, I just might actually be better off in that
area! Huh—now that I think about it, I can't see any way I'd be worse off.
A bird called overhead, and Vanyel almost felt a bit
hopeful. No matter who I get
schooled under, he can't possibly be worse than Jervis—because whoever he is,
he won't have a grudge against me. The absolute worst I can get is a
Jervis-type without a grudge. That might just be survivable, if I keep myself
in the background, if I manage to convince him that I'm deadly stupid and
clumsy. Stupid and clumsy are not possible to train away, and even Jervis knew
that.
Another bird answered, reminding him that there was,
however, the matter of music.
He's
bound to have issued orders that I'm not to be allowed anywhere near the Bards
except right under Savil 's eye—and if she's like Father, she has no ear at
all. Which means she'll never go to entertainments unless she has no choice. He sighed. Oh, well, there's worse. I won't be any
worse off than I was at home, where I saw a real, trained Bard once in my
entire lifetime. At least they'll be around. Maybe if I can get my fingering
back and play where one is likely to overhear me—
He sternly squelched that last. Best not think about it. I can't afford
hope anymore.
Star fidgeted; she wanted her usual early-morning run. He
reined her in, calmed her down, and went back to his own thoughts. One thing for sure, Father is likely to
have told Savil all kinds of things about how rotten I am. So she'll be likely
looking for wrong moves on my part—and I'll bet she'll have her proteges and
friends watching me, too. It's going to be hell. Hell, with no sanctuary, and
no Liss.
He studied Star's ears as he thought, watching her flick them
back with alert interest when she heard him sigh.
Well,
everyone else is going to hate me, but you still love me. He patted Star's
neck, and she pranced a little.
To
the lowest hells with all of them. I do not need them, I don't need anybody,
not even Liss. I'll do all right on my own.
But there was one puzzle, one he was reminded of later, when
they passed one of the remote farms, and Vanyel saw the farmer out in the
field, talking with someone on horseback who was likely his overlord. Huh—he thought, I can't figure how in
Havens Father expects Savil to train me in governance...
Then he felt a cold chill.
Unless
he doesn't really expect me to ever come home again. Gods—he could try to work
something out in the way of sending me off to a temple. He could do that—and it
bloody wouldn't matter if Father Leren could find him a priest he could bribe
into accepting an unwilling acolyte. It would work—it would work. Especially if
it was a cloistered order. And with me out of the way in Savil's hands, he has all
the time he needs to find a compliant priest. He doesn't even have to tell
Savil; just issue the order to send me back home again when it's all arranged.
Then spirit me off and announce to anyone who asks that I discovered I had a
vocation. And I would spend the rest of my life in a little stone cave
somewhere—
He swallowed hard, and tried to find reasons to dismiss the
notion as a paranoid fantasy, but all he could discover were more reasons why
it was a logical move on Lord Withen's part.
He tried to banish the fear, telling himself that it was no
good worrying about what might only be a fantasy until it actually happened.
But the thought wouldn't go away. It kept coming back, not only that day, but
every day thereafter. It wasn't quite an obsession—but it wasn't far off.
It was quite enough to keep him wrapped in silent,
apprehensive thought for every day of the remainder of the journey, and to keep
him sleepless for long hours every night. And not even dreams of his isolate
snow-plain helped to keep it from his thoughts.
"All right, Tylendel, that was passable, but it wasn't
particularly smooth," Herald-Mage Savil admonished her protege, tucking
her feet under the bottom rung of her wooden stool, and absently smoothing down
the front of her white tunic. "Remember, the power is supposed to flow;
from you to the shield and back again. Smoothly, not in spurts. You tell me
why."
Tylendel, a tall, strikingly attractive, dark blond
Herald-trainee of about sixteen, frowned with concentration as he considered
Savil's question. She watched the power-barrier he had built about himself with
her Mage-Sight, and Saw the pale violet half-dome waver as he turned his
attention to her question and lost a bit of control over the shield. She could
feel the room pulsing as he allowed the shield to pulse in time with his
heartbeat. If he let this go on, it would collapse.
"Tylendel, you're losing it," she warned. He
nodded, looked up and grimaced, but did not reply; his actions were reply
enough. The energy comprising the half-dome covering him stopped rippling,
firmed, and the color deepened.
"Have you an answer to my question yet?"
"I think so," he answered. "If it doesn't
flow smoothly, I'll have times when it's weak, and whatever I'm doing with it
will be open to interruption when it weakens?"
"Right," Savil replied with a brisk nod.
"Only don't think in terms of 'interruption,' lad. Think in terms of
'attack.' Like now."
She flung a levinbolt at his barrier without giving him any
more warning than that, and had the satisfaction, not only of Seeing it
deflected harmlessly upward to be absorbed by the Work Room shields, but Seeing
that he shifted his defenses to meet it with no chance to prepare at all.
"Now that was good, my
lad," she approved, and Tylendel's brown eyes warmed in response to the
compliment. "So—"
Someone knocked on the door of the Work Room, and Savil bit
off what she was going to tell him with a muffled curse of annoyance. "Now what?" she muttered, shoving back her tall stool and
edging around Tylendel's mage-barrier to answer the door.
The Work Room was a permanently shielded, circular chamber
within the Palace complex that the Herald-Mages used when training their
proteges in the Mage-aspects of their Gifts. The shielding on this room was
incredibly ancient and powerful. It was so powerful that the shielding actually
muffled physical sound; you couldn't even hear the Death Bell toll inside this
room. One of the duties of every Herald-Mage in the Circle was to augment the
protections here whenever they had the time and energy to spare. This shielding
had to be strong; strong enough to contain magical "accidents" that
would reduce the sparse furniture within the room to splinters. Those
"accidents" were the reason why the walls were stone, the furniture
limited to a couple of cheap stools and an equally cheap table, and why every Herald-Mage put full personal shields on
himself and his pupil immediately on entering the door of this room.
Those accidents were also the reason why anyone who
disturbed the practice sessions going on in the Work Room had better have a
damned good reason for doing so.
Savil yanked the door open, and glared at the fair-haired,
blue-uniformed Palace Guard who stood there, at rigid and proper attention.
"Well?" she said, letting a bit of ice creep into her voice.
"Your pardon, Herald-Mage," he replied, his
expression as stiff as his spine, "But you left orders to be notified as
soon as your nephew arrived." He handed her a folded and sealed letter.
"His escort wished you to have this."
She took it and stuffed it in a pocket of her breeches
without looking at it. "Oh, bloody hell," she muttered. "So I
did."
She sighed, and became a bit more civil. "Thank you,
Guard. Send him and whatever damned escort he brought with him to my quarters;
I'll get with them as soon as I can."
The Guard saluted and turned sharply on his heel; Savil shut
the door before he finished his pivot, and turned back to her pupil.
"All right, lad, how long have we been at this?"
Tylendel draped an arm over his curly head and grinned.
"Long enough for my stomach to start growling. I'm sorry, Savil, but I'm
hungry. That's probably why my concentration's going."
She shook her finger at him. "Tchah, younglings and
their stomachs! And just what do you plan to do if you get hungry in the middle
of an arcane duel? Hmm?"
"Eat," he replied impishly. She threw up her hands
in mock despair.
"All right, off with you—ah, ah," she warmed,
wagging her finger at him as he made ready to dispel the barrier the quick and
dirty way; by pulling the energies into the ground. "Properly, my lad—"
He bowed to her in the finest courtly manner. She snorted.
"Get on with it, lad, if you're in such a hurry to stuff your face."
She Watched him carefully as he took down the
barrier—properly—did so with quite a meticulous attention to little details,
like releasing the barrier-energy back into the same flow he'd taken it from.
She nodded approvingly when he stepped across the place where the border had
been and presented himself to have the shields she'd put on him taken off.
"You're getting better, Tylendel," she said,
touching the middle of his forehead with her index finger, and absorbing the
shield back into herself. Her skin tingled for a moment as she neutralized the
overflow. "You're coming along much faster than I guessed you would.
Another year—no, less, I think—and you'll be ready to try your hand at a Border
stint with me. And not much longer than that, and I'll shove you into Whites."
"It's my teacher," he replied impishly, seizing
her hand and kissing it, his long hair falling over her wrist and tickling it.
"How can I help but succeed in such attractive surroundings?"
She snatched her hand back, and cuffed his ear lightly.
"Get on with you! Even if I wasn't old enough to be your
grandmother, we both know I'm the wrong sex
for you to find me attractive!"
He ducked the blow, grinning, and pulled the door open for
her. "Oh, Savil, don't you know that the real truth is that I'd lost my
heart to my teacher, knew I had no hope, and couldn't accept a lesser woman
than—"
"Out!" she sputtered,
laughing so hard she nearly choked. "Liar! Before I do you damage!"
He ran off down the wood-paneled hallway, his own laughter
echoing behind him.
She closed the Work Room door behind her and leaned against
the wall, still laughing, holding her aching side. The imp. More charm than any five
younglings, and all the mischief of a young cat! I haven't laughed like this in
years—not the way I have since I acquired Tylendel as a protege. That boy is
such a treasure—if I can just wean him out of that stupid feud his family is
involved in, he'll make a fine Herald-Mage. If I don't kill him first!
She gulped down several long breaths of air, and composed
herself. I'm going to have
to deal with that spoiled brat of a nephew in a few minutes, she told herself
sternly, using the thought to sober herself. And I haven't the foggiest notion of what to do with him.
Other than have him strangled—no, that's not such a good notion, it would please
Withen too much. Great good gods, the man has turned into such a pompous ass in
the last few years! I hardly recognized him. That ridiculous letter a week ago
could have come from our father.
She smoothed her hair with her hands (checking to see that
the knot of it at the base of her neck had not come undone), tugged on the hem
of her tunic, and made sure that the door of the Work Room was closed and
mage-locked before heading up the hall toward her personal quarters. The heels
of her boots clicked briskly against the stone of the hallway, and she nodded
at courtiers and other Heralds as they passed her.
If
only Treesa hadn't spoiled the lad so outrageously, there might be something
there worth salvaging. Now, I don't know. I certainly don't have the time to
find out for myself. Huh. I wonder—if I put the buy into lessons with the other
Herald-trainees, then leave him to his own devices the rest of the time, that
just might tell me something. If he doesn't turn to gambling and hunting and
wild parties—if he becomes bored with the flitter-heads in the Court—
She pushed open one half of the double doors to the new
Heralds' quarters, and strode through. Her own suite was just at the far end
and on the left side of the hall.
Changes,
changes. Five years ago we were crammed in four to a room, and not enough space
to throw a tantrum in. Now we rattle around in this shiny-new barracks like a
handful of peas in a bucket. And me with a suite and not getting forlorn looks
from Jays or Tantras because one of the rooms is vacant. I can't see how we'll
ever get enough bodies to fill this place...
The door stood slightly ajar; she shoved it out of the way,
and paused a few steps into her outer room, crossing her arms and surveying the
trio on the couch beneath her collection of Hawkbrother featherwork masks at
the end of the room.
Only one of them was actually on the couch; Vanyel. Beside
him, only too obviously playing his jailers, stood a pair of Withen's armsmen.
On Vanyel's right, a short, stocky man—axeman, if Savil was any judge. On his
left, one about a head taller and very swarthy; a common swordsman. And Vanyel,
sitting very stiffly on the edge of the couch.
Savil heaved a strictly internal sigh. Lad, a year obviously hadn't improved you
except in looks—and that's no advantage. You're too damned handsome, and you
know it.
Since she'd last seen him, Vanyel's face and body had
refined. It was a face that could (and probably did) break hearts—broad brow,
high cheekbones, pointed chin, sensuous lips—fine-arched black brows, and
incredible silver eyes; all of it crowned with thick, straight, blue-black hair
most women would kill to possess. The body of an acrobat; nicely muscled, if
not over-tall.
And the posture was arrogant, the mouth set in sullen
silence; the eyes sulky, and at the same time, challenging her.
Lord
and Lady. Do I believe my fool brother, or do I take the chance that a good
portion of what's wrong with the boy is due to Withen trying to mold him into
his own image?
While she tried to make up her mind, she nodded at the two
armsmen. "Thank you, good sirs," she said, crisply. "You have
performed your duty admirably. You may go."
The taller one coughed uneasily, and gave her an
uncomfortable look.
"Well?" she asked, sensing something
coming-something she wasn't going to like. Something petty and small-minded—
"The boy's horse—"
"Stays, of course," she interrupted, seeing the
flash of hurt in Vanyel's eyes before he masked it, and reacting to it without
needing to think about which way she was going to jump.
"But, Herald, it's a valuable animal!" the armsman
protested, his mouth thinning unhappily. "Lord Withen—my lord—surely
you've beasts enough here—"
"What do you think this is?" she snapped, turning
on him with unconcealed anger. Gods, if this was symptomatic of the boy's trip
here, no wonder he was sullen.
Take
the boy's horse, will you? You bloody little— She took control of herself, and gave
them irrefutable reasons to take back to their master. They were, after all,
only following orders.
"You think we run a damned breeding farm here? We
haven't horses to spare. The boy will be taking equitation lessons, of course,
and he's hardly going to be able to go over the jumping course on foot!"
"But—" the armsman sputtered, not prepared to give
up, "Surely the Companions—"
"Bear their Chosen and no other." She took a deep breath and forced
her temper to cool. The man was making her more than annoyed with his
obstinacy, he was making her quite thoroughly enraged, and if this was a
measure of what Vanyel had been subjected to over the past few years, well,
perhaps the boy wasn't entirely to blame for his current behavior.
"I said," she told the men, glaring, "you may
go."
"But—I have certain orders—certain things I am to tell
you—"
"I am countermanding those orders," she answered
swiftly, invoking all of her authority, not just as a Herald, but as one of the
most powerful Herald-Mages in the Heraldic Circle, second only to Queen's Own,
Seneschal's, and Lord-Marshal's Herald. "This is my place, and my
jurisdiction. And you may tell my brother Withen that I will make up my own
mind what is to be done with the boy. If he wants to deposit young Vanyel in my
care, then he'll have to put up with my judgments. And you can tell him I said
so. Good day, gentlemen." She smiled with honeyed venom. "Or need I
call a Guard to escort you?"
They had no choice but to take themselves off, though they
did so with extreme reluctance. Savil waited until they had gone, and were
presumably out of hearing range, before taking the letter she'd been given out
of her pocket. She held it up so that Vanyel could see that it had not been
opened, then slowly, deliberately tore it in four pieces and dropped the pieces
on the floor.
Margret
is going to have my hide, she thought wryly. If
she's told me once not to throw things on the floor, she's told me a hundred
times—
"I don't know what Withen had to say in that
letter," she told the strange and silent boy. Was that sullenness in the
set of his mouth, or fear? Was that suspicion in the back of his eyes, or
arrogance? "Frankly, I don't care. This much I can tell you—young man, you
are going to stand or fall with me by your own actions. I tell you now that I
very much resent what Withen has done; I have three proteges to train, and no
time to waste on cosseting a daydreamer." Might as well let him know the truth about how I feel right
out and right now; he'll find out from the gossip sooner or later. I can't
afford to have him pulling something stupid in the hopes I'll pull him out of
it and give him some attention. "I have no intention of trying to make you into
something you aren't. But I also have no intention of allowing you to make a
fool out of me, or inconvenience me."
There was a whisper of sound at the door.
Without turning around, Savil knew from the brush of
embarrassed Mindspeech behind her that Tylendel and her other two proteges,
Mardic and Donni, had come in behind her, not expecting to find anyone except
Savil here. They had stopped in the doorway—startled at finding their mentor
dressing down a strange boy, and more than a bit embarrassed to have walked in
at such a touchy moment.
And of course, now it would be even more embarrassing for
them to walk back out and try to pretend it hadn't happened.
"You'll be taking lessons with some of the Herald-trainees
and with some of the young courtiers as soon as I get a chance to make the
arrangements," Savil continued serenely, gesturing slightly with her right
hand for her three "children" to come up beside her.
"Now—Vanyel, this is Donni, this Mardic, and this Tylendel. As
Herald-trainees, they outrank you; let's get that straight right now."
"Yes, Aunt," Vanyel said without changing his
expression a hair.
"Now what that actually means is not one damned thing, except I expect you to be polite."
"Yes, Aunt."
"My servant Margret tends to us; breakfast and lunch
are cold and left over on that table over there. Supper will be with the Court
for you once I get you introduced. If you miss it, you can take your chances
with us. Lessons, hmm. For now—oh—Donni, I want you to take him with you in the
morning and turn him over to Kayla; Withen was rather insistent on his getting
weapons work, and for once I agree with him."
"Yes, Savil," the short, tousle-haired trainee
said calmly. Savil blessed the girl's soothing presence, and also blessed the
fact that she was lifebound to Mardic. Nothing shook a lifebond except the
death of one of the pair. Vanyel's handsome face wasn't going to turn her head.
She rather dreaded the effect of that face on the rest of
the younglings at the Court, though.
"Mardic?"
The imperturbable farmer's son nodded his round head without
speaking.
"Take him to Bardic Collegium in the afternoon for me,
and get them to put him into History, Literature, and—" she wrinkled her
brow in thought as her three proteges arranged themselves around her.
"How about Religions?" Tylendel suggested. He
raised one dark-gold eyebrow and Mindspoke his teacher in Private-mode, his
lips thinning a little. :He's
lovely, Savil. And he Feels like he's either an arrogant little bastard, or
somebody's been hurting him inside for an awfully long time. Frankly, I
couldn't tell you which. Is he going to be as much trouble as I think?:
:Don't
know, lad,:
Savil Mindspoke soberly. :But
don't get wrapped up with him, not until we know. And don't fall in love with
him. I have no idea where his preferences lie, but even Withen didn't hint he
was shay'a'chern. I don't want to have to patch your
broken heart up. Again.:
:Not
a chance, Teacher,: Tylendel mind-grinned. :I've learned better.:
:Huh.
I should hope. Oh, Lord of Light—I did give all of you grabs at Dominick's old
room, didn't I? I don't want to start this off with hurt feelings—:
:Yes,
you did, and none of us wanted to move,: Tylendel mind-chuckled. :The garden door may be nice but it's drafty as the Cave of
the Winds. If I had someone to keep me warm—:
:I
could get you a dog,: she suggested, and watched his lips twitch as he tried not
to smile. :Well, that's one
worry out of the way.: Then said aloud, "All right, Vanyel, History,
Literature and Religions it is, and weapons work with Kayla in the morning. She
teaches the young highborns, and she's very good—and if I find out you've been
avoiding her lessons, I'll take a strap to you."
Vanyel flushed at that, but said nothing.
"Donni, Mardic, Tylendel, give Vanyel a hand with his
things; we'll put him in the garden chamber. I had Margret get it ready for him
this morning."
As the three trainees scooped up a pack apiece, and Vanyel
bent slowly to take the fourth, Savil added a last admonition.
"Vanyel, what you do with your free time is your own
business," she said, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended.
"But if you get yourself into trouble, and there's plenty of it to get
into around here, don't expect me to pull you out. I can't, and I won't. You're
an imposition. It's your job to see that you become less of one."
The blond one hesitated for a moment—just long enough to
give him what looked like a genuine smile, before slipping out the door.
But despite that smile, Vanyel was mortally glad when they
didn't linger. He closed the door behind them, then leaned up against it with
his eyes shut. The entire day had been confusing and wearying, an emotional
obstacle course that he was just happy to have survived.
The worst of it had been the past couple of hours; first,
being shuttled off to Savil's quarters with Erek and Garth suddenly deciding to
act like the jailers that they were, then the interminable wait—then the
Interview.
Her words had hurt; he willed them not to. He willed himself
not to care.
Then he moved to the middle of his new room and looked
around himself, and blinked in surprise.
It was—amazing. Warm, and welcoming, paneled and furnished
in goldenoak, and as well-appointed as his mother's private chamber. Certainly nothing like his room back at Forst Reach. A huge
bed stood against one wall, a bed almost wide enough for three and covered with a thick, soft red
comforter. In the corner, a wardrobe, not a simple chest, to hold his clothing.
Beside it a desk and padded chair—Havens, an instrument rack on the wall next to the weapons-rack!
Next to the window a second, more heavily padded chair, both chairs upholstered
in red that matched the comforter. His own fireplace. A small table next to the
bed, and a bookcase. But that wasn't the most amazing thing—
His room had its own private entrance, something that was
either a small, glazed door or an enormous window that opened up on a garden.
I
don't believe this, he thought, staring stupidly through the glass at the sculptured
bushes and the glint of setting sun on the river beyond. I just do not believe this. I expected to
be in another prison. Instead—
He, tried the door/window. It was unlocked, and swung open
at a touch.
—instead,
I'm given total freedom. I do not believe this! His knees went weak, and he had to sit
down on the edge of the bed before he collapsed. The breeze that had been
allowed to enter when he opened the window made the light material used as
curtains flap lazily.
Gods—he thought, dazedly. I don't know what to think. She saves
Star—then she humiliates me in front of the trainees. She gives me this
room—then she tells me I'm the next thing to worthless and she threatens to
beat me herself. What am I supposed to believe?
He could hear the murmuring of voices beyond the other door,
the one the tall blond had closed after himself. They sound so comfortable out there, so easy with each other, he thought wistfully.
They were terribly unalike, the three of them. The one called Donni could have
been Erek's twin sister; they looked to have been cast from the same mold—dark,
curly-haired, phlegmatic. The shorter boy, Mardic, had the look of one of
Withen's smallholders; earthy, square, and brown. But the third—
Vanyel was experiencing a strange, unsteady feeling when he
thought about the tall, graceful blond called Tylendel. He didn't know why.
Not even the minstrel Shanse had evoked this depth
of—disturbance—in him.
There was a burst of laughter beyond the door. They sound so happy, he thought a bit
sadly, before his thoughts darkened. They're
probably laughing at me.
He clenched his teeth. Damn
it, I don't care, I won't care. I don't need their approval.
He closed his walls a little tighter about himself, and
began the mundane task of settling himself into his new home. And tried not to
feel himself left on the outside, telling himself over and over again that
nothing mattered.
He nodded shortly.
She shook her head in disbelief, her tight, sable curls
scarcely moving. "I can't see why you want all that stuff, but I guess
it's your back. Come on."
There'd been no one in the suite when Vanyel woke, but there
had been cider, bread and
butter, cheese, and fruit waiting on a sideboard in the central room. He had
figured that was supposed to be breakfast, seeing that someone—or several someones, more like—had
already made hearty inroads on the food. He had helped himself, then found a
servant to show him the way to the bathing-room and the privies, and cleaned
himself up.
He'd pulled on some of his oldest and shabbiest clothing in
anticipation of getting them well-grimed at the coming weaponry-lesson. He was
back in his own room and in a very somber mood, sitting on the floor while
putting some new leather lacings on his practice armor, when Donni came hunting
him.
He gathered up his things and followed one step behind her out
through his garden door and into the sunlit, fragrant garden, trying not to let
any apprehension seep into his cool shell. She took him on a circuitous path
that led from his own garden door, past several ornamental grottoes and fish
ponds, down to a graveled pathway that followed the course of the river.
They trudged past what looked like a stable, except that the
stalls had no doors on them, and past a smaller building beside it. Then the
path took an abrupt turn to the right, ending at a gate in a high wooden fence.
By now Vanyel's arms were getting more than a little tired; he was hot, and
sweating, and he hoped that this was at least close to their goal.
But no; the seemingly placid trainee flashed him what might
have been a sympathetic grin, and opened the gate, motioning for Vanyel to go
through.
"There," she said, pointing across what seemed to
be an expanse of carefully manicured lawn as wide as the legended Dhorisha
Plains. At the other end of the lawn was a plain, rawly new wooden building
with high clerestory windows. "That's the salle," she told him.
"That's where we're going. They just built it last year so that we could
practice year 'round." She giggled. "I think they got tired of the
trainees having bouts in the hallways when it rained or snowed!"
Vanyel just nodded, determined to show no symptoms of his
weariness. She set off across the grass with a stride so brisk he had to really
push himself to keep up with her. It was all he could do to keep from panting
with effort by the time they actually reached the building, and his side was in
agony when she slowed down enough to open the door for him.
Once inside he could see that the structure was one single
large room, with a mirrored wall and a carefully sanded wooden floor. There
were several young people out on the floor already, ranging in apparent age
from as young as eleven or twelve to as old as their early twenties. Most of
them were sparring—
Vanyel was too exhausted to take much notice of what they
were up to, although the pair nearest him (he saw with a sinking heart) were
working out in almost exactly the weapons style Jervis used.
"This him?"
A woman with a soft, musical contralto spoke from behind
them, and Vanyel turned abruptly, dropping a vambrace.
"Yes, ma'am," Donni said, picking the bracer up
before Vanyel had a chance even to flush. "Vanyel, this is Weaponsmaster
Kayla. Kayla, this stuff is all his; I guess he brought it from home. I've got
to get going, or I'll miss my session in the Work Room."
"Havens forfend," Kayla said dryly. "Savil
would eat me for lunch if you were late. Don't forget you have dagger this
afternoon, girl."
Donni nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Vanyel alone
with the redoubtable Weaponsmaster.
For redoubtable she was. From the crown of her head to the
soles of her feet she was nothing but sinew and muscle. Her black hair, tightly
braided to her head, showed not a strand of gray, despite the age revealed by
the fine net of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Those gray-green eyes
didn't look as if they missed much.
For the rest, Kayla's shoulders were nearly a handspan wider
than his, and her wrists as thick as his ankles. Vanyel had no doubt that she
could readily wield any of the blades in the racks along the wall, even the
ones as tall or taller than she. He did not particularly want to
face this woman in any sort of combat situation. She looked like she could
quite handily take on Jervis and mop the floor with his
ugly face.
Vanyel remained outwardly impassive, but was inwardly
quaking as she in turn studied him.
"Well, young man," she said quietly, after a
moment that was far too long for his liking. "You might as well throw that
stuff over in the corner over there—" she nodded toward the far end of the
salle, and a pile of discarded equipment, "—we'll see what we can salvage
of it. You certainly won't be
needing it."
Vanyel blinked at her, wondering if he'd missed something.
"Why not?" he asked, just as quietly.
"Good gods, lad, that stuff's about as suited to you as
boots on a cat!" she replied, with a certain amusement. "Whoever your
last master was, he was a fool to put you in that gear. No, young man—you see Redel and Oden over there?"
She pointed with her chin at a pair of slender, androgynous
figures involved in an intricate, and possibly deadly dance with very light,
slender swords.
"I'll make Duke Oden your instructor; he'll be pleased
to have a pupil besides young Lord Redel. That's the kind of style suited to
you, so that's what you'll be doing,
young Vanyel," she told him.
His heart rose to its proper place from its former
position—somewhere in the vicinity of his boots.
Kayla graced him with a momentary smile. "Mind you,
lad, Oden's no light taskmaster. You'll find you work up as healthy a sweat and
collect just as many bruises as any of the hack-and-bashers. So let's get you
suited for it, eh?"
It started when he returned with equipment that weighed a
third of what he'd carried over. He racked it with care he usually didn't grant
to weaponry, and sought the central room of the suite.
Someone—probably the hitherto invisible Margret—had taken
away the food left on the sideboard this morning and replaced it with meat
rolls, more fruit and cheese, and a bottle of light wine.
Tylendel was sprawled on the couch, a meat roll in one hand,
a book in the other, a crease of concentration between his brows. He didn't
even look up as Vanyel moved hesitantly just into the common room itself.
Once again he got that strange, half-fearful, fluttery
feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat, and Tylendel jumped,
dropping his book, and looking up with his eyes widened and his hair over one
eye.
"Good gods, Vanyel, make some noise, next time!" he said, bending to
retrieve his book from the floor. "I didn't know there was anyone here but
me! That's lunch over there—"
He pointed with the half-eaten roll.
"Savil says to eat and get yourself cleaned up; she's
going to present you to the Queen before the noon recess. Then you'll be able
to have dinner with the Court; the rest of us get it on the fly as our schedules
permit. Savil will be back in a few minutes so you'd better move." He
tilted his head to one side, just a little, and offered, "If you need any
help...."
Vanyel stiffened; the offer hadn't sounded at all
unfriendly, but—it could be Tylendel was looking for a way to spy on him. Savil
hadn't necessarily told the truth.
—if
only—
"No," he replied curtly, "I don't need any
help." He paused, then added for politeness' sake, "Thank you."
Tylendel gave him a dubious look, then shrugged and dove
back into his book.
Savil was back in moments;
Vanyel had barely time to make himself presentable before she scooped him up
and herded him off to the Throne Room.
The Throne Room was a great deal smaller than he had
pictured; long and narrow, and rather dark. And stuffy; there were more people
crammed into this room than it had ever been intended to hold. Somewhere down
at the farther end of it was the Throne itself, beneath a huge blue and silver
tapestry of a rampant winged horse with broken chains on its throat and legs
that took up the entire wall over the Throne. Vanyel could see the tapestry,
but nothing else; everyone else in the room seemed to be at least a hand taller
than he was, and all he could see were heads.
The presentation itself was a severe disappointment. Vanyel
waited with Savil at his side for nearly an hour while some wrangle or other
involving a pair of courtiers was ironed out. Then Savil's name was called; the
two of them (Vanyel trailing in Savil's formidable wake) were announced by a
middle-aged Herald in full Court Whites. Vanyel was escorted to the foot of the
Throne by that same Herald, where Queen Elspeth (a thin, dark-haired woman who
was looking very tired and somewhat preoccupied) nodded to him in a friendly
manner, and said about five words in greeting. He bowed and was escorted back
to Savil's side, and that was all there was to it.
Then Savil hustled him back to change out of Court garb and into ordinary day-garb for his afternoon
classes. Mardic practically flew in the door from the hallway and took him in
tow. They traversed a long, dark corridor leading from Savil's quarters, out
through a double door, to a much older section of the Palace. From there they
exited a side door and out into more gardens—herb gardens this time, and kitchen
gardens.
Mardic didn't seem to be the talkative type, but he could
certainly move. His fast walk took them past an l-shaped granite building
before Vanyel had a chance to ask what it was, and up to a square fieldstone
structure. "Bardic Collegium," Mardic said shortly, pausing just long
enough for a couple of youngsters who were running to get past him, then
opening the black wooden door for him.
He didn't say another word; just left him at the door of his
first class before vanishing elsewhere into the building.
Inside Bardic Collegium. Actually inside the building,
seated in a row of chairs with three other youngsters in a small, sunny room on
the first floor.
More than that, pacing back and forth as he lectured or
questioned them was a real, live Bard in full Scarlets; a tall, powerful man
who was probably as much at home wielding a broadsword as a lute.
At home Vanyel had always been a full step ahead of his
brothers and cousins when it came to scholastics, so he began the hour with a
feeling of boredom. History was the proverbial open book to him—or so he had
always thought. He began the session with the rather smug feeling that he was
going to dazzle his new classmates.
The other three boys looked at him curiously when he came in
and sat down with them, but they didn't say anything. One was mouse-blond, one
chestnut, and one dark; all three were dressed nearly the same as Vanyel, in
ordinary day-clothing of white raime shirt and tunic and breeches of soft brown
or gray fabric. He couldn't tell if they were Heraldic trainees or Bardic; they
wore no uniforms the way their elders did. Not that it mattered, really, except
that he would have liked to impress them with his scholarship if they were Bardic students.
The room was hardly bigger than his bedroom in Savil's
suite; but unlike the Heralds' quarters, this building was old, worn, and a bit
shabby. Vanyel had a moment to register disappointment at the scuffed floor,
dusty furnishings, and faded paint before the leonine Bard at the window-end of
the room began the class.
After that, all he had a chance to feel was shock.
"Yesterday we discussed the Arvale annexation; today
we're going to cover the negotiations with Rethwellan that followed the
annexation." With those words, Bard Chadran launched into his lecture; a
dissertation on the important Arvale-Zalmon negotiations in the time of King
Tavist. It was fascinating. There was only one problem.
Vanyel had never even heard of the Arvale-Zalmon
negotiations, and all he knew of King Tavist was that he was the son of Queen
Terilee and the father of Queen Leshia; Tavist's reign had been a quiet one, a
reign devoted more to studied diplomacy than the kind of deeds that made for
ballads. So when the Bard opened the floor to discussion, Vanyel had to sit
there and try to look as if he understood it all, without having the faintest
idea of what was going on.
He took reams of notes, of course, but without knowing why
the negotiations had been so important, much less what they were about, they
didn't make a great deal of sense.
He escaped that class with the feeling that he'd only just
escaped being skinned and eaten alive.
Religions was a bit better, though not
much. He'd thought it was Religion, singular. He found out how wrong he
was—again. It was, indeed, Religions in the plural sense. Since the population
of Valdemar was a patchwork quilt of a dozen different peoples escaping from
various unbearable situations, it was hardly surprising that each one of those
peoples had their own religion. As Vanyel heard, over and over again that hour,
the law of Valdemar on the subject of worship was "there is no 'one, true
way,'" But with a dozen or more "ways" in practice, it would
have been terribly easy for a Bard—or Herald—to misstep among people strange to
him. Hence this class, which was currently covering the "People of the One"
who had settled about Crescent Lake.
It was something of a shock, hearing that what his priest
would have called rankest heresy was presented as just another aspect of the
truth. Vanyel spent half his time feeling utterly foolish, and the other half
trying to hide his reactions of surprise and disquiet.
But it was Literature—or rather, an event just before the
Literature class—which truly deflated and defeated him.
He had been toying with the idea of petitioning one of the
Bards to enroll him in their Collegium before he began the afternoon's classes,
but now he was doubtful of being able to survive the lessons.
Gods,
I—I'm as pig-ignorant compared to these trainees as my cousins are compared to
me, he
thought glumly, slumping in the chair nearest the door as he and the other two with
him waited for the teacher of Literature to put in her appearance. But—maybe this time. Lord of Light knows
I've memorized every ballad I could ever get my hands on.
Then he overheard Bard Chadran talking out in the hallway
with another Bard; presumably the teacher of this class. But when he heard his
own name, and realized that they were talking about him, he stretched his ears without shame or hesitation to catch
all that he could.
"—so Savil wants us to take him if he's got the
makings," Chadran was saying.
"Well, has he?" asked the second, a dark,
sensuously female voice.
"Shanse's heard him sing; says he's got the voice and
the hands for it, and I trust him on that," said Chadran, hesitantly.
"But not the Gift?" the second persisted.
Chadran coughed. "I—didn't hear any sign of it in
class. And it's pretty obvious he doesn't compose, or we'd have heard about it.
Shanse would have said something, or put it in his report, and he didn't."
"He has to have two out of three; Gift, Talent, and
Creativity—you know that, Chadran,"
said the woman. "Shanse didn't see any signs of Gift either, did he?"
Chadran sighed. "No. Breda, when Savil asked me about
this boy, I looked up Shanse's report on the area. He did mention the boy, and he was flattering enough about the boy's musicality that we could
get him training as a minstrel if—"
"If—"
"If he weren't his father's heir. But the truth is, he
said the boy has a magnificent ear, and aptitude for mimicry, and the talent.
But no creativity, and no Gift. And that's not enough to enroll someone's heir
as a mere minstrel. Still—Breda, love, you look for Gift. You're
better at seeing it than any of us. I'd really like to do Savil a favor on this
one. She says the boy is set enough on music to defy a fairly formidable
father—and we owe her a few."
"I'll try him," said the woman, "But don't
get your hopes up. Shanse may not have the Gift himself, but he knows it when
he hears it."
Vanyel had something less than an instant to wonder what
they meant by "Gift" before the woman he'd overheard entered the
room. As tall as a man, thin, plain—she still had a presence that forced Vanyel to pay utmost
attention to every word she spoke, every gesture she made.
"Today we're going to begin the 'Windrider'
cycle," she said, pulling a gittern around from where it hung across her
back. "I'm going to begin with the very first 'Windrider' ballad known,
and I'm going to present it the way it should be dealt with. Heard, not read.
This ballad was never designed to be read,
and I'll tell you the truth, the flaws present in it mostly vanish when it's
sung."
She strummed a few chords, then launched into the opening to
the "Windrider Unchained"—and he no longer wondered what the
"Gift" could be.
Because she didn't just sing—not like Vanyel would have sung, or even the minstrel (or,
as he realized now, the Bard) Shanse would have.
No—she made her listeners experience every word of the
passage; to feel every emotion, to see the scene, to live the event as the
originals must have lived it. When she finished, Vanyel knew he would never
forget those words again.
And he knew to the depths of his soul that he would never be
able to do what she had just done.
Oh, he tried; when she prompted him to sing the next
Windrider ballad while she played, he gave it his best. But he could tell from
the look in his fellow classmates' eyes—interest, but not rapt fascination—that he hadn't even managed a pale
imitation.
As he sat down and she gestured to the next to take a
ballad, he saw the pity in her eyes and the slight shake of her head—and knew
then that she knew he'd overheard
the conversation in the hallway. That this was her way of telling him, gently,
and indirectly, that his dream could not be realized.
It was the pity that hurt the most, after the realization
that he did not have the proper material to be a Bard. It cut—as cruelly as any
blade. All that work—all that fighting to get his hand back the way it had
been—and all for nothing. He'd never even had a hope.
I
thought nothing would ever be worse than home—but at least I still had dreams.
Now I don't even have that.
The capper on the miserable day was his aunt, his competent,
clever, selfless, damn-her-to-nine-hells aunt.
He flopped over onto his stomach, and fought back the sting
in his eyes.
She'd pulled him aside right after dinner; "I asked the
Bards to see if they could take you," she'd said. "I'm sorry, Vanyel,
but they told me you're a very talented musician, but that's all you'll ever
be. That's not enough to get you into Bardic when you're the heir to a holding."
"But—" he'd started to say, then clamped his mouth
shut.
She gave him a sharp look. "I know how you probably
feel, Vanyel, but your duty as Withen's heir is going to have to come first. So
you'd better resign yourself to the situation instead of fighting it."
She watched him broodingly as he struggled to maintain his
veneer of calm. "The gods know," she said finally, "I stood in your shoes, once. I wanted the Holding—but I
wasn't firstborn son. And as things turned out, I'm glad I didn't get the
Holding. If you make the best of your situation, you may find one day that you
wouldn't have had a better life if you'd chosen it yourself."
How
could she know? he fumed. I hate
her. So help me, I hate her. Everything she does is so damned perfect! She
never says anything, but she doesn't have to; all she has to do is give me that
look. If I hear one more word about how I 'm supposed to like this trap that's
closed on me, I may go mad!
He turned over on his back, and brooded. It wasn't even
sunset—and he was stuck here with his lute staring down at him from the wall
with all the broken dreams it implied.
And nothing to distract him. Or was there?
Dinner was over, but there were going to be people gathered
in the Great Hall all night. And there were plenty of people his age there;
young people who weren't Bard trainees, nor Herald proteges. Ordinary young
people, more like normal human beings.
He forgot all his apprehensions about being thought a
country bumpkin; all he could think of now was the admiration his wit and looks
used to draw at the infrequent celebrations that brought the offspring of
several Keeps and Holdings together. He needed a dose of that admiration, and
needed its sweetness as an antidote to the bitterness of failure.
He flung himself off the bed and rummaged in his wardrobe
for an appropriately impressive outfit; he settled on a smoky gray velvet as
suiting his mood and his flair for the dramatic.
He planned his entrance to the Great Hall with care; waiting
until one of those moments that occur at any gathering of people where everyone
seems to choose the same moment to stop talking. When that moment came, he
seized it; pacing gracefully into the silence as if it had been created
expressly to display him.
It worked to perfection; within moments he had a little
circle of courtiers of his own flocking about him, eager to impress the
newcomer with their friendliness.
He basked in their attentions for nearly an hour before it
began to pall.
"So he charged straight at them—"
"Which was a damn fool thing to do if you ask me,"
Vanyel said, his brows creasing.
"But—it takes a brave man—" the young
man protested weakly.
"I repeat, it was a damn fool thing to do," Vanyel
persisted. "Totally outnumbered, no notion if the party behind him was
coming in time—great good gods, the right thing to do would have been to turn
tail and run! If he'd done it convincingly, he could have led them straight
into the arms of his own troops! Charging off like that could have gotten him
killed!"
"It worked," Liers sulked.
"Oh, it worked all right, because nobody in his right
mind would have done what he did!"
"It was the valiant thing to have
done," Liers replied, lifting his chin.
Vanyel gave up; he didn't dare alienate these younglings.
They were all he had—
"You're right, Liers," he said, hating the lie.
"It was a valiant thing to have done."
Liers smiled in foolish satisfaction as Vanyel made more
stupid remarks; eventually Vanyel extricated himself from that little knot of idlers and went looking for something more
interesting.
The fools were as bad as his brother; he could not, would never get it through their
heads that there was nothing "romantic" about getting themselves
hacked to bits in the name of Valdemar or a lady. That there was nothing
uplifting about losing an arm or a leg or an eye. That there was nothing, nothing "glorious" about warfare.
As soon as he turned away from the male contingent, the
female descended upon him in a chattering flock; flirting, coquetting, each
doing her best to get Vanyel's attention settled on her. It was exactly the same playette that had been enacted
over and over in his mother's bower; there were more players, and the faces
were both different and often prettier, but it was the identical script.
Vanyel was bored.
But it was marginally better than being lectured by Savil,
or longing after the Bards and the Gift he never would have.
"—Tylendel," said the pert little brunette at his
elbow, with a sigh of disappointment.
"What about Tylendel?" Vanyel asked, his interest,
for once, caught.
"Oh, Tashi is in love with Tylendel's big brown
eyes," laughed another girl, a tall, pale-complected redhead.
"Not a chance, Tashi," said Reva, who was flushed
from a little too much wine.
She giggled. "You haven't a chance. He's—what's that
word Savil uses?"
"Shay'a'chern," supplied Cress.
"It's some outland tongue."
"What's it mean?" Vanyel asked.
Reva giggled, and whispered, "That he doesn't like
girls. He likes boys. Lucky boys!"
"For Tylendel I'd turn into a boy!" Tashi sighed,
then giggled back at her friend. "Oh. what a waste! Are you sure?"
"Sure as stars," Reva assured her. "Only just
last year he broke his heart over that bastard Nevis."
Vanyel suppressed his natural reaction of astonishment.
Didn't—like girls. He knew at least that the youngling courtiers used
"like" synonymously with "bedding." But—didn't
"like" girls? "Liked" boys?
He'd known he'd been sheltered from some things, but he'd
never even guessed about this one.
Was this why Withen—
"Nevis—wasn't he the one who couldn't make up his mind
which he liked and claimed he'd been seduced every time he crawled into
somebody's bed?" Tashi asked in rapt fascination.
"The very same," Reva told her. "I am so glad his parents called him home!"
They were off into a dissection of the perfidious Nevis
then, and Vanyel lost interest. He drifted around the Great Hall, but was
unable to find anything or anyone he cared to spend any time with. He drank a
little more wine than he intended, but it didn't help make the evening any
livelier, and at length he gave up and went to bed.
He lay awake for a long time, skirting the edges of the
thoughts he'd had earlier. From the way the girls had giggled about it, it was
pretty obvious that Tylendel's preferences were something short of
"respectable." And Withen—
Oh, he knew now what Withen would have to say about it if he
knew that his son was even sharing the same quarters as Tylendel.
All
those times he went after me when I was tiny, for hugging and kissing Meke.
That business with Father Leren and the lecture on "proper masculine
behavior." The fit he had when Liss dressed me up in her old dresses like
an overgrown doll. Oh, gods.
Suddenly the reasons behind a great many otherwise
inexplicable actions on Withen's part were coming clear.
Why
he kept shoving girls at me, why he bought me that—professional. Why he kept
arranging for friends of Mother's with compliant daughters to visit. Why he
hated seeing me in fancy clothing. Why some of the armsmen would go quiet when
I came by—why some of the jokes would just stop. Father didn't even want a hint
of this to get to me.
He ached inside; just ached.
I've
lost music—no; even if Tylendel is to be trusted, I can't take the chance. Not
even on—being his friend. If he didn't turn on me, which he probably would.
All that was left was the other dream—the ice-dream. The
only dream that couldn't hurt him.
* * *
The
chasm wasn't too wide to jump, but it was deep. And there was
something—terrible—at the bottom of it. He didn't know how he knew that, but he
knew it was true. Behind him was nothing but the empty, wintry ice-plain. On
the other side of the chasm it was springtime. He wanted to cross over, to the
warmth, to listen to bird-song beneath the trees—but he was afraid to jump. It
seemed to widen even as he looked at it.
"Vanyel?"
He
looked up, startled.
Tylendel
stood on the other side, wind ruffling his hair, his smile wide and as warm and
open as spring sunshine.
"Do
you want to come over?" the trainee asked softly. He held out one hand.
"I'll help you, if you like. "
Vanyel
backed up a step, clasping his arms tightly to his chest to keep from
inadvertently answering that extended hand.
"Vanyel?"
The older boy's eyes were gentle, coaxing. "Vanyel, I'd like to be your
friend." He lowered his voice still more, until it was little more than a
whisper, and gestured invitingly. "I'd like," he continued, "to
be more than your friend. "
"No!"
Vanyel cried, turning away violently, and running as fast as he could into the
empty whiteness.
When
he finally stopped, he was alone on the empty plain, alone, and chilled to the
marrow. He ached all over at first, but then the cold really set in, and he
couldn't feel much of anything. There was no sign of the chasm, or of Tylendel.
And
for one brief moment, loneliness made him ache worse than the cold.
Then
the chill seemed to reach the place where the loneliness was, and that began to
numb as well.
He
began walking, choosing a direction at random. The snow-field wasn't as
featureless as he'd thought, it seemed. The flat, smooth snow-plain that
creaked beneath his feet began to grow uneven. Soon he was having to avoid huge
teeth of ice that thrust up through the crust of the snow—then he could no
longer avoid them; he was having to climb over and around them.
They
were sharp-edged; sharp as glass shards. He cut himself once, and stared in surprise
at the blood on the snow. And, strangely enough, it didn't seem to hurt
There
was only the cold.
Tylendel was sprawled carelessly across the grass in the
garden, reading. Vanyel watched him from behind the safety of his window
curtains, half sick with conflicting emotions. The breeze was playing with the
trainee's tousled hair almost the same way it had in his dream.
He shivered, and closed his eyes. Gods. Oh, gods. Why me? Why now? And why,
oh why, him? Savil's favorite protege—
He clutched the fabric of the curtain as if it were some
kind of lifeline, and opened his eyes again. Tylendel had changed his pose a
little, leaning his head on his hand, frowning in concentration. Vanyel
shivered and bit his lip, feeling his heart pounding so hard he might as well
have been running footraces. No girl had ever been able to make his heart race
like this....
The thought made him flush, his stomach twisting. Gods, what am I? Like him? I must be.
Father will—oh, gods. Father will kill me, lock me up, tell everyone I've gone
mad. Maybe I have gone mad.
Tylendel smiled suddenly at something he was reading;
Vanyel's heart nearly stopped, and he wanted to cry. If only he'd smile at me that way—oh,
gods, I can't, I can't, I daren't trust him, he'll only turn on me like all the
others.
Like all the others.
He turned away from the window, invoking his shield of
indifference with a sick and heavy heart.
If
only I dared. If only I dared.
* * *
Savil locked the brassbound door of her own private version
of the Work Room with fingers that trembled a little, and turned to face her
favorite protege, Tylendel, with more than a little trepidation.
Gods.
This is not going to be easy. She braced herself for what was bound to be a dangerous
confrontation; both for herself and for Tylendel. She didn't think he was going
to go for her throat—but—well, this time she was going to push him just a
little farther than she had dared before. And there was always the chance that
it would be too far, this time.
He stood in the approximate center of the room, arms folded
over the front of his plain brown tunic, expression unwontedly sober. It was
fairly evident that he had already gathered this was not going to be a lesson
or an ordinary discussion.
There was nothing else in this room, nothing at all. Unlike
the public Work Room, this one was square, not circular; but the walls here
were stone, too, and for some of the same reasons. In addition there was an
inlaid pattern of lighter-colored wood delineating a perfect circle in the
center of the hardwood floor. And there was an oddness about the walls, a sense
of presence, as if they were nearly alive. In a way, they were; Savil had put
no small amount of her own personal energies into the protections on this room.
They were, in some senses, a part of her. And because of that, she should be
safer here than anywhere else, if something went wrong.
"You didn't bring me in here to practice,"
Tylendel stated flatly.
Savil swallowed and shook her head. "No, I didn't.
You're right. I wanted to talk with you; I have two subjects, really, and I
don't want anyone to have a chance at overhearing us."
"The first subject?" Tylendel asked. "Or—I
think I know. My family again." His expression didn't change visibly, but
Savil could sense his sudden anger in the stubborn setting of his jaw.
"Your family again," Savil agreed. "Tylendel,
you're a Herald, or nearly. Heralds do
not take
sides in anyone's fight, not even when their own blood is involved. Your people
have been putting pressure on you to do something. Now I know you haven't
interfered—but I also know you want to. And I'm afraid that you might give in
to that temptation."
His mouth tightened and he looked away from her. "So
Evan Leshara can pour his poison into the ear of anyone at Court who cares to
listen—and I'm not allowed to do or say anything about it, is that it? I'm not
even allowed to call him a damned liar for some of the things he's said about
Staven?" He pulled his gaze back to her, and glared at her as angrily as
if she were the one responsible for his enemy's behavior. "It's more than
just my blood, Savil, it's my twin. By all he believes, by all he holds true,
we've got blood-debt to pay here—and Staven, for all that he's young, is the
Lord Holder now. It's his decision; the rest of us Frelennye must and will support him. And besides all that, he's in the right, dammit!"
"Lord Holder or not, young or not, right or not, he's a damned hotheaded fool,"
Savil burst out, flinging up both her hands before her in a gesture of complete
frustration. "Blood-debt be hanged, it's that kind of fool thinking that
got your people and the Leshara into this stupid feud in the first
damned place! You can't
bring back the dead with more blood!"
"It's honor, dammit!" He clenched his hands into
fists. "Can't you even try to understand that?"
"It has nothing to do with real honor," she said scornfully. "It has everything
to do with plain, obstinate pride. 'Lendel, you cannot be involved."
She froze with her heart in her mouth as he made one angry
step toward her.
He saw her reaction, and halted.
She plowed onward, trusting in the advice she'd gotten. Please, Jaysen, be right this time, too.
"This whole feud is insanity! 'Lendel, listen to me—it has got to be stopped, and if it goes
on much longer it's the Heralds who'll have to stop it and you cannot take sides!"
All right so far, she hadn't said anything new. Now for the
fresh goad. And hope it wasn't too much of a goad, too soon.
"'Lendel, I know you've never been able to figure out
why both you and Staven weren't taken
by Companions—well, dammit, it's exactly this insanity that's
the reason your beloved twin didn't get Chosen and you did. You at least can see the futility of this when you aren't busy defending
him—he's too full of vainglory and too damned stubborn to ever see any solution to this but crushing the Leshara, branch
and root! Your twin is an idiot, 'Lendel! He's just as
much an idiot as Wester Leshara, but that doesn't change the fact that he's
going to get people killed out of plain stupidity! And I will not permit this
to go on for very much longer. If I have to denounce Staven to end your
involvement with this, I will. Never doubt it. You have
more important things to do with your life than waste it defending a fool."
Tylendel's fists clenched again; he was nearly rigid with
anger, as his eyes went nearly black and his face completely white with the
force of his emotions—and for one moment Savil wondered if he'd strike her this
time. Or strike at her, that is; if he came for her, she didn't intend to be
where his fist landed. Or his levinbolt, if it came to that.
Please,
Lord and Lady, don't let him lose it this time, let him stay in control—I've
never pushed him this far before. And don't let him try magic. If he hits out,
I may not be able to save him from what my protections will do.
She prayed, and looked steadfastly (and, she hoped,
compassionately) into those angry eyes.
She could Feel him vibrating inside, caught between his need
to strike out at the one who had attacked his very beloved twin and his own
conscience and good sense.
Savil continued to hold her ground, refusing to back down.
The tension in the room was so acute that the power-charged walls picked it up,
reverberating with his rage. And that fed back into Savil, will-she, nill-she.
It was all she could do to hold fast,
and maintain at least the appearance of calm.
Then he whirled and headed blindly into a corner. He rested
his forehead against the cool stone of the wall with one arm draped over his
head, pounding the fist of his free hand against the gray stones, cursing
softly under his breath.
Now Savil let him alone, saying absolutely nothing.
Once
you get him worked into a rage, let him deal with his anger and his internal
turmoil in his own way, had been Jaysen's advice. Leave him alone until he's calmed himself down.
Finally he turned back to the room and her, bracing himself
in the corner, eyes nearly closed; breathing as hard as if he'd been running a
mile.
"You'll never get me to agree to stop supporting
Staven, you know," he said in a perfectly conversational tone. "I
won't interfere with the Heralds, I won't help with the feud, and I won't call
Evan Leshara a damned liar—but I will defend Staven and what
he thinks is right, if only to you. I love him, and I will not give that up."
There was no sign that a moment before he'd been
in—literally—a killing rage.
"I know," Savil replied, just as calmly, giving no
indication that she was still shaking
inside. "I'm not asking you to give up loving Staven. All I want is for
you to think about this mess, not just react to it. If it was only your two
families, it would be bad enough, but you're involving the whole region in your
feuding. We know very well that you've both been looking for mages to escalate
this thing—and 'Lendel, I do not want to hear a single word about which side
started that. The important thing is that you've done it. The important thing is that if either side involves
magic in this, the Heralds must and will take a hand. We can't afford to have
wild magic loose and hurting innocent people. You are a Herald, or nearly. You
have to remember that you cannot take a side. You have to be impartial. No matter what Evan Leshara does or says."
Tylendel shrugged, but it was not an indifferent shrug. His pain was very real, and only too
plain to his mentor; she hurt for him. But this was one
of the most important lessons any Herald had to learn—that he had to be impartial, no matter what the cost of impartiality
was. And no matter whether the cost was to himself, or to those he cared for.
"All right," he said, tonelessly. "I'll keep
out of it. So. Now that you've turned my guts inside out, what else did you
want to discuss?"
"Vanyel," Savil said, relaxing enough that her
voice became a little dulled with weariness. "He's been here for more than
a month. I want you to tell me what you think."
"Gods." He sagged back against the wall, and
opened his eyes completely. They had returned to their normal warm brown.
"You would bring up His Loveliness."
"What's the matter?" Savil asked sharply, and took
a closer look at him; he was wearing a most peculiar half-smile, and she
smelled a rat—or at least a mouse."
"'Lendel, don't tell me you've gone
and fallen in love with the boy!"
He snorted. "No, but the lad is putting a lot of stress
on my self-control, let me tell you that! When I don't want to smack that
superior grin off his face, I want to cuddle and reassure him, and I don't know
which is worse."
"I don't doubt," Savil replied dryly, walking over
to where he leaned, and draped herself against the wall opposite him. "All
right, obviously you've had your eye on him; tell me what you've figured out so
far. Even speculation will do."
"Half the time I think you ought to drown him,"
her trainee replied, shaking his golden head in disgust. "That miniature
Court he's collected around himself is sickening. The posing, the preening—"
Savil made a little grimace of distaste. "You don't
have to tell me. But what about the
other half?"
"In my more compassionate moments, I'm more certain
than ever that he's hurting, and all that posing is just that—a pose, a
defense; that the little Court of his is to convince himself that he's worth something. But I've made
overtures, and he just—goes to ice on me. He doesn't hit at me, he just goes
unreachable."
"Well—" Savil eyed her protege with speculation.
"That particular scenario hadn't occurred to me. I thought that now he'd
been given his head, he was just showing his true colors. I was about ready to
wash my hands of him. Foster him with—oh—Oden or somebody—somebody with more
patience, spare time, and Court connections than me."
"Don't," Tylendel said shortly, a new and
calculating look on his face. "I just thought of something. Didn't you
tell me one of the things his father was absolutely livid about was his messing
about with music?"
"Yes," she said, slowly, pretending to examine the
knuckles of her right hand as if they were of intense interest, but in reality concentrating
on Tylendel's every word. The boy was a marginal Empath when he wasn't thinking
about it. She didn't want to remind him of that Gift just now; not when she
needed the information she could get from it. "Yes," she repeated.
"Point of fact, he told me flat I was to keep the boy away from the Bards."
"And you told me Breda let him down gently, or as
gently as she could, about his ambitions. How
often has he played since then?"
Now Savil gave him a measuring look of her own. "Not at
all," she said slowly, "Not a note since then. Margret says there's
dust collecting on that lute of his."
"Lord and Lady!" Tylendel bit his lip, and looked
away, all his attention turned inward. "I didn't know it was that bad. I
thought he might at least be playing for those social butterflies he's
collected."
"Not a note," Savil repeated positively. "Is that bad?"
"For a lad who's certainly good enough to get a lot of
praise from his sycophants? For one whose only ambitions lay with
music? It's bad. It's worse than bad; we broke his dream for him. Savil, I take
back the first half of what I said." Tylendel rubbed his neck, betraying a
growing unease. He looked up at the ceiling, then back down at her, his eyes
now frank and worried. "We have a problem. A serious problem. That boy is
bleeding inside. If we can't get him to open up, he may bleed himself to death."
"How do we get at him?" Savil asked, taking him at
his word. Her weakness—and what made her a bad Field Herald, although it was occasionally an asset in
training proteges—was in dealing with people. She didn't read them well, and
she didn't really know how to handle them in a crisis situation. This business
with Tylendel and his twin and the feud, for instance—
I
would never have thought of this solution—desensitizing him, weaning him into
thinking about it logically by bringing him to the edge over and over but never
letting him slip past that edge. Bless Jaysen. And damn him. Gods, every time
we play this game it wreaks as much damage on me as it does on poor 'Lendel.
I'm still vibrating like a harpstring.
Tylendel pondered her question a long time before answering,
his handsome face utterly quiet, his eyes again turned inward. "I just
don't know, Savil. Not while he's still rebuffing every overture he gets. We
need some time for this to build, I think, and then some event that will break
his barricades for a minute. Until that happens, we won't get in, and he'll
stay an arrogant bastard until he explodes."
She felt herself grow cold inside. "Suicidal?"
To her relief, Tylendel shook his head. "I don't think
so; he's not the type. It wouldn't occur to him. Now me—never mind. No, what he'll do is go out of control in one
way or another. He'll either do it fast and have some kind of breakdown, or
slowly, and debauch himself into a state where he's got about the same amount
of mind left as a shrub."
"Wonderful." She placed her right hand over her
forehead, rubbing her eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. "Just what I
wanted to hear."
Tylendel made one of his expressive shrugs. "You asked."
"I did," she said reluctantly. "Gods, why me?"
"If it's any comfort, it's not going to happen
tomorrow. "
"It better not. I have an emergency Council session
tonight." She sighed, and rubbed her hands together. "I'll probably
be up half the night, so don't wait up."
"Does that mean the interview is over?" he asked
quirking one corner of his mouth.
"It does. You can have the suite all to yourself
tonight—just don't leave crumbs on the floor or grease on the cushions. I
wouldn't care, but Margret will take your hide off in one piece. And don't look
for the lovebirds, either—they're out on a fortnight Field trial with Shallan
and her brood. So you'll be all alone for the evening."
"Oh, gods, all alone with the beautiful Vanyel—you
really want to test my self-control, don't you!" He laughed, then sobered,
shoving away from the wall and straightening. "On the other hand, this
might give me the chance I was talking about. If I get him alone, maybe I can
get him to open up a bit."
Savil shrugged and pushed away from the wall herself.
"You're better than I with people, lad, that's why I asked your advice. If
you think you have an opportunity, then take it. Meanwhile, I have to go
consult with the Queen's Own."
"And from there, straight to the meeting? No time for a
break?" Tylendel asked, sympathetically. She nodded.
He reached for her shoulders and embraced her closely.
"See that you eat, teacher," he murmured into her hair. "I want
you to stay around for a while, not wear yourself into another bout of
pneumonia, and maybe kill yourself this time. Even when I hate you, you old
bitch, you know I love you."
She swallowed down another lump in her throat, and returned
the embrace with a definite stinging in her eyes.
"I know, love. Don't think I don't count on it."
She swallowed again, closed her eyes, and held him as tightly, a brief point of
stability in a world that too often was anything but stable. "I love you,
too. And don't you ever forget it."
Tylendel gave up trying to read the treatise on
weather-magic Savil had assigned him and switched to a history instead. A
handwritten pamphlet on weatherworking was not what he needed to be reading
right now, anyway; not with a storm threatening. His energy control often
wasn't as good as he'd like, and he didn't want to inadvertently augment what
was coming in. He was a lot better at controlling his subconscious than he had been, but there was no point in taking chances with Savil
out of reach.
That storm was at least part of what was making the suite
seem stuffy; Tylendel Sensed the thunderheads building up in the west even
though he couldn't see them from where he was sprawled on the couch of the
common room. That was the Gift that made him a Herald-Mage trainee and not just
a Herald-trainee; the ability to See (or otherwise Sense) and manipulate energy
fields, both natural and supernatural. His Gifts had come on him early and a
long time before he was Chosen; they'd given him trouble for nearly half of his
short life, and only his twin's support had kept him sane in the interval
between their onset and when his Companion Gala finally appeared—
:Are
you tucked safe away, dearling?: he Mindspoke to her. :When
this blow comes, it's going to be a good one.:
The drowsy affirmative he got told him that she was half-asleep;
heat did that to her.
Heat mostly made him irritable. He had
propped every window and door wide open (and to hell with bugs), but there
wasn't even a whisper of breeze to move the air around. The candle flames didn't
even waver, and the honey-beeswax smell of the candles placed all around the
common room was almost choking him with its sweetness.
He shook back his
damp hair, rubbed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on his book, but part of
him kept hoping for a flash of lightning in the dark beyond the windows, or the
first hint of cooling rain. And
part of him kept insisting that all he had to do was nudge it a little. He told that part of himself
to take a long walk, and waited impatiently for the rain to come of itself.
Nothing happened. Just an itchy sort of tension building.
He gave up trying to concentrate, got up and went to the
sideboard for a glass of wine; he needed to get centered and calmed, and a
little less sensitive, and he wasn't going to be able to do it on his own. The
only wine left was a white, and it was a bit dry for his taste, but it did
accomplish what he wanted it to. With just that hint of alcohol inside him, he
finally managed to relax and get into the blasted book.
He got so far into it, in fact, that when the first
simultaneous blast of wind and thunder came, he nearly jumped off of the couch.
Half the candles—the ones not sheltered in glass
chimney-lamps—blew out. Wind whipped through the suite, sending curtains flying
and carrying with it a welcome chill and the scent of rain. The shutters in
Mardic's and Donni's room banged monotonously against the walls; not hard
enough to shatter the glass yet, but it was only a matter of time. He dropped
the book and got up to head for their door just as Vanyel stumbled in through
the corridor door and into the brightness of the common room.
The boy stood as frozen as a statue, blinking owlishly at
the light. Tylendel's stomach gave a little lurch; Vanyel looked like death.
It was bad enough that the boy was light-complected; bad
enough that he was wearing stark black tonight, which only accentuated his fair
skin. But his face had no color at the moment; it was so white it was almost
transparent. His eyes looked sunken, and his expression was of someone who has
seen, but been denied, the Havens.
"Vanyel—" Tylendel said—whispered, really—his
voice barely audible above the banging shutter and the sound of the storm. He
cleared his throat and tried again. "Vanyel, I didn't expect you back
so—uh—soon. Is something wrong?"
For one moment—for one precious moment—Tylendel thought he
had him; he was sure that the boy was going to open up to him. His eyes begged
for pity; his expression, so hungry and haunted, nearly cracked Tylendel's own
calm. The trainee made a tentative step toward him—
It was the wrong move; he knew that immediately. Vanyel's
face shuttered and assumed his habitual expression of flippant arrogance.
"Wrong?" he said, with false gaiety. "Bright Lady, no, of course
there's nothing wrong! Some of the Bards just came over from their Collegium
and started an impromptu contest; it got so damned hot in the Great Hall with
all those people crowded in that I gave up—"
Just then the shutters in both the lifebonded's room and
Savil's crashed against the walls with such force that it was a wonder that the
windows didn't shatter.
"Havens!" Vanyel yelped, "She'll kill
us!" and dove for Savil's room. Tylendel dashed into the other, mentally
cursing his own clumsiness, and cursing himself for letting his reaction to the
boy cloud his reading of him.
By the time he got everything secured and returned to the
common room, Vanyel had retreated into his own room and the door was firmly and
irrevocably shut.
"I—"
Vanyel began, then closed his eyes as a fit of trembling hit him. "I—the
music—I—"
Suddenly
Tylendel was beside him, holding him, quieting his shivering. "It's all
right," he murmured into Vanyel's ear, his breath warm and like a caress
in his hair. "It's all right, I understand. "
Vanyel
stood as unmoving as a dead stick, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to open his
eyes. Tylendel stroked his hair, the back of his neck, his hands warm and
light—and Vanyel thought his heart was going to pound itself to pieces. "I
understand," he repeated. "I know what it's like to want something,
and know you 'II never have it. "
"You—do?"
Vanyel faltered.
Tylendel
chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound.
And
his fingers traced the line of Vanyel's spine, slowly, sensuously. Vanyel
started to relax in Tylendel's arms—and his eyes popped open in startlement
when his own hands at Tylendel's chest encountered, not cloth, but skin.
The
trainee was starkly, gloriously nude.
"Then
again," Tylendel whispered, looking deeply into Vanyel's eyes. "Maybe
I will get it. "
Vanyel
made a strangling noise, wrenched himself away, and fled into darkness, into
cold—
Into
the middle of his old dream.
First
there had been the snow-plain, then as he walked across it, the teeth of ice
had begun poking their way up through the granular snow. They'd grown higher as
he walked, but what he hadn't known was that they were growing behind him as
well. Now he was trapped inside a ring of them. Trapped inside walls of ice,
smoother than the smoothest glass, colder than the coldest winter. He couldn't
break out; he pounded on them until his arms were leaden, to no effect.
Everywhere he looked—ice, snow, nothing alive, nothing but white and pale blue
and silver. Even the sky was white. And he was so alone—so terribly alone.
Nothing
soft, nothing comforting. Nothing welcoming. Only the ice, only the unyielding,
unmoving ice and the white, grainy snow.
He
was cold. So appallingly cold—so frozen that he ached all over.
He
had to get out.
Hoping
to climb over the barrier, he reached for the top of one of the ice-walls, and
pulled back his hands as pain stabbed through them. He stared at them stupidly.
His palms were slashed nearly to the bone, and blood oozed sluggishly from the
cuts to pool at his feet.
There
was blood on the snow; red blood—but as he stared at it in numb fascination, it
turned blue.
Then
his hands began to burn with the cold, yet fiery pain of the wounds. He gasped,
and tears blurred his vision; he wanted to scream, but could only moan.
Gods,
it hurt, he'd give anything to make it stop hurting!
Suddenly,
the pain did stop; his hands went numb. His eyes cleared and he looked down at
his injured hands again—and saw to his horror that the slashes had frozen over
and his hands were turning to ice; blue, and shiny, and utterly without
feeling. Even as he gazed at them, the ice crept farther up; over his wrists,
crawling up his forearms—and he cried out—
Then
he wasn't there anymore, he was somewhere else. It was dark, but he could see;
by the lightning, by a strange blue glow about him. Lightning flickered
overhead, and seemed to be controlled by what he did or thought; he was
standing on a mound of snow in the center of a very narrow valley. To either
side of him were walls of ice that towered over his head, reaching to the night
sky in sheer, crystalline perfection. Behind him—there was nothing—somehow he
knew this. But before him—
"Vanyel!"
Before
him an army; an army of mindless monsters-creatures with only one goal. To get
past him. Already he was wounded; he twisted to direct the lightning to lash
into their ranks, and felt pain lancing down his right side, felt the hot blood
trickling down his leg into his boot and freezing there. There were too many of
them. He was doomed. He gasped and wept at the horrible pain in his side, and
knew that he was dying. Dying alone. So appallingly alone—
"Vanyel!"
He struggled up out of the canyon of ice, out of the depth
of sleep; shaken out of the nightmare by hot, almost scorching hands on his
shoulders and a commanding voice in his ears.
He blinked; feeling things, and not connecting them. His
eyes hurt; he'd been crying. His hair, his pillow were soggy with tears, and he
was still so cold—too cold even to shiver. That was why Tylendel's hands on his
bare shoulders felt so hot.
"Vanyel—" Tylendel's eyes were a soft sable in the
light of the tiny bedside candle; like dark windows on the night, windows that
somehow reflected concern.
His hands felt like branding irons on Vanyel's skin.
"Gods, Vanyel, you're like ice!"
As he tried to sit up, Vanyel realized that he was still
leaking tears.
As soon as he started moving he began shivering so hard he couldn't
speak. "I—" he said, and could get nothing more out.
Tylendel snagged his robe from the foot of the bed without
even looking around, and wrapped it about his naked shoulders. It wasn't
enough. Vanyel shook with tremors he could not stop, and the robe wasn't doing
anything to warm him.
"Vanyel," Tylendel began, then simply wrapped his
arms around Vanyel and held him.
Vanyel resisted—tried to pull away.
He blinked.
The
snow-plain stretched all around him, empty—but not asking anything of him.
Cold, but not a threat. But lonely, lonely—oh, gods, how empty—
But
not asking, not hurting—
He blinked again, and Tylendel was still there, still
staring into his eyes with an openness and a concern he could not doubt.
"Go away!" he gasped; waiting for pain, waiting to
be laughed at.
"Why?" Tylendel asked, quietly. "I want to
help you."
He
was turning to ice; soon there would be no feeling and nothing to feel—and he
would be trapped.
Tylendel took advantage of his distraction to get his arms
around him. "Van, I wouldn't hurt you. I couldn't hurt you."
He closed his eyes and gasped for breath, his chest tight
and hurting. —oh, gods—I
want this—
"I'm just trying to get you warm again," Tylendel
said with a hint of impatience. "That's all. Relax, will you?"
He did relax; he couldn't
maintain his indifference—and to his shame, began crying again—and he couldn't
stop the tears any more than he could the shivering.
But not only did Tylendel not seem to mind—
"Come on, Vanyel," he soothed, pulling him into a comfortable
position on his shoulder, supporting him like a little child. "It's all
right, I told you I won't hurt you. I wouldn't ever hurt you. Cry yourself out,
it's just you and me, and I'll never tell anyone. On my honor. Absolutely on my
honor."
It was already too late to save his battered dignity anyway—
Vanyel surrendered appearance, self-respect, everything. He
sagged against Tylendel's shoulder, burying his face in Tylendel's soft, worn,
blue robe. He let the last of his pride dissolve, releasing all the tears he'd
been keeping behind his walls of indifference and arrogance. Soon he was crying
so hard he couldn't even think, just cling to Tylendel's shoulders and sob. He
didn't really hear what Tylendel was saying, only the tone of his voice registered
in his sleep-mazed grief; comforting, compassionate, caring.
He cried his eyes sore and dry; he cried until his nose felt
swollen to the size of an apple. All the time he shivered with the terrible
cold that seemed to have become one with his very bones; shivered until the bed
shook.
Finally there just weren't any tears left—and he wasn't
shivering anymore, he was warm—and more than warm; protected. And completely
exhausted. Tylendel held him as carefully as if he was made of spun glass and
would shatter at a breath; just held him. That was all.
It was enough. It was more than he ever remembered having.
He wished it could last forever.
—may
the gods help me. I've always wanted this—
"Done?" Tylendel asked, very quietly, a good while
after the last of the sobs and the tremors had finished shaking his body.
He nodded, reluctantly, and felt the arms holding him relax.
He sat up again, and Tylendel cupped both his hands around his face, turning
him into the light. He winced away from it, knowing what he must look like; the
trainee chuckled, but it had a kindly, not a mocking, sound.
"You're a mess, peacock," he said, somehow making
the words a joke to be shared between them. Vanyel smiled, tentatively, and
Tylendel dabbed at his eyes with the corner of the sheet.
"Do you have so common a thing as a handkerchief around
here?" he asked, quite casually. Vanyel nodded, and fumbled at the drawer
of the bedside table until Tylendel patted his hand away and got the square of
linen out of it himself.
"Here," he gave it to Vanyel, then settled back a
little. "I couldn't sleep; got up to get some wine and heard you. Do this
often?"
Vanyel blew his nose, and looked up at the older boy through
half-swollen eyes.
"Often enough," he confessed.
"Nightmare?"
He nodded, and looked down at his hands.
"Know why?"
"No," he whispered. But he did. He did. It was
hearing the Bards—hearing what he'd never, ever have— and then encountering
Tylendel and knowing—
Gods.
"Want to tell me about it?"
He dared another glance at the trainee; the quiet face of
the older boy was not easy to read, but there were no signs of deception there
that Vanyel could see.
But—
"You'll laugh at me," he said, ready to pull away
again.
"No. On my honor. Van, I don't lie. I won't laugh at you, and nothing you tell me will go
outside this room unless you want it to."
Vanyel shivered again, and without any warning at all, the
words came spilling out.
"It's—ice," he said, sniffing, studying his hands
and the handkerchief he had twisted up in them. "It's all around me; I'm
trapped, I can't get out, and I'm so cold—so cold. Then I cut myself, and I
start to turn into ice. Then—sometimes, like tonight—I'm somewhere else, and
I'm fighting these things, and I know I'm going to die. And the worst of it
isn't the pain, or the dying—it's that—that—" he faltered, "—I'm—all
alone. So totally alone—"
It sounded so banal, so incredibly foolish, just put into
words like that. Especially when he didn't, couldn't, tell Tylendel the rest, the part about him. He looked up, expecting to see mockery in the older boy's
face—and froze, seeing nothing of the kind.
"Van, I think I know what you mean," Tylendel said
slowly. "There are times when—when being alone is a hurt that's worse than
dying. When it's easier to die than to be alone. Aren't there?"
Vanyel blinked, caught without words.
Tylendel's voice was so soft he might well have been
speaking to himself. "Sometimes, maybe it's better to have had someone and
lost them than to have never had anyone—"
Then Tylendel's eyes focused for a moment on Vanyel. And
Vanyel's heart spasmed at the flash of emotion he saw. A longing he'd not ever
dreamed to see there. Directed at him.
—oh—gods.
I never—I thought—he can't—
He
does. He is. Father will—
I
don't care!
He snatched at what was proffered before it could be taken
away.
"Vanyel—" the blond began.
"‘Lendel—" Vanyel interrupted, urgently, daring
the nickname he'd heard his aunt use. "Stay with me—please. Please."
His words tumbled over one another as he hurried to get them out before
Tylendel could interrupt; he caught hold of the older boy's wrist. "The
ice is still there, I know it is, it's inside me
and it's freezing me from the inside out—it's killing my—feelings. I think it's
killing me. Please, please, don't leave me alone with it—"
"You don't know what you're
asking," Tylendel said, almost angrily; pulling his hand out of Vanyel's,
his eyes no longer readable. "You can't know. You don't know what I am."
"But I do," Vanyel
protested desperately. "I do, the girls tell me things to get my
attention—they told me you're—uh—shay'a'chern, they said. That you
don't sleep with girls; that you—" He felt himself blush, the rush of
blood almost painful, his cheeks were so sore from crying.
"Then dammit, Vanyel, what do you
think I'm made of?" Tylendel cried harshly, his face twisted and his eyes
reflecting internal pain. "What do you think I am? Marble? You're beautiful, you're bright, you're everything I'd
ever ask for—you think I can stay here and not want you? Good gods, I won't take advantage of an innocent, but what
you're asking of me would try the control of a saint!"
"You don't understand. I know what I'm asking," Vanyel replied, catching his wrist
again before he could get up and stalk off into the dark. "I do know."
Tylendel shook his head violently and looked away.
"'Lendel—look at me," Vanyel pleaded, pouring his
heart out in a confession he'd never have dared to make before this.
"Listen—I don't like girls either. I'm not an innocent, I know what I want, 'Lendel, please,
listen—I've been—I've bedded enough of them to know
that they don't do anything for me. It's—about as mechanical as dancing, or
eating. They just don't mean anything to me."
Tylendel stopped trying to pull away, and turned a face to
Vanyel that was so full of dumbfounded surprise that the younger boy had to
fight hysterical laughter.
"And I do? You—" Tylendel began, then his face
hardened. "Don't play with me, Vanyel. Don't toy with me. I've had that
game played on me once already—and I don't want to hear you crying to Savil in
the morning that I seduced you."
Vanyel bit his lip, and looked directly into Tylendel's
eyes, pleadingly. "I'm not playing, 'Lendel. Please." He felt his
eyes sting, and this time didn't try to hide the two tears that spilled down
his raw cheeks. "I—I've been thinking about this for a long while. Almost
since I got here, and they—told me about you. And you never laughed at me.
You—were—kind to me. You kept being kind to me even when I was pretty rude. It
meant a lot to me. And I didn't know how to thank you. I—started feeling—things
around you. I was scared. I didn't dare let you guess. I didn't want to admit
what I wanted; now I do."
The older boy looked at him sideways. "Which is?"
Vanyel gulped. "I want to be with you, 'Lendel. And if
you go—I won't have any choice but the ice—"
Once again Tylendel cupped his face between his strong
hands, and gently brushed the tears away with hesitant fingers. He stared
deeply into Vanyel's eyes for so long, and so searchingly, that Vanyel thought
he surely must be reading right down to the depths of his soul. Vanyel held his
gaze, and tried to make his own eyes say that he meant every word he'd said.
Tylendel finally nodded, once, slowly.
Then he reached out, quite deliberately, and snuffed the
candle before taking Vanyel back into his arms.
It was very dark; no light outside, no sound but the rain
falling. After a moment, Tylendel chuckled with what sounded like surprise, and
said softly into Vanyel's ear, "I'm beginning to wonder just who's taking
advantage of who, here."
Then, a bit later, another chuckle to tell Vanyel that he
was teasing. "Move over, you selfish little peacock, I'm about to freeze
to death."
Then no words at all.
Then again, they didn't need words.
I'm
getting too old for this, she told herself. No more younglings after this lot.
I can't take the emotional ups and downs. And I truly cannot take these
all-night sessions with a lot of stubborn old goats.
She grinned a little ironically at herself.
Of
which I am one of the most stubborn. But gods—hours like this are for the
young. I hurt. And I think I'm going to beg off 'Lendel's weather working
lesson today, else my bones are going to ache more. Gods bless—the door at last.
She pushed open the door to the suite; Tylendel had left a
night-candle burning, but it, too, was guttering. No matter, there was the
pearly gray light of an overcast dawn creeping in through the windows of her
room, the lifebonded's, and Tylendel's—
She froze. Tylendel's bed was unoccupied; she could see it
through the door.
Don't
panic, old woman—she cautioned herself. Just
do a bit of a trace, first—you've shared magic; you've got the line to his
mind. See where it leads.
She found the little energy-link that said Tylendel and followed
it back to where Tylendel himself was. It wasn't very far. Still in the suite,
in fact. In Vanyel's room.
Vanyel's room?
Her first reaction was to fling the door open and demand to
know what was going on. Her second was to chuckle; with aura overtones like
that she bloody well knew what was going on!
But—Vanyel? Gods have mercy. No
sign he was shay'a'chern—
Then again, given Withen's prejudices, he might have feared for a long time that the boy
was fey. And Withen's answer to that fear would have been—
Exactly what he'd been doing. Keeping the boy sheltered at
home rather than fostering him out and trying to shove him in the direction
Withen wanted. Trying to force the boy into a mold he was totally unsuited for.
And he also might well have protected the boy from even the idea that same-sex
pairings were possible. So the boy himself wouldn't have known what he
was—until he first found out about 'Lendel.
Which answered a great many questions indeed. The question
now was—what had led to this, and what was it going to mean for the future?
She took a deep breath of the chilly, damp air, and groped
her way back to her own room. No use rushing things; questioning could be done
just as easy with herself lying in her own warm bed. Easier, actually, given
how she felt.
She stripped herself down to the skin, promised her weary
bones a bath later, and dragged on a
bedgown before crawling into the blankets. The warm blankets, and she blessed Tylendel's thoughtfulness for
putting the warming spell on her bed before he'd taken to his own. Or—whatever.
She settled herself comfortably, and reached out a thin
tendril of Mindspeech in Private-mode. If the imp was awake—
He was.
:Savil?: came the sleep-blurred
thought, dense with a feeling of contentment. :Thought I heard you come in. Found me, hmm?:
:Aye.
And I have a pile of questions.: She shifted herself until her left shoulder stopped aching
quite so much. :The only
important one is, how did you talk him into it?:
:I
didn't. It was all Van's idea.:
She almost lost the Mindspeech thread with her start of
surprise, and had to grope after it. :Sounds
like I really missed something! What in the name of the Havens happened last
night?:
:Too
much to talk about now.: There were overtones of mental and physical weariness to his
Mind-voice. :But he's going
to be all right, Savil. We did more than—just the physical. I think we must
have talked for hours, before and after. He handed me the key to himself, and
he wanted me to have it.:
She raised a sardonic mental eyebrow. :'Lendel—I don't want to drench you with
cold water, but may I remind you of what happened the last time morning arrived
with you in someone else's bed?:
:It
's all right, Savil, it really is this time.: A feeling of faint surprise. :You know, you're always teasing me about
falling in love—but—I don't know, this feels different.:
Savil snorted. :Right;
it always does. No, don't let an old cynic disturb you.:
:Teacher—I
think this is going to be something more than just a one-time; I think he needs
me.:
:Oh,
Havens. All right, if that's the way you think it's going—just let me know in
the morning if you plan to move in with him. Or him with you, though his is the
better chamber. We could use a spare for guests.:
Flavor of laughter like crisp apples. :You just want my room back.:
:If
you aren't using it—seriously, 'Lendel, this is important. I want to have a
long talk with him when I get up, and I want you there. He really should know
what he's letting himself in for as shay'a'chern.
I don't think we should let that get out, and I'll Mindspeak with you on that
before we talk with him. Hmm—cancel your classes this morning; I'm too tired,
and I have the feeling you weren't exactly early to sleep:
Another apple-feeling of laughter, and the mind-link faded.
And she let exhaustion pull her down into a slumber that she really didn't want, not anymore.
One last thought before sleep came.
Great
good gods, what am I going to tell Withen?
—which he was, as Tylendel now knew quite intimately, not. Not in any way; except, perhaps, his vulnerability.
"Van," he whispered, touching his shoulder, and
feeling just a faint chill of apprehension despite his words to his mentor,
"can you wake up a little?"
Vanyel stirred, wrinkled his nose, and half-opened his eyes.
And when he saw who was beside him, he smiled with heart-stopping sweetness.
With all his masks gone, he was as charming as he was beautiful.
"Hmm?" he said, blinking, as Tylendel felt a surge
of relief and gratitude that this was not going to be a repeat
of the infamous Nevis affair.
"Want a roommate?"
"You—why?"
He grinned; he knew now that you had to show Van that something was a joke, or often he'd taken it
seriously. "Savil seems to want my room back—for guests, she says.
Besides, I like your company."
Vanyel's reply, though not verbal, was a definite and
unmistakable affirmative.
She'd had that Mindspeech conference with Tylendel as she'd
gotten herself put together for the day. Nice thing, Mindspeech; let you cover
more than one thing at once. And after giving it thorough consideration while
she bathed, she decided to have her "little talk" with Vanyel in his room. With any luck, he'd feel less threatened there.
She did usurp the most comfortable chair in the room,
though. The privilege of age, she told herself,
waiting for the two young men to settle themselves. Without seeming to consult
about it, Tylendel sat on the edge of the bed, and Vanyel arranged himself
cross-legged on the floor at his feet.
And
the flexibility of youth. Would that I could still do that! The body language gave
her spirits a lift, though; the way Vanyel had positioned himself was
interesting. At Tylendel's feet, below both her head and his lover's. That
could well show he'd given up that pose of arrogant superiority. Very
interesting.
I
wonder if having a steady lover at his side might well give 'Lendel something
to think about besides his twin and that damned feud. On the other hand—this
lad's been so affection-starved—this could be another sort of trouble.
"Yes, indeed, we have quite a few little problems
here," she repeated.
Tylendel nodded at her words; Vanyel looked puzzled, at
first, then thoughtful.
"The first problem and the one that's going to tie in
to all the others, Vanyel, is your father." She paused, and Vanyel bit his
lip. "I'm sure that you realize that if he finds out about this, he is
going to react badly."
Vanyel coughed, and bowed his head, hiding his face for a
moment. When he looked back up, he was wearing a weary, ironic half-smile; a
smile that had as much pain in it as humor. It was, by far and away, the most
open expression Savil had ever seen him wear.
"'Badly' is something of an understatement, Aunt,"
he replied, rubbing his temple with one finger. "He'll—gods, I can't
predict what he'll do, but he'll be in a rage, that's for certain."
"He'll pull you home, Van," Tylendel said in a
completely flat voice. "And he can do it; you're not of age, you aren't
Chosen, and you aren't in Bardic."
"And I can't protect
you," Savil sighed, wishing that she could. "I can stall him off for
a while, seeing as he officially turned guardianship of you over to me, but it
won't last more than a couple of months. Then—well, I'll give you my educated
guess as to what Withen will do. I think he'll put you under
house arrest long enough for everybody to forget about you, then find himself a
compliant priest and ship you off to a temple. Probably one far away, with very
strict rules about outside contact. There are, I'm sorry to say, several sects
who hold that shay'a'chern are tainted. They'd be
only to happy to 'purify' you for Withen and Withen's gold. And under the laws
of this kingdom, none of us could save you from them."
Vanyel nodded; by the startled agreement in his eyes, Savil
reckoned that this was a speculation he'd entertained before this, although for
different causes. "So is there anything I can do?" he
asked quietly.
"Obviously," she said, "Or I wouldn't be
talking to you now. But you aren't going to like the solution to your problem.
It's pretty heartbreakingly simple. Outside of this room, Vanyel, nothing is to change. "
"But—" He twisted his head around to see what
Tylendel thought about this, only to find that his lover was nodding, in
complete agreement with her.
"Savil's right, Van," Tylendel said sadly.
"But—" Vanyel protested, holding out one hand
toward him in entreaty, then turning the same pleading eyes on Savil when Tylendel
shook his head.
"Mardic and Donni are discreet, and I'd trust Margret
to keep what she knows behind her teeth even under torture, but if you want to stay here, Vanyel, you won't say or do anything to betray your
relationship to 'Lendel. The moment people start to talk, it'll get back to
your father."
"The quickest way to make them talk, love,"
Tylendel said in what was almost a whisper, "is to change. Is to even be friendlier to me than you have been. You told me the
girls told you I was a pervert." Vanyel's eyes widened at Tylendel's
directness. "It can't have escaped your notice how they sniggered and
giggled about it, and they were being polite. My preferences are
not generally socially acceptable. There are only two reasons why I have as
little trouble as I do. The first is that I'm a Herald-trainee, and Heralds are
allowed a bit more license than ordinary mortals. And my patron is Savil. She
just happens to outrank everybody in the Circle except the Queen's Own."
"And the other reason?" Vanyel said in a very
subdued voice.
What stretched Tylendel's mouth was something less than a
smile. "The fact that I took a couple of the worst offenders on and kept
knocking them down until they didn't get up."
"Oh."
Tylendel caught up one of his hands in both of his own.
"I know you want everyone to
know about us. I can't tell you how much that means to me. But it will mean a
lot more to me to know you were going to be able to stay with me."
"And to do that, young Vanyel," Savil said,
intruding into the intense interaction between them, "you are going to
have to begin a performance a Master Player couldn't equal. 'Lendel and I have
been talking about you this afternoon."
From the complete astonishment on his face, Savil could tell
that he hadn't guessed they'd been in
conference via Mindspeech. For that matter, it might be that he didn't know
they both had that Gift.
"We share the Mindspeech Gift, lad, and it's damned
useful at times like this. He's told me some of what you told him, and it
rather changed my mind about you. But I will not lie to you; I'm going to help
you because he wants it, because he wants you here. So now I'm going to order you; outside of this suite you are to be
the same arrogant little bastard that arrived here. And if you can manage to be
slightly rude to 'Lendel,
that's even better. And in return, I'll make this suite a little sanctuary for
the two of you. Is it a bargain?"
Vanyel, who had gone rather pale, gulped, and nodded.
Savil smiled for the first time since she'd begun this conference.
"That's a good lad. If you're half of what 'Lendel
claims for you, I'm going to come to like you a great deal, and I'm sorry for
the treatment you've had from your father. I'll tell you that he isn't the same person I knew when I was Chosen.
He's gone stiff and stubborn, and altogether hidebound. Maybe it's age; maybe
it's that a lot of his old friends have taken the Long Walk and he's seeing
Death looking for him, too. Maybe it's that priest he's gotten tied up with—I
just don't know." She coughed. "Well, that's not to the point; what is to the point is that you'll only have to keep up this
charade until you're eighteen; you'll be your own man then, and can do what you
please. And I'll see to it that 'Lendel begins having trouble with his Mage-lessons."
She winked, and Tylendel chortled. "I think we can keep him out of Whites
until you're of age. After that," if
this love affair lasts that long "you'll have to make your decisions on your own. Fair
enough?"
"More than fair, Aunt Savil." Vanyel looked very
subdued, and quite unlike the boy that had faced her something like a month
ago. She couldn't quite pinpoint why.
:'Lendel,
what is it about him?: she Mindspoke, letting her puzzlement drift over.
:No
masks,:
came the immediate answer. :This
is the real Vanyel, dearheart. The one nobody but me—and maybe his sister—has
seen. Now see why I love him?:
The last thought stopped her cold. :Are you that sure, ke'chara? Are you really that sure?:
His eyes caught hers over Vanyel's head; caught and held them. :I'm that sure.:
:And
him?:
:I
don't know; but he was willing to defy his father for me, and I think that says
something.:
She closed her own eyes against that burning, intense gaze. :Then may the gods help and guard you.:
She turned her attention back to Vanyel, and quickly. He was
still looking toward Tylendel, and the very same look was in his eyes—and a
vulnerability and apprehension that cut at her heart.
"I'll help you all I can, son," she said quietly.
"I'll help you all I can."
"Don't go yet," Tylendel said abruptly, as Vanyel
picked himself up off the floor.
Vanyel gave him a look of uncertainty. He was still too new
to this—being open. He was still waiting for blows that never came.
But Tylendel seemed to know that.
"It's all right, Van," he said softly. "It's
really all right. I have a good reason."
"I've got a lesson," he protested. "History,
and I'm still behind the other three."
Tylendel made a wry face. "You're a law unto yourself,
remember? At least that's what you're supposed to be acting like. You skipped
your lessons this morning, skip the rest of them today; tell 'em you were sick.
Tell 'em the storm last night gave you a headache."
"But—"
"It's important," Tylendel coaxed. "Really, it
is. More important than that history lesson. If you're behind, I'll coach you.
Please?"
It didn't take much encouragement from Tylendel to get him
to do what he already wanted to do; lessons were
hardly as attractive as more of Tylendel's company. Here he wasn't going to be hurt. Here—someone cared for him. It
was as heady as a little too much wine, only without the hangover.
Vanyel closed the door to his room, then turned an expectant
face toward his lover, poised with one hand still on the latch.
Tylendel stretched lazily, reaching for the ceiling with his
head tilted back. Then he dropped his arms, rose from his seat on the bed, and
walked over to put his hand behind Vanyel's shoulder.
"There's somebody I want you to meet," he said,
gently pushing Vanyel in the direction of the room's outside door.
"But—" Vanyel protested weakly, "I thought—"
"You're awfully fond of that word 'but,' love,"
Tylendel chuckled. "What does it take to get you to say something else?"
He opened the door, still without enlightening Vanyel as to
the reason why he was going to introduce Vanyel to someone after Savil had just
got done telling them both that they were to keep the relationship a secret—
—and Tylendel had agreed with her.
Vanyel started to protest again, realized that the only
thing he could think of to say was "but," and subsided, as Tylendel
guided him out the door to the gardens beyond.
"You see that bridge?" Tylendel pointed northward
to the first of the two bridges crossing the Terilee River on the Palace
grounds. "And that stand of pines on the other side?"
Vanyel nodded; it was quite a healthy grove, in fact, and
the trees extended a good distance back into the Field. They were tall, very
thick, and a deep green that was almost black, with huge branches that drooped
beneath their own weight until they touched the ground.
"You count to fifty after you see me go in there, then
you follow," Tylendel ordered. "In case anybody happens to come by,
though, or looks out a window, you'd better try your hand at acting the arrogant
little prig."
Vanyel nodded again; completely mystified, but willing to go
along with about anything that Tylendel wanted. He posed himself carefully,
leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, attempting
to look as if he were simply idling about in the gardens, while Tylendel
sauntered off.
This
is going to be harder than it was before, he thought somberly, trying to look anywhere except after
Tylendel. I didn't have
anything to lose, before. Now I have everything to lose if I slip. He closed his eyes,
and turned his face up to the sun, as if he were savoring the warmth. But if I don't slip—oh, gods, whichever
one of you is responsible for this—it's worth anything. I swear, it's worth
anything you ask of me!
He chanced a sideways glance across the river; Tylendel was
only just reaching the pine grove. He looked away, strolled over to a stand of
daylilies, admired them for a moment, then glanced across the river again.
Tylendel's blond hair gleamed against the dark boughs like a tangled skein of
spun sunlight, then vanished as the branches closed behind him.
Vanyel transferred his admiration to a bed of rose vines,
languidly bending to inhale their perfume, all the while counting to the
requisite fifty. He had no sooner reached the required number, though, when a
giggling flock of his admirers rounded a hedge, saw him, and altered their
course to intersect with his.
Oh,
no! he
thought, dismayed, and looked surreptitiously about for an escape route, but
saw no way to avoid them. Sighing, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and
waited for their arrival.
"Vanyel, what are you doing out here?" asked slim,
barely-adolescent Jillian, batting her sandy lashes at him. "Aren't you
supposed to be at lessons?"
Vanyel covered a wince. It would have to be Jillian. No common sense, and the moral
fiber of a hound in heat. And after me with all the dedication you'd see in a
hawk stooping on a pigeon. Lord. I hope her father marries her off quick, or
she'll be sleeping her way around the Court before long.
But he smiled at her, a smile with a calculated amount of
pain in it. "A rotten headache, pretty one. It took me last night when the
storm came in, and I cannot be rid of it. I tried
sleeping in, but—" he shrugged. "My aunt suggested I take a long walk."
The entire covey giggled in near-unison. "Suggested
with a stick, I'll bet," dark Kertire said sardonically, squinting into
the sunlight. "Sour Savil. Well, we'll walk with you then, and keep you from being bored,"
Vanyel bit his lip in vexation and thought quickly.
"She suggested my course, as well," he told them, grimacing. "To
the end of Companion's Field and back. And I have no doubt she's watching from
her window."
He pouted at them. "Much as I would adore your company,
my pretties, I rather doubt those slippers you're wearing are equal to a hike
across a field full of—er—"
"Horseturds," said Jesalis inelegantly, wrinkling
her nose and tossing her blonde curls over her shoulder. "Bother. No,
you're right," she continued, sticking her foot out a little, and
surveying the embroidered rose-satin slipper on it with regret. "I just finished the embroidery on these and got them back from the
cobbler; I don't want them spoiled, and they would be before we'd gotten half
across." The others murmured similar sentiments as their faces fell.
"We're never going to forgive you
for deserting us, Vanyel."
"Now that's unfair," he
exclaimed, assuming a crushed expression. "Blaming me for the orders of my
crotchety old aunt!" He rolled his eyes mournfully at them.
Jesalis giggled. "We'll only forgive you if you promise
to make it up to us tonight after dinner."
"Tonight?" he asked, pained by the idea of
spending the evening with them instead of with Tylendel as they'd planned this
morning.
They mistook his expression for headache. "Well, not if
you still aren't feeling well," Jesalis amended.
"After a tramp across a perilous obstacle course like
that," he gestured flamboyantly at the Field across the river, "I
much doubt I 'm going to be feeling better."
"Well—"
"A bargain; if you'll forgive me, I'll come and play
for you while you're doing finework tomorrow morning," he said, quite
desperately, willing to promise them almost anything to avoid losing his
evening, and recalling that they'd all been pestering him to play for them.
Before it hadn't been possible; it would have hurt too much. Now, though—well,
becoming—or not becoming—a Bard didn't seem all that important anymore. And
consequently the thought of music didn't hurt anymore. Or not as much.
Certainly it was a small price to pay for having his evening free.
"You will?" squealed Wendi, whose older sister was
fostered with Vanyel's mother. "Really? Ratha told me you were as good as
a Bard!"
"Well," he shrugged, then smirked, "I won't
say I'm a bad hand at the lute. And I know a ballad and a dance or two."
"Done," said Jesalis. "A bargain."
"Bless you, my dear," he replied, with honest
thankfulness. "I wouldn't be able to live without your forgiveness. Now,
if you'll all excuse me—the sooner I get this nonsense over, the sooner I'll be
able to go back to my bed."
They giggled and turned back, retracing their footsteps.
While he watched them, they disappeared behind the hedge again, heading in the
direction of the maze.
When they were safely out of sight, he trudged—to all
appearances, most unwillingly—across the
bridge and up a little rise, heading a little indirectly for the pine grove.
He went past it, walking through soft grasses that ranged
from knee-high to closely cropped. And despite what he had told the girls,
there were no "traps" lurking beneath the grass for the unwary. That did surprise him, a bit; he was no stranger to long walks
across pastureland and the hazards thereof.
What
on earth do the Companions do—drop it all in one corner? I suppose—the stories
say they're as intelligent as a human. I suppose it's possible. Likely, really.
They still eat grass, like horses, and who'd want to eat in the privy?
After first making certain that there was no one about to
see him, Vanyel doubled back to the pine grove, and pushed aside the heavy,
scratchy boughs. He almost had to force his way past them; the needles caught
in his hair and clothing and the branches closed over his head almost
immediately, shutting off most of the sunlight. A few feet inside the grove
there was no direct light; he walked through a pine-scented twilight gloom,
with boughs lacing together just barely above his head, and a thick carpet of
dry needles at his feet. The needles crunched a little, releasing more piny scent,
but otherwise his own footsteps were almost noiseless. Some
where in the distance he could hear birds calling, but their
songs seemed to be furlongs away. This place looked enormous now that he was
inside it, much larger than it had appeared from outside; magical, almost
mystical, and far removed from the bright green-and-gold Field just a few feet
away.
This wasn't the Grove; that was a good
deal farther into the Field—but this stand of ancient pines was giving Vanyel a
pleasant, shivery sort of feeling, making him feel somehow more aware and alive.
"'Lendel?" he called softly into the blue-green
quiet under the pine boughs, his voice muffled by the rows of straight,
columnar trunks of shaggy ebony all about him. He turned, slowly, trying to see
past the shadows; peering beneath the feathery branches.
"Right here," came the reply from slightly behind
him, and a white shape ghosted up on his right, resolving itself into—
A Companion. The first that Vanyel had ever seen at close
range. And Tylendel beside her, one hand on her snowy, arched neck.
"This is who I wanted you to meet. Van—this is Gala.
She already knows about you, Van, she knew last night. We're mind-linked; I
told her everything, and she wanted to see you right away."
Vanyel felt strange and awkward. Those sapphire eyes held an
intelligence that was rather frightening, but the form was a horse. How in the Havens did you introduce yourself to a horse?
The silence grew; he stared into Gala's eyes, swallowed, and
finally made the attempt.
"Hullo," he said, shyly, looking straight into
those eyes and hoping to speak directly to the intelligence there; trying to
ignore the fact that he was feeling more than a bit intimidated and foolish.
"I—I hope you don't mind—"
Gala snorted, and Tylendel chuckled. "She says to tell
you that she's been hoping I'd 'find a nice mate and give her a chance for a
little peace' for a long time. She says it's altogether disconcerting to be
sidling up to a handsome stallion and find me in her head asking for bedtime stories!"
That was the last response he'd
expected. Vanyel choked down a laugh. "'Lendel, you didn't!"
He nodded, as Gala tossed her own head. "I most
certainly did, but only once. It was after
Nevis, and I was," he faltered, and looked to the side, "rather lonely."
Vanyel touched the hand still resting on Gala's neck.
"Not anymore, I hope."
Tylendel glanced from the hand resting lightly on his own to
Vanyel's face, and half-smiled into his eyes. "No," he replied
quietly. "Not anymore."
The quiet, the peace of the shadowed grove let them ignore
everything except each other. Caught in the spell of that place and that pose,
neither paid any attention to the passing of time—
Until Vanyel stumbled forward, propelled by a hard shove in
the small of his back. Tylendel grabbed him to keep him from falling, both of
them too startled to do more than emit rather undignified squeaks of surprise.
Gala danced backward a few steps, making sounds Vanyel would
have been willing to stake his life were laughter. It was pretty obvious
that she'd shoved him into Tylendel's arms with her nose.
Tylendel burst into gales of laughter; he clutched his
stomach, nearly incoherent, and gasping for breath. Gala snorted and bobbed her
head, and he doubled over again.
They're
talking,
Vanyel finally realized, as Tylendel wheezed. Or—well, I guess she's teasing him. Gods above and below,
all the stories are true! I wish I could hear them.
His stomach fluttered uncertainly, and he tasted the sour
bite of what could only be jealousy. Tylendel and Gala were sharing something
he never could—something they'd had for years before he had come along. In
this, he was, he would always be, the outsider. That realization condensed into
a hard, cold lump in his throat, and besides the bitter taste of jealousy, he
shivered in a sudden chill of loneliness. And just a touch of doubt.
He
could really have about anyone he wanted, couldn't he? So why should he bother
with me? How can I know if he means what he told me?
But before he could throw himself into a mire of depression
he found he had his hands full; keeping the trainee from falling over, while
Tylendel struggled to breathe around his laughter, and gasped like a stranded
fish.
"You wouldn't!" Tylendel choked, as tears ran down
his cheeks, and he pulled away from Vanyel to advance on his Companion in mock
threat—the effect somewhat spoiled by the fact that he had to catch hold of a
tree trunk as something she "said" made him bend over again with
laughter. "Don't you dare! Gala, I'll do no such thing! You rude little bitch!"
Gala danced in place, her hooves making no sound at all in
the thick carpet of needles. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Vanyel had,
for one moment, a disconcerting double-vision image of the prancing Companion
and an equally mischievous young woman of about Tylendel's age, laughing
soundlessly at her Chosen.
This was worse than before. Vanyel felt completely alone—and left altogether on the outside.
Tylendel, not noticing his distress in the least, managed to
get himself back under control, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as
he straightened up.
He assumed a stern expression. "Now see here, you
wicked young lady," he began, when she turned the tables on him by
whickering and reaching out to nuzzle his cheek.
Vanyel saw his eyes soften as he folded immediately.
"Oh, all right, I forgive you," he sighed in defeat, putting his arms
around her neck and resting his cheek against hers. "But you had damn well
better not—"
What it was Gala had "better not" do, Tylendel did
not verbalize; nor was Vanyel entirely certain he wanted to know. He had the
sneaking suspicion that it would be no little embarrassing.
Finally Gala shook herself free and shoved her Chosen in
Vanyel's direction—a good bit more gently than she'd shoved the latter. And as
if in apology, she paced forward and gave Vanyel a brief caress with her nose,
rather like a soft kiss, before trotting off into the blue twilight under the
pine boughs and out of sight among the trunks.
Silence followed her going.
"Well," Tylendel said, at last. "That was
Gala."
Vanyel replied with the first thing that came into his head.
"You really love her, don't you?"
"More than anything or anybody except you and
Staven," Tylendel replied, almost apologetically. "I'm not sure I can
explain it—" He bit off what he was saying, as if something in Vanyel's
expression told him how depressed this meeting had made him.
"Van," he reached out hesitantly toward Vanyel's
shoulder, then pulled his hand back, as if unsure whether to touch him. "I
didn't bring you here to hurt you."
His very real distress forced Vanyel to pull himself
together and try to analyze his feelings, instead
of just wallow in them.
They were, to say the least, mixed. "I think I'm
jealous," he said, after an uncomfortable pause. "I know it's stupid,
she can't ever have you the way I do—but I can't ever share your thoughts the
way she does."
"Huh. You wouldn't want to—" Tylendel began.
"But that's not the point," Vanyel interrupted,
backing a few steps away. "I can't know that. You can tell me,
but I can't ever know that, can I?" He
wasn't sure what to do or what else to say, and so fell silent, turning away
slightly and looking out past Tylendel into the shadows that had swallowed the
Companion.
"Van," he felt Tylendel's hand fall lightly on his
shoulder, and turned to look into his eyes. "Do you want to talk about
this? Do you want to hear about what it's like for us, how it started? Do you
think that will help you understand?"
Not trusting his voice, Vanyel nodded.
"This will take a while; pick a spot to sit. Unless
you'd rather go back to the room?" Tylendel raised one eyebrow inquiringly.
"No, I like it here; it somehow seems more
private." Vanyel faltered, and covered his hesitation by looking around
for a good place. He finally chose a spot at the base of one of the bigger
trees beside them, between two roots that were each as thick as his leg. He put
his back against the trunk and slid down it to be cradled where the roots
joined the tree.
Tylendel pondered his choice for a moment. "Well, I can
only see two ways I can talk and look at you at the same time, and since I
don't fancy shouting across the clearing—"
Before Vanyel had time to react, he'd stretched himself out
along the ground and put his head in Vanyel's lap. "—much better," he sighed.
Vanyel froze.
"Van," Tylendel said quietly, closing his eyes,
"I won't hurt you. Not for any reason. I
like being near you, with you. I need to touch people; and I won't ever hurt you."
Vanyel relaxed a little.
"I like this grove, too, though hardly anyone else
seems to. It feels like there's no time in here." He kept his eyes closed,
and Vanyel saw a little pain-crease between his eyebrows.
He
gets those headaches; he told me last night—I wonder—if he'd mind—if it would
help—
Vanyel hesitated for a moment, then began massaging
Tylendel's temples with gentle fingertips.
The trainee chuckled and Vanyel felt his shoulders relax.
"You have about a hundred years to stop doing that," he said. "I
think I have the headache you claimed."
"You were going to tell me about you and Gala and being
Chosen," Vanyel prompted, though the thought made him a little
uncomfortable still. "I mean, you practically got my whole life story last
night, and I still don't know that much about you."
"To begin at the beginning—I have a twin, Staven. He's
the elder by about an hour. Nothing like me, by the way; he's taller, thinner,
darker, and much handsomer. He's the
leader, I'm the follower. We've had a primitive sort of mind-link ever since we
were born. Things happened between us all the time. Things like—oh, I blacked
out when he fell down the well; he acted like he'd broken his leg when I broke mine. We always knew what the other one was up to." He took
a deep breath. "People knew all about that, but I had other Gifts, too, that I could use. Besides that
mind-link, from the time I was about nine I had a touch of Thought-sensing for
people besides Stav, and I had an ability to—make accidents happen to people I
didn't like."
"Did that cause you problems?" Vanyel asked.
"With other people, I mean. I should think they wouldn't much appreciate
that last."
Tylendel shook his head slightly. "It didn't crop up
often enough for people to really notice—or if they did, they were too afraid
of my father to say anything about it. I didn't do it often, the
accident-causing, I mean; it made me sick, after. Staven sometimes tried to egg
me on, but it wasn't something I'd give in to him about." Tylendel paused,
and bit his lip; his expression flickered briefly into one both dark and
brooding before it lightened again. "It was the link between me and Staven
that was the strongest and most predictable of the Gifts; it was pretty much
limited to physical sensations, but once we figured out how to use it—"
Vanyel chuckled. "I bet you were unholy terrors."
Tylendel echoed the chuckle, and winked at him. "I
wouldn't mind having a link like that with you."
Vanyel blushed, but answered with exactly what he was
thinking. "I wouldn't mind either."
Tylendel's expression sobered. "Now comes the part
where things got odd. Staven matured pretty early; by twelve he was as tall as
most at fifteen, and all the girls were starting to flirt with him. And not
just the girls, but grown women as well. I think he got all his share of female-attraction
and mine, if you want to
know the truth. That summer we were hosting a tournament and everything from
goosegirls to visiting highborn were after him and he was acting like a young
and randy rooster in a henyard. It all climaxed—if you'll forgive the
expression—when one of the ladies who'd come to visit Mother dropped him a note
that said in no uncertain terms that she'd be quite pleased to find him in her
bed that night—well—"
He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up into
Vanyel's face, his own expression ironic. "Understand, I was just as
curious as any twelve year old about what Doing It was like. I said I'd cover for him if he let me—uh—eavesdrop."
"Something tells me it didn't go according to
plan," Vanyel guessed.
"Dead in the black," Tylendel said soberly.
"I was 'with' him for about as long as it took for things to get
interesting. I had been feeling odd from the start, but I tried to ignore it,
and concentrated on the link. Then things got—I don't know how to describe it,
except that I started losing my grip on me and started merging
with him. And the more I
concentrated, the stranger it all got. It was a bit like those times I'd made
accidents happen; the room faded in and out, I was in a kind of sickish fever,
my heart was racing—and I couldn't tell what was 'me' and what was Stav. Under
any other circumstances I think I would have quit and shut everything down, but
I was stubborn and I was a little afraid of Stav making fun of me for diving
out, after this was over. I kept holding to that link, figuring that if I could
just weather it out, things would get fun again. Then—" He shook his head
a bit, and his mouth twitched. "Just as things were about to come to the
cusp for Staven, something—broke loose in me. I just barely remember the start
of it; like I'd suddenly been dropped into a fire. I was in unbelievable pain.
It felt like being in the middle of a lightning storm, and from the wreck I
made of our room, that's exactly what I may have created. Something about what
was going on, something about the link I had with Staven, triggered all my potential Gifts—explosively. I was unconscious for about
a day, and when I woke up—"
He shuddered. "—nothing would ever be the same."
He closed his eyes, and Vanyel stroked his forehead. His
mouth was tight, with lines of unhappiness at the corners. Far off in the
distance, Vanyel could hear meadowswifts crying like the lost souls of
ghost-children.
"So there I was;" Tylendel continued, his voice
thin and strained. "I had the Mage-Gift, Thought-sensing, Fetching, a bit
of Empathy—none of it predictable, none of it controlled, and all of it likely
to burst out at any moment." He took a look at Vanyel's face and read the
puzzlement there. "Gods, I keep forgetting you aren't a trainee.
Fetching—that means I can move things without touching them; Empathy means I
can feel what someone else is feeling, which is why I knew when you had that
nightmare last night. Thought-sensing—if someone isn't shielding, I can tell
what they're thinking. The Mage-Gift is harder to explain, but it's what makes
it possible for a Herald-Mage to do magic."
"You can tell what I'm thinking?" Vanyel said
dubiously. He would have liked being able to share Tylendel's thoughts the way
Gala did, but wasn't entirely sure he wanted the relationship to hold that kind
of one-sided intimacy.
"I can, but I won't," Tylendel said,
with such firmness that Vanyel couldn't find it in his heart to doubt him.
"Even if it wasn't so unfair to you, it's counter to all the ethics that
go with being a Herald. Basically I just use it to talk with Gala and Savil."
Vanyel nodded, comforted. "So you had all
these—Gifts—sort of thrown at you, and no way to control them."
"Exactly," Tylendel said soberly. "And all
this at twelve. It was two
years
before Gala came for me. If it hadn't been for Staven, I'd have gone mad."
"Why?" Vanyel whispered. "What was happening?"
"What wasn't? I'd drop into a
fit—when I'd wake up again, I'd be in the middle of a fifty-foot circle of
wreckage. That was the Mage-Gift and Fetching working together in a way Savil
and I haven't been able to duplicate under control. Seems I have to go berserk."
He frowned, and reached up to rub his forehead between his
eyebrows. "Staven was the only one who could get near me—who was willing to stay near me, in or out of a fit. They
said I'd been taken by a demon. They said that because of what Staven and I had
tried to share, I had been possessed. When I—started to show signs of being shay'a'chern, they said I was
cursed, too."
"That's—that's stupid!" Vanyel cried indignantly.
"They still said it; if they'd dared, they'd have
outcaste me. But they didn't; Staven swore if they did he'd go with me, and he was the heir, the only possible heir with me acting the way
I was. Mother wasn't capable of having any more children, Father wouldn't
remarry, and he'd been completely faithful to her, so there weren't any
bastards around. They didn't have a choice. They had to allow me to stay, but
they didn't have to make it comfortable for me."
Vanyel thought with wonder that Tylendel's situation was
actually worse than his own.
"They kept me pretty well isolated; even when I was
fine they avoided me. But when everyone else abandoned me in one of my fits, he stayed, he took care of me,
absolute and unshakable in the belief that I would never hurt him. Positive
that, despite what was whispered, what had happened was not that I'd been possessed, but was something that would
somehow be worked out."
Tylendel shuddered again, his eyes haunted, and plainly
seeing another time and place. Vanyel, feeling his pain, put both his hands on his shoulders, trying to just
be a comforting presence without disturbing him; Tylendel looked up at him,
patted his hand, and half-smiled.
"You see? I think maybe that's why we understand each
other. Well, finally Gala came—gods. I cannot ever tell you what it was like,
looking into her eyes for the first time. It was—like souls touching. And the
relief—knowing that I wasn't mad, that I wasn't demon-possessed—I went from hell to the
Havens in the space of a heartbeat."
He sighed and seemed to sink into his own thoughts for a
long while.
"What did she do?" Vanyel asked.
"For one thing, she put me under her shielding; got me
controlled until we arrived here and Savil took me under her wing. That's more
than enough reason to love her, even without the bond to her. She's my very
best friend and the sister of my soul."
He reached up, and touched Vanyel's cheek. His hand was
cool; almost cold.
"But she'll never be what you are. Can you understand
what I'm saying, love? I owe her my sanity, but in a lot of ways she's more than I am; I love her the way I love Savil or my
mother—inferior to superior. Not brother to sister, or lover to lover; not ever
as equals."
Vanyel put his own hand over the one touching his cheek, and
held it, warming it in his own. "What am I, then?"
"You're my partner, my equal, my friend—and my love.
Vanyel, I didn't say this in so many words last night—but I do love you."
Those words were not expected; certainly
the implied level of commitment was not what Vanyel had expected.
"But—" he stuttered, not sure whether what he was feeling was joy or
fear.
"Van, I know we haven't known each other long, but I do
love you," Tylendel
said, ignoring the 'but,' holding Vanyel's gaze with his own. "And I love
you because I love you; not because I owe you anything, or because some god
somewhere decided I was going to be a Herald, or because you're a beloved
teacher. I love you because you're Vanyel, and we belong together, and together
we can stand back-to-back against anything."
Much to his confusion, Vanyel felt his eyes start burning.
"I don't know—really know what to say," he replied awkwardly,
blinking hard. "Except—'Lendel, I think after last night—I can't ever
remember being this happy. I've never loved
anyone, I don't know what it's like, but if—" he tried to say what he
felt. "—if wanting to die for you is love—"
His eyes burned; he rubbed at them with his free hand, and
tried to put his feelings into coherent words. He groped after his thoughts,
totally awkward and altogether out of his depth, but he needed to articulate his bewildering emotions.
He'd never felt so vulnerable and exposed in his life. "I'd do anything
for you; I'd take the sneers, the pointed fingers—I wouldn't care, so long as
they didn't take me away from you. If I could, I'd give you anything. I'd do
anything I could to make you happy. And—I'll gladly share you with Gala."
"Havens, don't say that," Tylendel chuckled,
though his voice sounded suspiciously thick and his eyes glistened in the shadows. "She wanted to 'eavesdrop,' you know. She'd take you up on that,
the randy little bitch."
Vanyel's face flamed hotly, and he laughed, using his own
embarrassment to get past that moment of complete vulnerability. "I knew she was saying something that would make me blush, I just knew it!"
"Well, she is not going to have her prurience
satisfied, I promise you," Tylendel said firmly. "I am not going to share you, and that's that."
Ye
gods, I should have known better, he thought ruefully, as his left hand throbbed. I am such a damned fool.
"'Lendel?" he called into the outer room, racking
the lute with care, still using only his right hand. "Are you out there?"
"Of course I am." Tylendel strolled in, a
half-eaten slice of bread and cheese in one hand. "It's lunchtime, you
know I'm always here when the food is!"
Vanyel began unwrapping his hand—slowly—
Tylendel stopped chewing, then tossed his lunch, forgotten,
onto the table.
"Gods, Van—what did you do to yourself? Sit!"
The ends of Vanyel's fingers were blistered, and the
blisters had broken and were bleeding. The muscles of the hand were cramped so
hard he couldn't have gotten his fingers uncurled to save his soul. He looked
at the wreckage he'd made of his hand with a kind of pained disbelief.
Tylendel pushed him down onto the bed, and took the injured
hand in both his own.
"I made a fool of myself, is what I did," Vanyel
told him, regretfully. "I told the girls yesterday that if they'd leave me
alone I'd play for them this morning. I forgot how long it's been since I
played—and, well, I'll tell you the truth, I forgot I lost some feeling in
those fingers when the arm got broken. I didn't even realize what I'd done to
my finger-ends until after the muscles in my hand
started to cramp."
"Stay right there." Tylendel went to the little
chest at the foot of the bed that he'd moved into Vanyel's room with the rest of
his things, bent over it for a moment, and came back with bandages and a little
pot of salve. "I'm no Healer," he said, sitting down and taking
Vanyel's hand back into his, "but I've banged myself up a time or two, and
this is good stuff."
He took some of it on the ends of his fingers and massaged
it into the palm of Vanyel's hand. A pleasant, sharp odor came from it, both
green and spicy, and his fingers began to relax from their cramped position,
both from the warming effect of the salve and the massage.
"What is that?" Vanyel asked, sniffing. "I'm
going to smell sort of like a pastry."
Tylendel laughed. "Don't tempt me this early in the
day, Vanyel-ashke. It's cinnamon and
marigold. Good for the cramped muscles and the poor, battered
fingers."
He had worked all the way out to the ends of Vanyel's
fingers; the cramps were mostly gone, and the salve, rather than burning as
Vanyel had half feared it would, was numbing the areas where Tylendel was
spreading it.
"Now just let me get you bandaged up."
"'What was that you just called me?"
"Ashke? It's Tayledras. Hawkbrother-tongue. All those feathered
faces and masks Savil has on the wall out in the common room are from the Tayledras; she studied with one of their Adepts,
Starwind k'Treva, and they made her a Wingsister. That's like a blood brother
for them."
Tylendel was wrapping each finger carefully and taking his
time about it. Vanyel didn't mind in the least. Now that he wasn't in much
pain, there was something a bit sensual about Tylendel's ministrations.
"She uses a lot of their expressions when there isn't a
good word for the thing in our tongue. Like shay'a'chern—it translates as—oh—'one whose lover is like self,' with a
sexual connotation to the word 'self' that makes it clear that they aren't talking
about incest or similar interests.
It's a very complicated language." He looked up from his bandaging, and
Vanyel could see laughter-glints lurking in the depths of his eyes. "You
smell delicious; are you sure you have lessons this
afternoon?"
"We promised Savil we'd be virtuous today," Vanyel
reminded him, feeling greatly tempted anyway.
Tylendel heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Too true. Well, ashke translates simply to 'beloved.' And it's
part of your name already—ashke, Ashkevron. See?"
He tied off the last bit of bandage with a flourish.
"Ashke," Vanyel mused.
"I—like it."
"It suits you, ashke; Savil says the
Hawkbrothers seldom go by their born-names, they take use-names when they
become mages. Maybe that's the name you always should have had. Now let's go
eat lunch and be virtuous—before I decide to break my sworn word to Savil!"
Strange
that it's the older who has the tenor voice and the younger who's the deeper, she mused, blinking
sleepily at them. Though the
pairing is strange all around. I would never have reckoned Vanyel for shay'a'chern. Not with Withen for a father.
She yawned silently, and half-closed her eyes. The two young
ones across the room from her blurred into a haze of gold and darkest blue. He's got 'Lendel thinking about something
other than that damned feud, at least; for that I'd warm to him. Even if I want
to knock him into the wall occasionally for being a little prig. 'Lendel does
seems to be getting some notion of responsible behavior into his head. And a
bit more politeness. Though it's a damn good thing Mardic and Donni are
inclined to take everything he says generously, or they might have knocked him
into the wall for me! Bless them. He can be so damned rude sometimes—and not
mean it.
She worried a hangnail with the end of her thumb. He's been so isolate I suppose I
shouldn't be surprised. Gods be thanked 'Lendel seems to be civilizing him.
There's more patience there than there was before—and I think, maybe, a little
more kindness. Less arrogance, for certain. Withen should be pleased enough
with the reports he's getting to let him stay. She noted Vanyel's intense concentration
on his book, and restrained the corners of her mouth from quirking up. Looks like he's enjoying himself. Can't
say that I 'd mind studying with my 'Lendel coaching! Poor little lad; when he
gives his heart to a thing, he certainly doesn't do it halfway. Still, I'm not
certain I like the way he's becoming so dependent on 'Lendel. That isn't
healthy, not for either of them. It could make for trouble later on.
A thin tendril of contact reached for her from across the
room, although Tylendel's eyes remained on the book. :A silver for your thoughts,
teacher-mine.:
:How
pretty you look together, young demon.: she replied the same way. :And how grateful I am that you've managed to stay discreet.:
:Discipline,
discipline,:
came the laughter-tinged answer. :Seriously,
you've heard no gossip?:
:Only
that I'm likely to find you two at knife-point one day.:
The aura of amusement deepened. :Well, well, so it worked. I owe Van a
forfeit.:
Savil raised her eyebrows in surprise, and opened her eyes
again to catch Tylendel looking at her with a smile lurking in the corners of
his mouth. :How so,
demon-child?:
:He's
been insulting me behind my back. Popinjay pecking. Mostly on my proclivities.
So if anything gets back to Withen... We decided I should "find out about
it" and go for him if the insults got noticed.:
:Great
good gods!:
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. :Pot
calling kettle, oh my hope of the Havens! What were you planning on doing? Are
you going to call him out? I'd rather you didn't have at each other with
anything sharp.:
:Oh,
probably I'll make a major confrontation, with as many witnesses as possible.
But not with blades, teacher-love; he's too good for me, and we figured he
should lose so he gets the sympathy of his flock of doves. Barehanded, we
think. Wrestling; we 'II try to keep fists out if it as much as possible too.
We had some vague notion of trying it the next time it rains, in the mud. It
should be lots of fun.:
Savil had to drop the mind-link for a moment until she got
herself back under control. Lots
of fun indeed—great good gods, both of them tussling in the open in front of
everyone and no one guessing how much they 're enjoying it.
:Demon-child,
I think I'll put you in for envoy when I grant you your Whites; you have
altogether too twisted a mind!:
:Well,
doing it that way we can avoid the chance of hurting each other, and I've
already established that I go after people very directly. Poor Van is going to
have to decide which outfit of his I'm going to ruin, though. I intend to rip
it to rags for verisimilitude.:
Savil nearly choked to death, trying not to laugh at the
mind-pictures and overtones that came across with that last sending. :Verisimilitude, my behind! You just
want—:
:Why,
Savil!:
The eyes across from her were wide with assumed innocence. :How could you think such a thing?:
:Easy
enough,:
she replied, her own mental tone so dry that it had a metallic taste. :Given who I've got for a protege.:
:Well—:
Well, indeed. :'Lendel—just
a word of caution, and I may be being reactionary—but I don't like the way Van
is coming to lean on you for everything. It isn't healthy; he needs to learn
how to depend on himself a little.:
:Oh,
Savil.:
:I'm
serious.:
:It's
just a phase. He's young, and he needs so badly. Great good gods, nobody's ever
bothered to love him except his sister. After he's had me around for a bit and
knows I won't vanish on him, he'll grow out of it.:
:'Lendel,
I'm not the expert on people that Lancir is, but in my experience people don't
grow out of a habit of dependence.: She glanced at the time-candle. :Ah, we'll just leave it at that, all
right? Keep it in mind. And that's enough study for one night. Both of you to
bed.:
Again the mental laughter. :Why, Savil—:
:To
sleep, dammit!:
Tylendel nudged the other boy, and closed the book, then looked
across the room at his mentor with that ironic half-smile she knew so well.
"Let's pack it up for the night, Van," he said quietly—
—and :Of
course, teacher. To sleep,: she Mindheard.
Then, as they disappeared into their room—
:Eventually.:
The union of energy fields disintegrated at the first knock;
dissipating with a "pop" into a shower of visible sparks and
separating into the auras—green for Donni, yellow for Mardic—surrounding each
of her crestfallen students. Savil swore an oath sufficiently heated to blister
paint. She looked the couple over with OtherSight and swore another nearly as
strong.
Dammit,
their concentration's gone completely. Look at those auras pulse! Oh,
hellfires! If this isn't important, I'll kill whoever's out there!
She banished the violet shield she had placed about the pair
with an abrupt gesture, and stalked to the door, yanking it open and glaring at
the agitated Guard standing just outside.
"Yes?" she said, with
an edge to her voice that was sharp enough to shave with.
"Herald Savil, your nephew and your protege
Tylendel—they're fighting—" the man gulped, stepping back involuntarily at
the sight of her angry face. "Tylendel put up a barrier and we can't get
at them to break it up; he's got your nephew down and we're afraid he may do
him true harm—"
"Damn!" the word
exploded from her, as for one moment she thought that something had really happened between the pair and the fight
was serious.
Then she recalled the plan, and almost ruined it for them
all by laughing in the man's face.
She schooled her expression to the one she would have been
wearing if this had been a genuine fight; mouth tight and
eyes narrowed in feigned anger. "Show me," she barked. "I'll
deal with this nonsense right now."
The Guard scurried ahead of her down the hallway; she
followed at a near-trot, wincing a little at the aches the rain had called up
in the depths of her joints.
I'll
bet 'Lendel put up the mage-barrier to keep people from seeing that he and Van
aren't really hitting each other, she decided, hastening her pace a bit as the Guard pulled
ahead. And to keep folks
from breaking up the fight too soon. I'd better make a major scene over this or
he'll never forgive me.
There was no doubt of where the fight was taking
place—Herald-proteges, young courtiers, Bard-trainees and other assorted young
people were clustered tightly around the door to the gardens on the southeast
side of the Palace, all of them babbling like a pack of fools. The Guard pushed
his way through them with no regard for rank or ceremony whatsoever; Savil
followed behind him and peered out the door into the pouring rain.
The combatants were about fifty paces beyond the door, in a spot
beside the paved path where all the grass had been worn away. There was,
indeed, a mage-barrier over the area where they were struggling, a place that
looked more like a pig-wallow at this point. The barrier and the rain were
blurring the combatants badly enough that it was hard to see exactly what was
going on. Vanyel was down, on his back; at least Savil assumed it was Vanyel,
since the current loser was slightly smaller and his hair was mostly dark under
the mud. Tylendel was sitting on his chest, and if Savil hadn't known better,
she'd have sworn he was strangling the younger boy.
"You take that back, you little bastard!" Tylendel
roared. "You take that back, unless you want another pound of mud shoved
down your throat!"
Savil steeled herself and barked—in her best
stop-a-mob-in-full-cry voice—a single word.
"ENOUGH!"
Instantly the fighters froze.
Savil strode out into the deluge, her dignity somewhat
diminished when her feet squelched instead of coming down firmly, and the rain
immediately plastered her hair to her skull, sending tendrils of it straggling
into her eyes and mouth.
Nevertheless, she reckoned she looked imposing enough, since
all the babbling behind her ceased as she reached the edge of Tylendel's
mage-barrier and stopped.
"Take it down, trainee," she said, her tone so
cold it could have turned the rain into snow.
Tylendel scrambled to his feet and dismissed the barrier.
Now that he could be seen clearly, he truly looked as if he'd been through the
wars. His hair was full of mud and straggling around his face in dirty coils.
One eye was turning black and starting to swell; his lower lip was split and
bleeding. His tunic was torn and muddy and so were his breeches; one of his
boots had come unlaced and sagged around his ankle. He wore a very
un-Tylendel-like expression; sullen and full of barely-smothered anger.
Vanyel remained prone for several moments longer with his
chest heaving as he gulped for air; long enough that Savil began to think he
might really be hurt. She breathed
a little easier when he levered himself up out of the mud and got slowly to his
feet.
He was in worse case than Tylendel; his tunic had been all
but stripped from his body, there wasn't much left of it, and what there was
hung in strips from his belt and his wrists. He had several angry-looking
scratches on his arms and chest, and a split lip to match Tylendel's; but more
seriously, he was favoring his right foot, wincing in real pain when he had to
put any weight on it.
He didn't move, once he'd gotten to his feet; just stood
with his hands clasped before him, wearing an expression so like Tylendel's
that Savil began to be alarmed.
:'Lendel?: she Mindspoke,
layering the name with her anxiety and distress.
Tylendel's expression didn't change by so much as a twitch
of an eyelid, but the Mindvoice was as cheerful and amused as his face was
angry and sullen. :No fear,
teacher-mine. It's still going mostly as planned.:
She sighed mentally with relief. :Mostly?:
:Well,
we couldn't practice this much, so we made some miscalculations. Van got me in
the eye with his elbow, we both managed to sock each other in the mouth
somehow, and I think I made him sprain his ankle when I tackled him. Hurry up
and lecture us, I can't keep a straight face much longer!:
She straightened, and looked down her long nose at both of
them, ignoring the water dripping off the end of it. "A fine thing,"
she said acidly, "when I can't trust my protege and ward to conduct
themselves like civilized adults in my absence! What am I to do with you? Find
you keepers?"
Tylendel made as if to say something, but shrank under her
icy glare, the rain slowly washing the mud out of his hair.
"Trainee Tylendel, you should have known better! You are a Herald-in-training; I
expect you to act in accordance with the dignity and honor of our office. I do not expect to find you thrashing about in the mud like a
six-year-old brat with no manners and no sense! No matter how much Vanyel
provoked you, you should have come to me first, not taken the matter into your
own hands!"
Tylendel hung his head and mumbled something in the
direction of the puddle around his feet.
"Louder, trainee," she snapped. "I can't hear
you."
"Yes, Herald Savil," he repeated, his voice harsh,
and full of suppressed emotion. "I was wrong."
"Go—back to your quarters. Now. Make yourself
presentable. I'll deal with you when I'm done with Vanyel."
Tylendel bowed slightly, and without another word, walked
past her and through the crowd at the doorway. Savil didn't turn around to
watch his progress, but even above the steady beat of the rain she could hear
the sound of the crowd parting behind her to let him through. One or two in the
group snickered a little, but that was all.
She turned her dagger-gaze on Vanyel, who was glaring at her
from under a wet comma of black hair that was obscuring one eye.
"And you. Fine state of affairs
this is." She walked
forward a bit and folded her arms, trying not to shiver in the cold rain.
"I've heard about those snide little comments of yours, the backbiting,
and all the rest of it. You've been picking at 'Lendel ever since you arrived
here, young man, and I won't have it!"
Vanyel raised his head, glaring back at her with every bit
of the arrogance he'd ever shown. "He's nothing but a—"
"He outranks you, young man, and you'd
do well to remember that!" she snapped. "Consider yourself confined
to your quarters for the duration! If I learn you've set one foot out of the
suite when you aren't at lessons, I'll ship you back to your father so fast the
wind of your passing will tear the thatch from the roofs! Now march!"
Vanyel set his jaw, and pivoted where he stood, setting off
toward Savil's suite through the rain—taking the opposite course that Tylendel
had followed. He was more than half staggering, and it made Savil's ankle ache
in sympathy to to see him struggling through the mud, but she made no move to
help him. Instead, she stalked along behind him, as if making certain that he
reached his goal.
But once they had rounded the corner and were out of sight of
the doorway, she dropped her pose and her dignity and scrambled through the
slippery grass to reach his side.
"Lean on me, lad," she said, coming up beside him,
and pulling his arm over her shoulder. "I've been called an old stick
before this, I might as well act like one."
"Aunt—thank the gods—" he gasped. "I thought
we'd never get out of sight." He stumbled and nearly fell, all of his
weight suddenly landing on Savil, making her stagger. "Please, I've got to
rest a minute. Gods above, this hurts."
"How bad is it?" she asked, as he shivered beside
her in the cold rain.
"Don't know." He managed a wan grin. "Hurts
more than a thorn in the toe, less than when I broke my arm. That tell you
anything?"
"Hardly," she snorted. "Come on, the sooner I
get you inside, the happier I'll be. And I hope my protege has the sense to think and not come running out to help."
The lights of Savil's windows were in sight—and her heart
sank for a moment when she did see someone running
toward them through the rain. Then she saw a second silhouette beside the
first, and realized that it was not Tylendel who was coming to help them in,
but Mardic and Donni.
The youngsters took over the task of supporting Vanyel. That
left Savil free to go on ahead of them; for which she was truly grateful. She
was chilled right down to the bone, and those bones were starting to ache
rather persistently.
She stepped in through Vanyel's outer door; almost as soon
as she'd stepped across the threshold she found herself enveloped in a warm
blanket and practically carried into the common room. It was Tylendel, of
course; he stayed with her just long enough to settle her in her favorite chair
and put a mug of mulled wine in her hand, then he was gone.
He was back again in a moment, Vanyel's arm around his
shoulder, the latter hopping awkwardly beside him.
There was already a blanket waiting on the couch; Tylendel
got Vanyel bundled into it and pressed another mug of the wine into his hands.
Mardic and Donni
piled in right behind them; giggling, shaking the rain out of their hair, and
heading straight for the kettle of wine on the hearth. Vanyel was more
interested in his lover's black eye and swollen lip than the wine.
"Gods—'Lendel, I did not mean that—" he mourned, reaching out hesitantly to
touch the edge of the bruise. "Oh Lord and Lady, why do I have to be so clumsy?"
"Oh, you just fight like a girl," Tylendel teased.
"All flying knees and elbows. It was my own stupid fault for
getting my face in the way. It's your ankle I'm worried about." He started
unlacing Vanyel's boot, fighting the wet laces and swearing under his breath
when they wouldn't cooperate.
"I'm all—ouch!"
Tylendel froze. "Did I—"
"No," Vanyel said
around clenched teeth. "Just get that damned boot off before you have to
cut it off."
But Tylendel dithered over the task until Mardic pushed him
out of the way and took over, getting the boot off with an abrupt yank that
blanched Vanyel to the color of pure beeswax. He clutched Tylendel's hand while
Mardic examined the ankle, pronounced it "probably not broken," and
bound it up.
"Havens, teacher," Mardic laughed, rescuing his
cup from Donni and returning to sit at her feet across from Savil, "Were we as moonstruck as that? Gods, I feel like I'm being
smothered in syrup!"
He nodded at the two on the couch, each assuring the other
that his own hurts were less than nothing and fussing over the other's injuries.
"For at least the first five or six months," Savil
replied dryly, after sipping her wine. "Just as moonstruck, and just as
cloying. And even more sentimental." She raised her voice a bit. "You
two might thank me."
"Certainly, Savil," Tylendel replied, craning his
head around. "If you'd tell us what we're thanking you for."
"Gods. Vanyel, don't you ever listen?"
"I'm sorry, Aunt," he said, looking confused, his
hair still trailing over one eye. "My foot hurt so much I wasn't paying
any attention; it wasn't a real lecture, after all."
She cast her eyes up to the ceiling. "Give me strength.
I just confined you completely to the suite for as long as I care to enforce my
decision, you little ninny. I just got you away from the girl-gaggle and gave
you orders to stay here
indefinitely. Except for lessons, you'll be here waking and sleeping. That
includes taking meals here."
"You did?" he said, dazed. "I am? You mean I
can stay here?"
"With 'Lendel, and not arouse any suspicions," she
interrupted. "That's exactly what I mean. Fact of the matter is, your
damnfool father will probably be pleased to hear that you were—"
She broke off, seeing that she no longer had the attention
of either of them. Across from her she heard Mardic snicker.
She favored the lifebonded with a sardonic glance.
"Don't feel too smug," she told them. "Or I'll start trotting
out tales about you two."
"Yes, Savil," Mardic replied, not in the least
repentant. "Whatever you say. Would you care for honey in that wine?"
Savil spared a glance back toward the couch. Tylendel was
rebandaging Vanyel's ankle, treating it as if it were as fragile as an insect's
wing. She made a face.
"I think not," she replied. "We've got enough
sweetness around here for one night."
Tylendel looked up, and stuck his tongue out at her, while
Vanyel blushed.
Savil chuckled and sat back in her chair, well content with
her world. At least for the
moment,
she thought, taking another sip of spiced wine, which is all any Herald can reasonably hope for. I'll worry
about tomorrow when tomorrow gets here.
Tylendel sprawled in his favorite chair, and watched Vanyel
restringing his lute, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Candlelight reflected in
a honey-colored curve along the round belly of the instrument.
Is
it time?
he wondered. He plays for
the girls, but they don't matter. He doesn't care if he plays well or badly for
them. Will he play for someone he loves, someone who does matter? Can he? Has
he recovered enough?
Only one way to find out, though.
"Ashke," he said
quietly, extending his little Gift of Empathy as far as it would go. Van lifted
his head from his work; he looked rather comical with the old strings dangling
from his mouth like the feelers on a catfish.
"Mph?" he replied.
"When you get Woodlark in tune, would you play for me?"
Vanyel froze. Tylendel Felt the startlement—and
the ache. And reacted to them.
"Please? I'd like it."
Vanyel took the strings out of his mouth, and Tylendel could
sense his withdrawal. "Why?" he asked, bitterly, his eyes shining
wetly. "There's dozens better than I am right here at Bardic. Why listen
to a half-crippled amateur? "
Tylendel restrained his natural reaction—which was to go to
him, hold him, ease his hurt that way. That would ease it all right, but it
wouldn't cure it. "Because you aren't half-crippled
anymore," he replied. "Because you aren't an amateur. You're good;
the Bards all say so."
"But not good enough to be one of them." Vanyel
turned away, but not before Tylendel saw tears in his eyes. And Felt the
anguish.
"That's not true," he insisted gently. "Look,
Van, it's not that you aren't good
enough. It's that you just don't have the Gift. Can a blind man paint?"
Vanyel just shook his head, and Tylendel could sense his
further withdrawal. "It's not the same thing," he said, tightly.
"The blind man can't see a painting. But there's nothing wrong with my
ears."
Tylendel searched for something that might reach this
wounded corner of his beloved, and finally found it.
"Ashke, why do you think
there are minstrels trained at Bardic? Why do you think that people welcome
minstrels when there are Bards about?" He'd asked that same question of
Breda, who had all three Bardic Talents: the Gift, the Skill, and the
Creativity. Her answer had been enlightening.
Vanyel shook his head, still tightly bound up inside
himself. "Because there aren't enough Bards to go around, just like there
aren't enough Heralds or Healers."
"Wrong," Tylendel said firmly, "and I have
this from Breda. There are
times when the Gift gets in the way of the music. "
"What?" Vanyel's head whipped around in
startlement, and Tylendel saw the shine of tears on his cheek. "What do
you mean by that?"
"Just what I said." Now was the time to rise and go to Vanyel's side, and Tylendel
did just that. "Listen to me; just what is the Bardic Gift, hmm? It's the
ability to make others feel the things you want
them to through music. But when a Bard does that, you can't keep your mind on
the music, can you? You never really hear how beautiful it is; you're too busy
with what the Bard is doing. You never really hear it for itself, and when you
remember it, you don't remember the music, you remember the emotions. There's
another reason; when the Bard performs, you put nothing of yourself into the
listening. But when a minstrel performs, or a Bard without the Gift, you get
out of the music exactly what you put into the listening." He chuckled,
and reached for Vanyel's limp hands. "Breda said that in some ways it's a
little like making love with a paid courtesan or with your lover. Your lover
may not be as expert, but the experience is a lot more genuine."
"Breda said that?" Vanyel faltered.
"In her cups, yes." He didn't add it had been
here, in Savil's quarters, the evening she'd tested and failed Vanyel. Breda
had a very soft heart beneath that bony chest; she'd not enjoyed destroying
Vanyel's hopes, even indirectly. "They do say that there's truth in the
bottom of every wine bottle." He paused, and raised one eyebrow at his
lover. "She also said that if you weren't your father's heir,
they'd snap you up so fast you'd leave your boots behind."
"She did?" He could Feel Vanyel uncoiling from around
that lump of hurt.
"She did." He picked up the lute and put it back
in Vanyel's hands. "And since my personal preference is not for courtesans, however expert—will you play for me?"
"Just—" Vanyel swallowed, and finally met his
eyes. The hurt was still there, but already fading, "—just let me get her
in tune."
* * *
To
Lord Withen Ashkevron from Vanyel Ashkevron: greetings. I have received your
letter and your token, for which my thanks. I am endeavoring to follow all of
Herald Savil's instructions to the best of my ability. I have found her to be a
wise and knowledgeable mentor, and hope to better please her in the future. By
my hand, Vanyel Ashkevron.
"Costs a fortune, and it's all she'll use," Vanyel
answered absently, pondering how to reply without setting his mother off again.
The pink page lay on the blotter of the desk, its very existence a maternal
accusation that he hadn't written since he arrived here. Beside it were two
piles of silver coins—absolutely equal in value.
One
reward for beating up a pervert, one consolation for getting beaten up by a
pervert.
He sighed. Gods, there are
times I wish I was an orphan.
"May I?" Tylendel asked.
Vanyel shrugged. "Go ahead. You'll encounter her
eventually, I'm sure. You ought to know what she's like."
Tylendel worked his way through the ornamented and scrolled
calligraphy, and gave it back to Vanyel with a grimace that said more than words
could have.
"You think this is bad—you should see the letters she
writes to friends, or worse, people she thinks have slighted her. Three, four,
and five pages, purple ink and tear-blotches, and everything capitalized."
He sighed again. "And appalling grammar. When she gets
really hysterical, she goes into formal mode and she cannot seem to keep her 'thees' and 'thous'
straight."
He contemplated the letter for a moment. "What's really
awful, she talks like that, too."
Tylendel laughed, threw himself down on the bed, and got
back to the book he'd been reading.
* * *
Vanyel laughed aloud, and passed the note to Tylendel.
Tylendel grinned broadly and handed it back to him.
"Now this one I like. What's my
chances of meeting her?"
"Pretty good," Vanyel replied, stretching. "Once
the secret's out about us, Father will disinherit me, Mother will have vapors,
and Lissa will show up, sword in hand, to defend me from Father's wrath. She's
gotten a lot spunkier since she went over to the Coreys to foster. Lord Trevor
has just about promised her a commission in the Guard."
"Which he can give her, since he's in charge of
recruitment for the Guard," Tylendel said thoughtfully. "Is that your
last letter?"
"One more after this—"
"'Lendel—" Vanyel said slowly, sorely puzzled by
this last note, which had been delivered to the suite by a page that very
afternoon. "Who is Evan Leshara?"
I
shouldn't have let him go. If Leshara figures out the fight was all a ruse—
Up and back, up and back. It was damned hot for an autumn
night, or was it being on edge that was making him sweat? His scalp prickled,
and he felt a headache beginning just under his right eye. Shadows cast by the
light of the time-candle danced and flickered, shrank and grew.
—if
he figures out the game we're playing, he'll be able to use blackmail on Van
against me, and me against Staven. Oh. gods, I shouldn't have let him go. I
should have told him to ignore Leshara's invitation. I should have. I—
The creak of the garden door broke into his worries, and his
tensions evaporated when Vanyel slipped in from the darkness and latched the
door behind himself.
"Ashke?" Tylendel began,
then hesitated, seeing the troubled expression in Vanyel's eyes.
"He's a damned persuasive man, this Leshara,"
Vanyel said softly, sitting himself in the chair in front of the cold fireplace.
"That's why he's here," Tylendel replied grimly.
"It's the Leshara countermove to my being here. Since they can't buy into
the Heralds, they've sent the one of their kin with the sweetest tongue to get
the ear of the Queen, if he can."
"He says he's got it. He said a lot of things. 'Lendel,
there was an awful lot of what he said that made sense."
"Of course there was!" Tylendel interrupted.
"I'll be willing to bet that half of what he told you was the absolute
truth even by my standards. It's the way he said it, the context, and what he
was prompting you to infer from what he told you that counts! You ought to know
yourself from what you've been writing home that the best possible lie is to
tell only the truth—just not all of it!"
"But 'Lendel," Vanyel still looked uncertain.
"'Lendel, he says his people have been willing to settle for months now, a
settlement the Queen approves, and yours refuse to go along with it—"
"He didn't tell you what that 'plan' was, did he?"
Vanyel shook his head.
"To marry my thirty-year-old maiden-cousin who's never
been outside of a cloister to a fifty-year-old lecher, take Staven out of being
Lord Holder and put her in," he said
savagely, "which effectively means putting him in, since there's no way she'd ever be able to stand up to
him. She'd dry up and blow away the first time he spoke harshly to her. That's the Leshara notion of an equitable
settlement." He glared at Vanyel, angry and a little hurt that Vanyel
would even consider taking Evan Leshara's
word as the whole truth. "He's using the fact that Staven's only seventeen
as a way to imply that he's incompetent, too young to make any kind of rational
decisions. And a lot of the powers at Court, being old goats themselves, are
buying into the idea. After all, seventeen's only old enough to be told you
have to go fight and die for something—it's not old enough to have any say in the matter!"
Vanyel's eyes had gotten very distressed, and he had shrunk
back into the chair as far as he could. "'Lendel," he faltered.
"I didn't mean—I wasn't doubting you—"
Tylendel gave himself a mental kick in the posterior for
upsetting him. "Ashke, I didn't mean to
shout at you," he said, kneeling beside the chair and putting one hand on
Vanyel's knee. "I'm sorry—I'm just so damned frustrated. He can say any
damned thing he wants, and because I'm a Herald-trainee, I can't even refute
him. It makes me a little crazy, sometimes."
Vanyel brightened, and put his hand over Tylendel's.
"That's all right. I know how you feel. Like me and Father and Jervis."
"Something like it."
"'Lendel, would you," Vanyel hesitated,
"would you tell me your side?"
Tylendel took a deep breath. "If I do, I'll be breaking
a promise I made to Savil, not to get you involved."
"I'm already involved. I—why? That's what I really want
to know. What's keeping this thing going?"
"Something Wester Leshara did," Tylendel replied,
fighting down the urge to get up, grab a horse, and ride out to strangle Wester
with his bare hands. The white-hot rage that always filled him whenever he
called that particular memory up was very hard to control. "Savil says I
have to be absolutely fair—so to be absolutely fair, I'll tell you that this
was in retaliation for a raid that accidentally killed his youngest son. We—our
people—went in to stampede his cattle. The boy fell off his horse and wound up
under their hooves. But I don't think that excuses what Wester did."
"Which was?"
"My father had just died; he hired some kind of
two-copper conjuror to convince Mother that Father's ghost wanted to speak with
her. She wasn't very stable—which Wester was damned well aware of, and this
pushed her over the edge. We got rid of the charlatan, but not before he'd
gotten her convinced that if she found just the right formula, she'd be able to
communicate with Father's spirit. She started taking all manner of potions,
trying to see him. Finally she did see him—she ate Black
Angel mushrooms."
He did not add that he and Staven had been the ones to find
her. Vanyel looked sick enough. Tylendel got a lid on his anger, and changed
the subject. "What did the bastard want, anyway?"
"He wanted me to let him know any time I heard anything
about you or your family, and he wanted me to talk my father 'round to his
side."
"What did you tell him?"
Vanyel grimaced. "I guess I was playing the same game
of telling not all of the truth. I told him that I heard more about your people
directly from you than I heard casually, and let him draw his own conclusions."
Tylendel relaxed, and chuckled. Vanyel brightened a little
more. "What about your father?"
"I told him the truth; that I had been sent here as
punishment, because I wouldn't toe the line at home, and that father would take
advice from a halfwit before he'd take it from me. He was rather disappointed."
Now Tylendel laughed, and hugged him. "Ashke, ashke, you couldn't have
done better if I'd given you a script!"
"So I did all right?" Now Vanyel was fairly
glowing.
"You did better than all right."
Gods, he thought, seeing
Vanyel so elated, he fades
like an unwatered flower when he thinks I'm angry at him—and now this—you'd
have thought I'd offered him a Bard's laurel. Does my opinion mean so much to him?
Do I mean so much to him?
The thought was a sobering one. And it was followed
inevitably by another. Maybe
Savil 's right....
"He said he wants to stay in touch with me anyway, just
in case I hear something. I told him that was all right with me. In fact, I
acted pretty eager about it." He turned his head a little to one side, and
offered, tentatively, "I thought we could sort of tell him what we wanted
him to hear."
Ha.
"We," not "you." No, Savil's not right. He depends on me,
but I depend on him, and if he's leaning on me a little, well, that isn't going
to hurt anyone. He's just not used to making decisions on his own, that's all.
"That's perfect," he said, leaning on the arm of
the chair. "Absolutely perfect. Now, after facing off the dragon for me,
oh noble warrior, in what way can I ever reward you?" He batted his
eyelashes at Vanyel, who laughed, and drew himself up as if he sat in a throne.
"I'll do anything—"
"Oh?" Vanyel replied archly. "Anything?"
It was the first time either of them had broken the silence
since they'd entered the pine copse.
The suite had seemed far too stuffy for the warm autumnal
evening, even with all the windows open. And Vanyel had scarcely left it since
they'd staged their "fight"—except for lessons and the obligatory
evenings with Evan Leshara to feed him misinformation. And the appearances he had to make at Court to keep his circle of admirers happy and
deceived.
It was moon-dark, and the chance of anyone seeing them
heading out into Companion's Field together was practically nonexistent. So
when Vanyel had looked up from his Religions text and tentatively suggested a
walk, Tylendel had shut his own book and flung the garden door open with a
mocking bow and a real grin.
It was inevitable that Gala should join them when they
crossed the river; Vanyel had come to take her presence for granted on the
precious few joint excursions they'd judged safe from detection. It was equally
inevitable that they should seek "their" pine grove; it drew them as
no other place within walking distance could.
It was blacker than Sunsinger's despair beneath the branches
on this moonless night, but Tylendel had made a tiny mage-light once they'd
gotten past the first line of trees and were safely out of sight. They'd just
rambled for a long time, from one end of the peaceful grove to the other and
back again; not speaking, but not needing to. Not touching, either—but again,
not needing to.
It wasn't until they'd walked out the last of their
end-of-the-day tensions that they'd finally decided to settle next to the oldest
tree in the grove and just relax in silence. Gala provided a willing backrest,
and the two of them leaned up against her soft warmth, with Vanyel resting his
head on Tylendel's shoulder. Tylendel had put out the mage-light, leaving them
in near-total darkness. There were still a few crickets that hadn't been killed
by the first frost, calling from a dozen different directions, and once Vanyel
had heard geese crying by high overhead. But other than that, and the sigh of
Gala's breathing, they might have been the only two living creatures in an
endlessly empty, pine-fragrant universe.
Which was exactly the way Vanyel wanted it. This continual
charade of theirs was proving to be both harder and easier than he'd thought it
would. Easier, because he was no longer trying to block out his feelings, no
longer trying to convince himself that he didn't need anyone. Easier, because
the arrogant pose, the flirtation games, were no longer anything more than an
elaborate set of games. But harder, because one single slip, one hint getting
back to Withen of what was really going on, and he'd lose everything that was
making his life something more than a burden to be endured. And harder, because
of the double-game he was playing with Leshara. One slip there and Leshara would know what was really
going on—and it would be child's play for him to use that knowledge as a
double-weapon against Vanyel and Tylendel.
And there was no way of knowing how much—or how little—Evan
Leshara believed out of all the things Vanyel was telling him. All he could do
was trust that 'Lendel knew enough to seed the falsehoods with exactly the
right amount of truth—because he certainly didn't know
enough.
The pretense was a constant drain on his emotional energy,
and it wasn't often that he felt safe enough to forget and enjoy the moment.
The insecurity of the situation was the first thing on his mind when waking and
the last when going to sleep.
That wasn't the only strain. Since the fight, he'd been
virtually ostracized by the Bards, Heralds, and all their trainees. Tylendel
was (somewhat to his own surprise) highly-regarded among the
"working" members of Queen Elspeth's High Court. But that meant that
Vanyel was bearing the burden of their scorn for provoking
the fight. And while his teachers remained within the bounds of polite
civility, they were making no secret of their disdain. Lessons had become
ordeals, and only Tylendel's insistence that he was going to have to continue if the charade was going to work had kept
Vanyel persisting in the face of the hostility he was facing. The only one of
his teachers that seemed oblivious to the whole mess was Lord Oden—possibly
because the Lord-Marshall's second-in-command was pretty well indifferent to
anything not involving the martial arts. Vanyel had ample occasion to reflect
on the irony that his situation was now precisely the opposite of what he had
endured at Forst Reach. There he'd been the pet of his tutors, except for the
armsmaster, and despised by everyone his own age. Here—discounting the trainees—his
peers were fawning on him, but his teachers were doing their icily gracious
best to get him to give up and drop out of their lessons—except for his
armsmaster. It was not his imagination that
they were being harder on him than the others being lessoned; Mardic was in his
Religions group now, and had confirmed his suspicions.
"So what did
Savil say?" he replied, closing his weary eyes, and shifting a bit so that
he wasn't resting so much of his weight on Tylendel's arm. Tylendel responded
by holding him a little closer.
"That she can't understand why we haven't had at least
one fight," Tylendel said, laughing a little. "She says we're
sickening."
"She has a point," Vanyel conceded, with a ghost
of a chuckle. "We are, a bit."
"She told me she can't understand how we stay so
dotingly devoted to each other. She says we act like a couple of spaniels—you
know, kick 'em, and they just come back begging to be kicked again—only worse,
because we aren't kicking each other."
"She just doesn't realize," Vanyel said, sobered
by a moment of introspection. "'Lendel, there is no way I'd fight with
you, when any moment my father might find out about us and pull me home. I
couldn't bear the idea of our last words being angry ones. I have to make every
moment we have together a good memory."
"Don't let it eat at you," Tylendel interrupted.
"You're sixteen now; I'm seventeen. It's only two years before you're of
age. We'll be all right so long as you can keep your end of things going with
Lord Evan."
Vanyel sighed. "Gods, gods, two years—it seems like
forever. It seems like it's been years already. I just can't imagine coming to
the end of this."
Tylendel stroked his hair, his hand as light as a breath of
wind. "You'll manage, ashke. You're stronger than
you think. I sometimes think you're stronger than I am. I doubt I could be
dealing successfully with the plate you've been handed. And whether or not you
believe this, I think I depend as much on you as you do on me. Gala says so."
"She does?" Vanyel's voice rose with his surprise.
"Really?"
"Frequently." He sighed, and Vanyel wondered why.
There were times when it seemed that there were some serious points of
disagreement between Gala and her Chosen, usually involving Tylendel's tacit
and unshakable support of his twin. Vanyel personally couldn't see what all the
fuss was about. Even if 'Lendel hadn't had the close bond he did with Staven,
even if Wester Leshara hadn't connived the painful suicide of 'Lendel's mother,
it would still have been his duty to support Staven. Even though Vanyel himself
had a rather bitter and uncomfortable relationship with his own brother,
Mekeal, if it came to an interHouse confrontation there was no doubt in his
mind where he would stand, and he knew Mekeal was likely to feel the same. And
given how much Tylendel owed to his brother for supporting him in the face of all opposition—well, Vanyel couldn't see
what else he could do, in all decency and
honor.
But then, there was a great deal about all this
"Herald" business he didn't understand. For instance—
"'Lendel, if we make it that far—all the way to when
you get your Whites—"
"'If?' Don't think in terms of 'if,' love,"
Tylendel chided, softly. "It may not be easy, but we'll make it. Havens, I
should talk about not being easy, when it's you that is having to take the
worse share on your shoulders. But I'll help you, I'll help you all I can, and
we will see this through to
the other side."
"Well, what's going to happen with us? When you get
your Whites and I'm of age—what then?"
There was a long pause, and Tylendel's hand stopped moving,
resting on the back of his neck. "That's the easy part, really. First
thing, you make up your mind about exactly what you want to do about Lord
Withen. I mean, you could flat tell him about us, or you could just—let him
find out. Whichever way you want. At that point the worst he could do is disown
you, and you know everything I have is
yours for the asking. The Circle won't stint me; I'll have more than enough to
support two."
"He probably will disown me," Vanyel said
bitterly. "Which will mean I'll have to ask, 'Lendel."
"So? We're partners, aren't we? It won't be charity, ashke; it'll be sharing."
Vanyel squelched the automatic retort that it would still feel like charity. "All right, assume I've told my father
and I'm free to do what I want. Then what?"
"After that, Savil will turn the lovebirds over to
another Herald and take me—us—out on a Field assignment. Us, because obviously
I won't go without you; Savil knows that, so it's a given. That's a year, or
thereabouts. But then—I don't know. I'm a Herald-Mage trainee; they usually
give us permanent positions rather than having us ride circuit like the
straight Heralds do. They'll probably put me either here at Haven, or out along
the Border at the places where magic is needed. Down by White Foal Pass, around
the edge of the Pelagirs—"
"Why? That's something that has me baffled. Why?"
Vanyel asked. "I mean, why are you going to do what somebody else wants?
Why do you have to go where they say? Who are 'they,'
anyway?"
"'They'—that's the Heraldic Circle. Queen's Own,
Seneschal's Herald, Lord-Marshal's Herald, the speaker for the Heralds with
trainees—that's Savil—the speaker for the Herald-Mages and the speaker for the
Heralds on circuit. And the Queen, of course, and the Heir. They're the ones
who decide where Heralds and Herald-Mages will serve and what they'll do.
That's—that's just the way it is. Van, I don't understand you now." There was hurt in Tylendel's voice. "Don't
you want to go with me?"
"Oh, gods—" Vanyel groped for Tylendel's free
hand, and held it tightly. "'Lendel, I didn't mean that. I'd rather lose
my arms and legs than lose you. I'll go wherever you go, and glad to. I'm just
trying to get all this to make sense. Why are you doing this,
going where they tell you, doing what they tell you to do? Why is this—Herald
stuff—so important to you?"
Vanyel could almost feel Tylendel fumbling after the right
words. "It's, I don't know, it's a kind of hunger. I can't help it. I've
got these abilities, these Gifts, and I can't not use them. I couldn't sit
here, knowing that there were people out there who need exactly the kind of
help I can give them and not make the effort to find them and take care of
them. It's like backing Staven—it's just something I could not even see myself not doing. I can't explain it, Van, I can't. I have to, or—or
I'm not me anymore."
Vanyel just shook his head a little. "All right, I'll
accept that. But I still can't really grasp it," he confessed. "Giving
up everything to play nursemaid to a pack of people you don't even know. Won't
you have any life of your own? Who are these hypothetical people that need you,
that you're sacrificing your whole life for them?"
"Huh," Tylendel said, "You sound just like
Stav—"
Suddenly he went rigid; "Staven?" he whispered.
"Stav—"
Then his entire body convulsed as he screamed Staven's name.
And the night erupted into chaos around them.
The scream went on and on, filling the entire universe with
pain and loss. An unbearable pressure rose around them, and shattered, all in
the moment, the eternity of that scream. The still air churned, and began
pummeling them with fists of heat and turbulence.
Gala scrambled to her feet; Vanyel caught and held his
lover, trying to support him as he thrashed in uncontrolled spasms. Tylendel's
forehead cracked against the bridge of his nose; he saw stars and tasted blood,
but gritted his teeth against the pain and held on.
A gale-force wind sprang up out of the confusion and chaos.
It went howling about them, moving outward in a spiral, nearly tearing the
clothes from Vanyel's body as it passed. Tylendel was—glowing; angry red light
pulsed around him. In it, Vanyel could see his face set in a mask of madness.
His teeth were clenched in a grimace of pain, and there was no sense in his
eyes, no sign of intelligence.
The trees closest to them literally exploded in a shower of
splinters; those farther away spasmed in convulsions much like Tylendel's
before they began tearing themselves apart.
The wind picked up in strength; trees farther away began
thrashing and the wind spiraled outward a little farther than it had a moment
before. The light surrounding Tylendel—and now Vanyel—throbbed, ebbing and
strengthening with each paroxysm of his body. And something frighteningly like
lightning was crackling off the edges of that glow, striking at random all
about them. Where it hit, the effect was exactly like natural lightning; trees
split, and the ground was scorched and pitted.
The wind was scouring the earth bare, making projectiles of
dead needles and bits of wood. Even the ground was shuddering, heaving like a
horse trying to throw a rider.
Vanyel held Tylendel as tightly as he could, looking wildly
about for Gala. Finally he saw her, off on the edge of the circle of chaos.
She, too, was glowing, bluely; the edge of her glow seemed to be deflecting the
debris and the lightning, but it looked as if she was unable to do anything.
Not that she wasn't trying—she stretched her neck out toward her Chosen, her
eyes bright and terrible with distress—but all she seemed able to do was shield
herself. She couldn't even get near them.
"Gala!" Vanyel shouted, over the screaming of the
wind, restraining Tylendel as his lover spasmed in another convulsion.
"Get help! Get Savil!" He couldn't think. If Gala were helpless to do
anything, Savil was the only possible source of aid.
She shook her head; tried to force her way through the gale
toward them, but was actually pushed back by whatever force was controlling the
raging wind. She tried twice more; twice more was shoved farther back, as the
circle of destruction grew. Finally she reared, screamed like a terrified
human, and pivoted on her hind feet, then sprang off into the darkness.
Vanyel closed his eyes and clasped Tylendel against his
chest, trying to protect him from the wind, trying to keep him from hurting
himself as he continued to convulse. He was well beyond fear; his mind numb,
his mouth dry, his heart pounding—praying for an end to this, praying for help.
He couldn't think, couldn't move—all he could do was stay.
'Lendel,
I'm here—he
thought, as hard as he could, hoping somehow that Tylendel would
"hear" him.
'Lendel, come back to me—
The trainee spasmed once more, his back arcing—and suddenly,
it was over. The light vanished, and with it, the wind. The ground settled—and
there was nothing but a deadly silence, hollow darkness, and the weight of his
lover's unmoving body in Vanyel's arms.
"'Lendel?" He shook Tylendel's shoulders, and bit
back a moan when he got no response. "Oh, gods—" Tylendel was still
breathing, but it was strange, shallow breathing—and the trainee's skin was
clammy and almost cold.
A moment later Savil and two other Heralds came pounding up
on their Companions, mage-lights glowing over their heads. By their light,
Vanyel could see that Tylendel was limp and completely unconscious, his head
lolling back, his eyes rolled up under half-open lids. He swallowed down fear,
as Savil slid off Kellan's back without waiting for her to come to a full stop,
landing heavily and stumbling to them. As the light of the pulsing balls
strengthened, Vanyel saw with shock that there was not so much as a single pine
seedling left standing in what had been a healthy grove of trees.
"I—I-I d-d-don't know what h-h-happened," he
stuttered, as Savil went to her knees beside them, pulled open Tylendel's
eyelids and checked his pulse, her face gray and grim in the blue light of her
globe. The other two Heralds dismounted slowly, looking about them at the destruction
with expressionless faces. "He was a-a-all right one minute, and then—Aunt
Savil, please, I d-d-didn't do this
t-t-t-to him—did I?"
"No, lad," she said absently. "Jaysen, come
over here and confirm, will you?"
The taller of the two Heralds knelt beside Savil and made
the same examination she had. "Backlash shock," he said succinctly.
"Bad. Best thing we can do for him is get him in a bed and put someone he
trusts with him."
"What I thought," she replied, getting to her feet
and motioning to the older Herald to come help Jaysen take up the unconscious
trainee. "No, Vanyel, it had nothing to do with you." She finally looked at him. "Did you know your nose is
broken?"
"It is?" he replied, mind still fogged with fear
for Tylendel.
"It is. Hold still; Jaysen's got just about enough of
the Healing Gift to do something—"
The tall, bleached-looking Herald freed a hand from his task
just long enough to touch his face. There was an odd tugging sensation, and a
flash of pain that sent him blind for a moment, then numbness.
Savil looked him over briefly. "Good enough; it'll hurt
like hell for the next few days, but it'll heal up straight. We'll wash the
blood off your face later. Jaysen, Rolf, get 'Lendel back to my quarters; this
isn't anything a Healer's going to be able to treat. We'll take care of him
ourselves."
"Aunt, please, what happened?" He staggered to his
feet, holding Tylendel's hand tightly as the other two picked him up, still
limp as a broken doll and showing no signs of consciousness. He was not willing
to let go until he knew what was wrong.
Savil gently loosed his fingers from their grip. "If
what we got from Gala is right—the moment he went mad is the moment someone
assassinated his twin," she said angrily. "You know the bond he had with
Staven."
Vanyel nodded, and his whole face throbbed.
"He felt it; felt the death, knew what had happened.
Lost all control, lost his mind for a while, like the fits he used to
have—only, I think, worse this time. Now he's depleted himself down to next to
nothing, his whole body's in collapse from the energies he put through it, his
mind's in trauma from Staven's death. That's backlash shock."
Vanyel wasn't sure he understood, but nodded anyway.
Savil's face darkened to pure rage. "May all the gods
damn those fools and their feuding! Death after death, and still they aren't satisfied! Van, our job is to
see we don't lose Tylendel as well."
"Lose him?" Vanyel's voice broke, and he looked
wildly after the Heralds and their unconscious burden. "Oh no—oh gods—Aunt,
tell me what to do, I can't let him—"
"I don't intend to let him die," she interrupted
him. pushing him after the other Heralds. "The masquerade has been
canceled, and to hell with what your father finds out; I'll deal with Withen
myself, and I'll keep you here if I have to get the Queen's order to do it. You
go with them, and don't you leave him, no matter what happens." Savil bit
her lip, and gave Vanyel another push when he looked at her with a fear that
held him nearly paralyzed. "Go—go on. He needs you, lad—like he's never
needed anyone before. You're my only hope of getting him through this sane."
He stayed there for the rest of the night; unable to sleep,
unable to even think very clearly. Tylendel looked ghastly; his skin had gone
transparent and waxy, there was no muscle tone in the hand Vanyel held, and the
only thing showing he was alive was the shallow movement of his chest as he
breathed.
Savil looked in once or twice during the night, but said
nothing. Mardic came in at dawn to try to persuade him to get some rest, but
Vanyel only shook his head stubbornly. He would not, he could not, rest; until he knew that Tylendel
would be all right.
Savil left for a Council session—probably dealing with the
feud—right after sunrise; with some reluctance, Mardic and Donni departed for
their lessons a couple of candlemarks later. When Mardic failed to convince
Vanyel to rest, Donni had tried to talk him into some food. He'd refused that
as well, suspecting that—with all the best intentions in the world—she might
have slipped something into it to make him sleep.
"'Lendel, they've gone," he said, when he heard
the door open and close, just to have some other sound in the room besides
Tylendel's breathing. "It's just you and me. 'Lendel, you have to come
back—please. I need you, 'Lendel." He
laughed, right on the edge of hysteria. "Look, you know yourself that I'm
too far behind on my History for Mardic to help me."
He thought—maybe—he saw a flicker of response. His heart
leapt, and he continued talking, coaxing, reciting bits of Tylendel's favorite
poems—anything to bring him out of that unnatural sleep. He talked until his
mouth and throat were dry, talked his voice into a harsh croak, left just long
enough to get water, and returned to begin the monologue again. He lost track
of what he was saying, somewhere around mid-afternoon; he was vaguely aware of
someone checking on them, but ignored the other presences to keep up the flow
of words. For by afternoon, there was no doubt; there was some change going on
in Tylendel's condition, and for the better. He didn't know if it was the
talking that was doing it, but he couldn't take any chances. He just kept
holding to Tylendel's hand, saying anything that came into his head, however
foolish-sounding.
Sunset arrived, turning the river beyond the windows briefly
to a sword of flame; the light faded, the room darkened, and still he refused
to move. Savil came in long enough to light the candles and whisper
something—that he was doing the right thing, he thought, he wasn't sure. He
didn't care; his whole world had narrowed to the white face resting on the
pillow, and the slowly warming hand in his.
His eyes grew heavy, and his whole body ached, and his voice
had thinned down to a whisper not even he could make out. He finally put his
head down on his arms, intending to just rest for a moment—
And woke, feeling a hand tentatively caressing his hair. He
started, jerking his head up off the coverlet, making his face pulse with pain.
Tylendel regarded him out of blue-ringed, weary eyes; eyes
so full of anguish and loss that Vanyel nearly started weeping. "I heard
you," he whispered. "I heard you, I just didn't have the strength to
answer. Van—Staven—"
His face crumpled, and Vanyel slid off the chair and onto the
side of the bed, talking him into his arms and holding him as tightly as he
could; supporting him against his shoulder, giving him what little comfort his
presence would give. Tylendel's body shook with sobs and he clung to Vanyel as
to the only source of consolation left to him in the entire world, and Vanyel
wept with him.
They finally fell asleep like that; true sleep, not the
state of shock Tylendel had been in—Vanyel still fully clothed and sprawled
between his chair and the side of the bed; Tylendel clinging to him like a
heartbroken child.
Tylendel looked nauseated and shook his head.
"Can't," he whispered hoarsely.
"You mean 'won't,'" Vanyel retorted almost as
hoarsely, trying to ignore the fact that talking made the whole of his face
ache. "You've gone all day without food. Savil says if you don't get
something down, you'll go into backlash shock again. I didn't spend all that
time talking you out to have you drop back in again. Now eat, dammit!" He
crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Tylendel. The trainee eased
a little higher up on the pillows supporting him in a sitting position and
tried to shove the tray away. Unfortunately he was so weak he couldn't even
lift it; he just moved it a palm-length away. Vanyel put it back precisely
where he had placed it the first time.
Tylendel gave the perfectly good soup on the tray a look
that would have been better bestowed on a bowl of pig swill, but picked up the
spoon anyway. He swallowed the first spoonful with the air of someone who
expects what he's just eaten to make a precipitate reappearance, but when
nothing happened, gingerly ventured a second mouthful, and a third.
Vanyel sat warily on the edge of the bed, careful not to
overset the tray between them. There was something very different about
Tylendel since he'd reawakened—something secretive, but at the same time,
impassioned. He could sense it in every word they'd exchanged. He thought he
knew what it was, but he wanted to be sure.
"They're afraid I'm going to go mad, you know,"
Tylendel whispered in a matter-of-fact tone when he was about halfway through
the bowl.
"I know," Vanyel replied, just as
matter-of-factly, sensing that the secret was about to be revealed.
"That's why they have me here. Are you?"
Tylendel looked up from his meal, and there was that
strange, burning something Vanyel had felt
searing sullenly at the back of his eyes. "They might think so. Van,
you've got to help me."
"You didn't have to ask," Vanyel replied soberly.
"Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you.'
"Vengeance." The thing at the back of his eyes
flared for a moment, before subsiding into half-hidden, secretive smoldering
again.
Vanyel nodded. This was rather what he had expected. If
Tylendel wanted revenge—"Tell me. If I can do it, I will."
Tylendel slumped back on the pillows piled behind him, his
head tilted back a little, his eyes closed, his features gone slack with
relief. "Oh, gods—Van—I thought—"
"Eat," Vanyel growled. "I've told you before
this that I understand, even if Savil doesn't. The only question I've got is how you think two half-grown, half-trained
younglings are going to get revenge on people who live a good fortnight away by
fast horse. I assume you've got an answer for that problem."
Tylendel opened his eyes and nodded soberly, but the spoon
was still lying in the bowl of soup where he'd left it—and Vanyel was
concentrating on the more immediate goal of getting him back on his feet. He'd
worry about this plan when Tylendel was in shape to execute it, and not before.
"Dammit, 'Lendel, if you don't eat, I won't help you!"
Tylendel started guiltily, and leaned forward again to
finish his meal.
Vanyel stole his mug long enough to get a sip of wine. His
face hurt as badly as it looked, and when he'd taken one glance in the mirror,
he'd had to look away again. His circle of admirers would have little to sigh
over at the moment. He looked like he was wearing a black-and-blue domino mask
and a putty nose. And he hurt. Gods, he hurt. The only reason he'd slept at
all, once he'd comforted Tylendel last night, was because he'd been utterly,
utterly exhausted.
"Did I do that?" Tylendel asked softly, finally
looking at his face, as he scraped the last spoonful of soup from the bottom of
the bowl.
Vanyel nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. "You
weren't exactly yourself," he said, taking the tray away and stretching
across Tylendel to put it on the table beside the bed.
"Oh, gods—Van, I'm sorry—" The smothered fury faded
from Tylendel's eyes for a moment, and was replaced by concern as he reached in
the direction of Vanyel's nose. The concern was replaced by hurt as Vanyel
winced away.
"Touch me anywhere but there; it hurts bloody awful and it wasn't your fault, all right?"
To counteract that flash of hurt in Tylendel's eyes, he moved closer, close
enough to give 'Lendel a quick hug before taking his hand in both his own.
"Now—you want to talk? I think maybe it's my turn to listen."
The deeply-buried fire returned, warring with anguish in his
expression. "That link between Staven and me—it was different from what
they think. Most of the time distance matters in a link like that, distance
makes it weaker. It never did, for us. But Savil thought it did, and I let her
go on thinking that. She would have been on me to break it, otherwise." He
tensed, and closed his eyes; Vanyel held his hand a little more tightly.
"All I ever had to do was think about him for him to be with me; it was the same for him. They—the Leshara—they ambushed
him; killed his escort. Killed him. And it wasn't just an assassination, Van. They used magic."
Vanyel felt his mouth drop open. "They what? How? How
could a Herald—"
"It wasn't a Herald. They've hired a mage from
outKingdom. They turned some—things—loose on the Holding.
Magic monsters, maybe from the Pelagirs. Staven went after them with an escort;
but when he got there, they were gone. He must have spent all day trying to
track them down, and just exhausting himself, the fighters, and their horses.
That's when the mage brought them back and ambushed Staven with them."
Tylendel's eyes were horrible, like he was looking into hell. "These
things, they hurt him before they killed
him; hurt him awfully. On purpose; on their master's orders. I think on
Leshara's orders. I can't tell you—"
He shuddered. "Stav reached for me—he reached for me
through the link—Van, I was with him, I felt him die!"
He gripped Vanyel's hand so tightly that both their hands went white, and his
voice quavered.
"He knew I was there with him; he knew it the moment I
linked. Thank the gods—he knew he wasn't alone. But the last thing, the very
last thing he did was to beg me, plead with me, to pay them back."
His eyes opened, and they no longer smoldered; they flamed with fury and pain.
"I promised him, Van. I promised
him. Those bastards killed Staven—but they won't get away with it."
Vanyel met that fury, and bowed before it. "I told you,
'Lendel," he replied quietly. "Just ask."
"Oh, love—" the voice broke on a sob, and Vanyel
looked up to see tears trickling down Tylendel's cheek. "I shouldn't get
you into this—gods, I shouldn't. It isn't fair, it isn't right. You've got no
stake in this."
"You told me yourself that we're partners, that whatever
you had I'd share," Vanyel replied, as forcefully as he could. "That
means the bad as well as the good, by my
way of thinking." Now it was his turn to fumble in the drawer of the
bedside table for a handkerchief. "Here," he said, pressing it into
Tylendel's hand. "Now, tell me what you want me to do."
Tylendel scrubbed the tears away, his hand shaking. "We
can't let Gala know what we're doing; she'd try to stop me. I can block her
from knowing, I've already blocked her from knowing about the link to Staven.
I'll—play sick—"
"You are sick; look at your
hand shake."
Tylendel looked at the trembling of his hands with a certain
amount of surprise. "Sicker, then. Too sick to do anything but lie here.
What I need you to do is to sneak into Savil's room and get me two books.
They're proscribed; nobody except very high-level Herald-Mages are even
supposed to know they exist, and Savil is one of only three here at Haven who
have copies."
Vanyel felt stirrings of misgiving. "In that case,
won't they be locked up?"
The corner of Tylendel's mouth twitched. "Oh, they are.
She's got them under protections. But
the protections don't work against someone with no Mage-Gift."
"What?" Vanyel's jaw dropped again.
"Margret has to get in there and clean, so Savil only
put up a protection against someone with a Mage-Gift touching them. That way
Margret can handle them and put them away if she leaves them out by accident.
She figured nobody without the Gift would ever know what to look for. So you can get them, even though I can't."
"Now?" Vanyel asked dubiously.
Tylendel shook his head. "No, I can't—can't handle much
of anything right now. Later—" He choked, and whispered, "Oh,
gods—Staven—"
His breath caught again, and this time he couldn't control
himself. He dissolved into hopeless sobbing, and Vanyel turned his attention
instantly from plans of revenge to comfort.
Vanyel shrugged, and obliged, opening the ordinary-looking
book to the first page.
The ruse had worked admirably well; Tylendel had feigned a
far greater weakness than he actually felt, and all Savil had shown was simple
concern that he rest as much as possible. She hadn't evidenced any signs that
she thought his recovery was taking overlong; she hadn't even brought in a
Healer when Vanyel had tentatively suggested (as a test) that Tylendel didn't
seem to be improving that much.
"Backlash is a nasty thing, lad," she'd said with
a sigh. "Takes weeks to bounce back from it; months, sometimes. I didn't
expect him to come out of this as well as he did, and I think perhaps I've got you to thank for it."
Vanyel had blushed, and mumbled something deprecating. Savil
had ruffled his hair and told him to get back to his charge, and not be an
idiot. In a way, he'd felt a bit guilty at that moment, knowing what he knew,
knowing that they were plotting something she wouldn't have permitted.
But she couldn't possibly understand, he told himself for
the hundredth time. She
couldn't possibly. She cut her family ties long ago, and they were never that
strong to begin with. From time to time the strength of Tylendel's desire for
revenge frightened him a little, but he told himself that it was Tylendel who was within his
rights in this.
And when the thought occurred that his lover had grown to be
obsessed with his revenge, he dismissed the thought as unworthy. Unworthy of 'Lendel,
of Staven. This wasn't revenge—it was justice. Certainly the Heralds hadn't
made any move toward dealing with the Leshara.
This afternoon Savil had scheduled Donni and Mardic for the
Work Room, and threatened murder on anyone who interrupted her this time. With the coast thus completely
cleared, Vanyel had slipped into her room.
The books, so Tylendel had told him, would be in a small
bookcase built into the wall beside the door that led to her own work room.
He'd felt a chill of apprehension when he'd found the two volumes Tylendel
wanted on the top shelf. He'd reached for them, expecting any moment to be
flung across the room or fried by a lightning bolt.
But nothing had happened.
He'd returned to the bedroom where Tylendel waited, tucked
up in bed with pen and paper. He slipped in furtively, clutching the books to
his chest and shutting the door behind him.
Tylendel's fierce look of joy as he placed the books on the
coverlet sent a shiver down his spine that he told himself was a thrill of
accomplishment.
"What are you looking for?" he asked curiously,
turning the pages slowly, Tylendel nodding to signal when he should.
"Two spells. We don't use spells a lot, but that
doesn't mean they don't work," Tylendel said absently. "They do, and
they work really well for somebody with a Mage-Gift as strong as the one I've
got. Savil says I can pull energy out of rocks—well, most of us can't, so
that's why we don't use spells much. The first one I want is something called a
'Gate'; it'll let us cover that distance from here to the Leshara lands in
under an hour."
"You have got to be joking,"
Vanyel replied in disbelief. "I've never heard of anything like that."
"Herald-Mages would rather that people didn't know they
could do that—really, only the best of them can; Savil can, and she said once
that I should be able to, and Mardic and Donni if they ever learn how to work
together. Most of the ones that can, won't, if they're on their
own. That's because to do it, you need a lot of energy; it takes everything a
mage has, and then what's he going to do when he gets where he wants to go?"
"Good point; what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to borrow your energy—if—you'll let me—" Tylendel faltered, and
looked up from the book in entreaty.
Vanyel firmed his chin. "What do you mean, 'if'? Of course you can borrow it,
what other good am I going to do?"
"Gods—ashke, ashke, I don't deserve you," Tylendel said
softly, half-smiling, his voice shaking in a way that told Vanyel he was on the
verge of tears again.
"It's the other way around, love," Vanyel replied,
cutting him off. "Who was it kept me from—killing myself by inches? Who
showed me what happiness was about? Who loves me when nobody else does? Hmm?"
"Who blacked your eyes, broke your nose, and nearly
fractured your ankle?"
"Well, that proves it, doesn't it?" Vanyel
retorted, trying to make a feeble joke. "They say if you don't hurt, you
don't love."
Tylendel shook his head. "I—gods, don't let me go all
to pieces again. Vanyel-ashke, I could never hope to do this without you. There's no
one else that I would trust in this that could help me with a Gate-spell—and
Van, I should warn you, you're going to feel damn seedy afterward; like you've
had a case of backlash to match mine."
"Can you borrow this stuff?" Vanyel interrupted
dubiously. "I mean, I don't have any Mage-Gifts or anything."
"Not active; you've got something, you've got the
potential, but it's locked. I wouldn't have known, but I think we're linking a
little, on a deeper level than Savil and I have—or even Gala and I. It's more
like what I had with my twin; it isn't conscious, but—I know you know when I'm—"
"—unhappy," Vanyel finished for him, thoughtfully.
"And other things. Uh-huh, I think you're right. I thought it might just
be because I'm worried about you, but it seems to be going farther than that.
Like last night, when I woke you up before you'd barely started to nightmare."
Tylendel nodded. "So I think we're linking, I think it
happened some time between when I started the fit and when I came out of the
backlash coma. I can feel—something—in you.. Something very deep, but very
strong. That's when I thought about the Gate-spell, and I used OtherSight on
you. I sort of felt the link, and then I saw you had Mage-energies I could tap
into using that link."
"Gods—'Lendel, don't tell me I'm going to turn into a Herald-Mage," he
said, alarmed by the very idea.
"If you haven't by now, it isn't too bloody
likely," Tylendel replied, to his profound relief. "Savil says a lot
of people have the potential, but nothing ever triggers it. You've just got the
potential."
"So don't trigger it,"
Vanyel replied, shivering with an unexplained drill. "I don't want to be a Herald or a Herald-Mage, or
anything like them."
Tylendel gave him an odd look, but only said, "I doubt I
could, even if you wanted it. There's stories that there's a couple of
Mage-schools that know how to trigger potential, but nobody I know has ever
seen it done, so even if it's possible the people that can do it are keeping
the means a deep secret."
"Good," Vanyel replied, still fighting down his
chill of apprehension. "That's exactly the way I want it. So—you make this
Gate thing. Then what?"
"When we get to the other side of the Gate, we'll be on
Leshara land; right on top of the keep, if I can manage it. I'll use the other
spell I'm looking for—and that will be the end of it."
Vanyel suddenly knew, without knowing how
he knew, that he did not want to know what this
"other spell" was.
"Fine," he replied shortly, turning another page.
"You keep looking. Just tell me when to stop."
Vanyel stared nervously at his own reflection in the
window—a specter, pale and indistinct; ghostlike, with dark hollows for eyes.
Beyond the glass, night blanketed the gardens; a moonless night, a night of
wind and cloud and no light at all, not even starlight.
Sovvan-night; the night of celebration of the harvest, but
also the night set apart for remembering the dead of the year past. The night
when—so most traditions held—the Otherworld was closer than on any other night.
A night of profound darkness, like the one a moon ago when Staven had been
slain.
Savil was with the rest of the Heralds, mourning their dead of the year. Donni and Mardic,
having no one in need of remembrance, were with some of the other trainees at a
Palace fete, indulging in a certain amount of the superstitious foolery
associated with Harvestfest that was also a part of Sovvan-night, at least for
the young.
Lord Evan Leshara had gone home to Westrel Keep. Presumably
well satisfied with himself. There was no doubt in Vanyel's mind that Lord Evan
had somehow extracted enough good information from what had been fed to him to
deduce exactly what bait would serve best to lure Staven to his death. They had
tried to use him—and had ended up being used by him.
And that was a blackly bitter thought.
Tylendel and Vanyel had been left alone in the suite—
Tylendel and Vanyel would not be mewed up in the suite much
longer.
"Are you ready?" Tylendel asked from the door
behind him.
Vanyel nodded, and pulled the hood of his dark blue cloak up
over his head, trying not to shiver at his own reflection. With the hood
shrouding his face, he looked like an image of Death itself. Then Tylendel
moved silently to his side, and there were two
of the hooded figures reflected in the clouded glass; Death, and Death's Shadow.
He shook his head to free it of such ominous thoughts, as
Tylendel opened the door and they stepped out into the cold, blustering night.
This morning he had slipped out into Haven and bought a pair
of nondescript horses from a down-at-the-heels beast-trader, using most of the
coin he and Tylendel had managed to scrape together over the past three weeks.
He'd taken them off into the west end of the city and stabled them at an inn
just outside the city wall.
Tylendel had told Vanyel that before he worked the spell to
take them within striking distance of the Leshara holding, he wanted to be out
of the easy sensing range of the Herald-Mages. They needed transportation, but
it didn't matter how broken-down the beasts were; their horses only needed to
last long enough to get them an hour's ride out of the city. After that it
wouldn't matter what became of them.
Obviously, riding Gala was totally out of the question. They
weren't taking Star or "borrowing" any of the true horses from the
Palace stables, because if their absence were noticed, Tylendel didn't want any
suspicions aroused until it was too late to stop them. Vanyel had concurred
without an argument; if they couldn't force their mounts through Tylendel's
Gate—and the trainee had indicated that they might not be able to or might not
want to—they were going to have to turn them loose to fend for themselves. He
didn't want to lose Star, and he didn't want to be responsible for the loss of
anyone else's prized mount, either.
The ice-edged wind caught at their cloaks, finding all the
openings and cutting right through the heavy wool itself. Vanyel was shivering
long before they slipped past the Gate Guard at the Palace gates and on out
into the streets of the city. The Guard was preoccupied with warming himself at
the charcoal brazier beside the gate; he didn't seem to notice them as they
hugged the shadows of the side of the gate farthest from him and took to the
cobblestoned street beyond.
Now they were out in the wealthiest district of the city.
The high buildings on either side of them served only to funnel the wind right
at them, or so it seemed. Tylendel, who was still not entirely steady on his
feet, grabbed Vanyel's arm and hung on. Vanyel could feel him shivering, partly
with cold, but from the way his eyes were gleaming in the shadows of his hood,
partly also with excitement.
These mansions of the wealthy and highborn were mostly dark
tonight; the inhabitants were either at Temple services or attending the
Harvestfest gathering at the Palace. Vanyel had not received an invitation—and although he was anything but
displeased, he wasn't entirely certain why he had not. His apparent about-face
with regard to Tylendel had confused not only his own little circle, but the
trainees and Heralds as well. And no one had enlightened them; Savil had
reckoned that keeping the rumormongers confused would keep the real story from
reaching Withen for a while and buy them additional time.
Assuming Lord Evan hadn't told him, just for the pure spite
of making things difficult for Tylendel and Tylendel's lover. It would suit the
man's character.
Vanyel thought briefly of the Sovvan-fete he was missing. It
was possible that those in charge of the festivities had assumed he would be
staying at Tylendel's side, especially tonight. It was also possible that they
blamed him for Tylendel's condition (Mardic had reported several stories to
that effect) and were "punishing" him for his conduct.
Whatever the reason, this had proved to be too good an
opportunity to slip out undetected to let pass by.
They turned a corner, and the buildings changed; now they
were smaller, crowded closer together, and no longer hidden behind walls. Each
had candles in the otherwise darkened windows—another Sovvan-custom. It was by
the light of these candles that the two were finding their way; the torches
that usually illuminated the street by night had long since blown out.
Tylendel had been growing increasingly strange and withdrawn
in the past several days since Vanyel had purloined Savil's magic books for
him. Vanyel would wake up in the middle of the night to find him huddled in the
chair, studying his handwritten copies of the two spells with fanatic and
feverish concentration. During waking hours he would often stare for hours at
nothing, or at a candleflame, and his conversation had become monosyllabic. The
only time he seemed anything like his old self was when he'd begin a nightmare
and Vanyel would wake him from it; then he would cry for a while on Vanyel's
shoulder, and afterward talk until they both fell asleep again. Then he sounded like the old Tylendel—not
afraid to share his grief or his fears with the one he loved. But when day
arrived, he would be back inside his shell, and nothing Vanyel would do or say
could seem to crack that barrier.
Vanyel had long since begun to think that he would never be his old self again until his revenge
had been accomplished, and he had begun to long for that moment with a fervor
that nearly equaled his lover's.
They reached the sector of shops and inns long before they
saw another human out on the streets, and that was only the Nightwatch. The
patrol of two men gave them hardly more than a passing glance; they were
obviously unarmed except for knives, were too well-dressed to be street-toughs,
and not flashy enough to be young high-borns out to find some trouble. The two
men of the Watch gave them nearly simultaneous nods, curt and preoccupied, nods
which they returned as the light from the Watchlantern in the hands of the
rightmost one fell on them. Satisfied by what they saw, the Watch passed on,
and so did they, bootheels clattering on the cobbles.
Here the buildings were only one or two stories tall, and
the wind howled and ramped about them unimpeded. The quality and state of
repair of these buildings—mostly shops, inns, lodging-houses and workshops—
declined steadily and rapidly as they neared the west city-wall of Haven.
The Guards on the great gates of Haven were not in evidence
tonight, although there was a viewport in the wall, and Vanyel could almost
feel eyes on him as they passed below it. Obviously the Guards found as little
to alarm them in the two younglings as the Watch had; they passed out under the
wall with no challenge whatsoever.
Once outside the west wall, they were in the lowest district
in the city. Vanyel led the way to the ramshackle inn where he'd left their
sorry nags; fighting the wind every inch of the way, as it nearly tore the
edges of his cloak out of his half-frozen hands.
The Red Nose Inn was brightly lit and full to bursting with
roisterers; Vanyel heard their out-of-tune singing and hoarse laughter even
over the moaning of the wind as they passed by the open door. Smoke and light
alike spilled out that door, and the wind carried a random puff of the smoke
into their eyes as they passed, a noisome smudge that made them cough and their
eyes water for a moment before cleaner air whipped it out of their faces again.
They ignored that open door and passed around the side of the inn to the dirty
courtyard and the stabling area.
There was a single, half-drunk groom on duty, slumped on a
stack of hay bales by the stable door, illuminated by a feebly burning lantern.
His head lolled on his chest as he snored, smelling, even in this wind, as if
he'd fallen into a vat of cheap beer. Tylendel waited in the shadows beyond
reach of the light from the smoking lantern that had been hung in the lee of
the stable door, while Vanyel shook the man's shoulder until he roused up.
"Eh?" the man grunted, peering into the shadows
under Vanyel's hood in an unsuccessful attempt to make out his features. His
breath was as foul as his clothing; his face was filthy and unshaven, and his
hair hung around his ears in lank, greasy ringlets. "What ye want, then?
Where be yer nags?"
"Already here," Vanyel replied, in a tone as
adult, brusque, and gruff as he could manage. "Here—" He shoved the
claim-chits at the groom, together with two silver pieces. The man stared
stupidly at them for a moment, blinking in surprise, as if he were having
trouble telling the chits from the coins. Then he grinned in sudden
comprehension, displaying a mouthful of half-rotten teeth, and nodded.
"'Nuff celebratin', eh, master? Just ye wait, just ye
wait right here." He shoved the coins and chits together into the pocket
in the front of his stained, oily leather apron, heaved himself up off his
couch of hay bales, and staggered inside the stable door. He emerged a great
deal sooner than Vanyel would have thought possible, leading a pair of
scruffy-looking, nondescript brown geldings that were already saddled and
bridled with patched and worn tack. Vanyel squinted at them in the smoky light,
trying to make out if they were the same ones he'd bought this morning, then realized
that it didn't matter if they were or not. It wasn't as if the horses he'd
purchased were any kind of prize specimens—in fact, if these weren't "his" horses, they were
likely as not to be an improvement over the ones he'd bought!
He took the reins away from the groom without another word,
turned, and led them across the dirt court to where Tylendel was waiting,
huddled against the inn wall in a futile attempt to avoid the biting wind. When
he looked back over his shoulder, he could see that the groom had already
flopped down on the straw bales and resumed his interrupted nap.
He handed Tylendel the reins of the best of the two mounts,
and scrambled into his own saddle. His flea-bitten beast skittered sideways in
an attempt to avoid being mounted, and gave a half-hearted buck as Vanyel
settled into his seat. Vanyel made a fist and gave it a good rap between the
ears; the nag stopped trying to rid itself of its rider and settled down.
The spine of his saddle was broken; the horse itself was
sway backed, and its gait was as rough as he'd ever had the misfortune to
encounter. He hoped, as Tylendel took the lead and they headed down Exile's
Road into the west, that they wouldn't be riding for too very long.
* * *
The wind had died down—at least momentarily—when Tylendel
finally stopped. It was so dark that the only way he really knew that Tylendel
had pulled up was because the sound of hooves on the hard surface of the road
ahead of him stopped. They'd trusted to the fact that Exile's Road was lined on
either side with hedges to keep their sorry beasts on the roadway. He kicked at
his own mount and forced it forward until he could feel the presence of
Tylendel and his horse bulking beside him.
There was a flare of light; Vanyel winced away from it—it
was quite painful after the near-total darkness of the last candlemark or so.
When he could bear to look again, he saw that Tylendel had dismounted and was
leading his horse, a red ball of mage-light bobbing along above his head.
He scrambled off of his own mount, glad enough to be out of
that excruciatingly uncomfortable saddle, snatched the reins of the beast over
its head, and hastened to catch up.
"Are we far enough away yet?" he asked, longing
for even a single word from the trainee to break the silence and tension.
Tylendel's face was drawn and fey, and strained; Tylendel's attention was
plainly somewhere else, his whole aspect wrapped up in the kind of terrifying
concentration that had been all too common to him of late.
"Almost," he replied, after a long and unnerving
silence. His voice had a strange quality to it, as if Tylendel was having to
work to get even a single word out past whatever it was he was concentrating
on. "I'm—looking for something…"
Vanyel shivered, and not from the cold. "What?"
"A place to put the Gate." They came to a break in
the hedge. No—not a break. When Tylendel stopped and led his horse over to it,
Vanyel could see that it was the remains of a gated opening in the hedge, long
since overgrown. Beyond the gap something bulked darkly in the dim illumination
provided by the mage-light. Tylendel nodded slightly. "I thought I
remembered this place," he muttered. He didn't seem to expect a response,
so Vanyel didn't make one.
It was obvious that the horses were not going to be able to
force themselves through so narrow a passage; Tylendel stripped the bridle from
his, hung it on the saddlebow, and gave the gelding a tremendous slap on the
hip that made it snort with surprise and sent it cantering off into the
darkness. Vanyel did the same with his, not
sorry to see it go, and turned away from the road to see that Tylendel had
already forced his way past the gap in the hedge and was now out of sight. Only
the reddish glow of the mage-light through the leafless branches of the
hedgerow showed where he had gone.
Vanyel shoved his way past the branches, cursing as they
caught on his cloak and scratched at his face. When he emerged, staggering,
from the prickly embrace of stubborn bushes, he found that he was standing
knee-deep in weeds, in what had been the yard of a small building. It could
have been anything from a shop to a cottage, but was now going to pieces; the
yard was as overgrown as the gate had been. The building seemed to be entirely
roofless and the door and windows were mere holes in the walls. Tylendel was
examining the remains of the door with care.
The gap where the door had been was a large one, easily
large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Tylendel nodded again, and
this time there was an expression of dour satisfaction on his face. "This
will do," he said softly. "Van, think you're ready?"
Vanyel took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little.
"As ready as I'm ever likely to get," he replied.
Tylendel turned and took both Vanyel's hands in his; he
looked searchingly into Vanyel's eyes for a long moment. "Van, I'm going
to have to force that link between us wide open for this to work. I may hurt
you. I'll try not to, but I can't promise. Are you still willing to help me?"
Vanyel nodded, thinking, I've come this far; it would be stupid to back out at this
point. Besides—he needs this. How can I not give it to him?
Tylendel closed his eyes; his face froze into as impassive a
mask as Vanyel had ever worn. Vanyel waited, trembling a little, for something
to happen.
For a long while, nothing did. Then—
Rage flamed up in him; a consuming, obsessive anger that
left very little room for anything else. One thing mattered: Staven was dead.
One goal drove him: deal the same painful death to Staven's murderers. There
was still a tiny corner of his mind that could think for itself and wonder at
the overwhelming power of Tylendel's fury, but that corner had been locked out
of any position of control.
The truism ran "Pain shared is pain halved"—but
this pain was doubled on being shared.
He turned to face the ancient doorway without any conscious
decision to do so, Tylendel turning even as he did. He saw Tylendel raise his
arms and cast a double handful of something powderlike on the ground before the
door; heard him begin a chant in some strange tongue and hold his now empty
hands, palm outward, to face that similarly empty gap.
He felt something draining out of him, like blood draining
from a wound; and felt that it was taking his strength with it.
The edges of the ruined doorway were beginning to glow, the
same sullen red as the mage-light over Tylendel's head; like the muted red of
embers, as if the edge of the doorway smoldered. As more and more of Vanyel's
energy and strength drained from him, the ragged border brightened, and tiny
threads of angry scarlet wavered from them into the space where the door had
stood. More and more of these threads spun out, waving like water-weeds in a
current, until two of the ends connected across the gap.
There was a surge of force out of him, a surge that nearly
caused his knees to collapse, as the entire gap filled with a flare of
blood-red light—
Then the light vanished—and the gap framed, not a shadowed
blackness, but a garden; a formal garden decorated for a festival, and filled
with people, light and movement.
He had hardly a chance to see this before Tylendel grabbed
his arm and pulled him, stumbling, across the threshold. There was a moment of
total disorientation, as though the world had dropped from beneath his feet,
then—
Sound: laughter, music, shouting. He stood, with Tylendel,
facing that garden he had seen through the ruined doorway, and beyond the
garden, a strange keep. Lanterns bobbed gaily in the branches of a row of trees
that stood between them and the gathered people, and trestle tables, spread
with food and lanterns, were visible on the farther side. Near the trees was a
lighted platform on which a band of motley musicians stood, playing with a
vigor that partially made up for their lack of skill. Before the platform a
crowd of people were dancing in a ring, laughing and singing along with the
music.
Vanyel's knees would not hold him; as soon as Tylendel let
go of his arm, his legs gave way, and he found himself half-kneeling on the
ground, dizzy, weak and nauseated. Tylendel didn't notice; his attention was on
the people dancing.
"They're celebrating," Tylendel whispered,
and the anger Vanyel was inadvertently sharing surged along the link between
them. "Staven's dead, and they're celebrating!"
That small, rational corner still left to Vanyel whispered
that this was only a Harvestfest like any
other; that the Leshara weren't particularly gloating over an enemy's death.
But that logical voice was too faint to be heard over the thunder of Tylendel's
outrage. A wave of dizziness clouded his sight with a red mist, and he could
hear his heart pounding in his ears.
When he could see again, Tylendel had stepped away from him,
and was standing between him and the line of trees with his hands high over his
head. From Tylendel's upraised hands came twin bolts of the same vermilion
lightning that had lashed the pine grove a moon ago. Only this lightning was controlled and directed;
and it cracked across the garden and destroyed the trees standing between him
and the gathered Leshara-kin in less time than it took to blink.
In the wake of the thunderbolt came startled screams; the
music ended in a jangle of snapped strings and the squawk of horns. The dancers
froze, and clutched at each other in clumps of two to five. Tylendel's
mage-light was blazing like a tiny, scarlet sun above his head; his face was
hate-filled and twisted with frenzy. Tears streaked his face; his voice cracked
as he screamed at them.
"He's
dead, you bastards! He's dead, and you're laughing, you're singing! Damn you all,
I'll teach you to sing a different song! You want magic? Well, here's magic for you—"
Vanyel couldn't move; he seemed tethered to the still-glowing
Gate behind him. He could only watch, numbly, as Tylendel raised his hands
again—and this time it was not lightning that crackled from his upraised hands.
A glowing sphere appeared with a sound of thunder, suspended high above him.
About the size of a melon, it hung in the air, rotating slowly, a smoky, sickly
yellow. It grew as it turned, and drifted silently away from Tylendel and
toward the huddled Leshara-folk, descending as it neared them, until it came to
earth in the center of the blasted, blackened place where the trees had been a
moment before.
There it rested; still turning, still growing, until it had
swelled to twice the height of a man.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, it burst.
Another wave of disorientation washed over him; Vanyel
blinked eyes that didn't seem to be focusing properly. Where the globe had
rested there seemed to be a twisting, twining mass of shadow-shapes, shapes as
fluid as ink, as sinuous as snakes, shapes that were there and not there at one and the same time.
Then they slid apart, those shapes, separating into five
writhing mist-forms. They solidified—
If some mad god had mated a viper and a coursing-hound, and
grown the resulting offspring to the size of a calf, the result might have looked something like the five
creatures snarling and flowing lithely around one another in the gleaming of
Tylendel's mage-light. In color they were a smoky black, with skin that gave an
impression of smooth scales rather than hair. They had long, long necks, too
long by far, and arrowhead-shaped heads that were an uncanny mingling of snake
and greyhound, with yellow, pupilless eyes that glowed in the same way and with
the same shifting color that the globe that had birthed them had glowed. The
teeth in those narrow muzzles were needle-sharp, and as long as a man's thumb.
They had bodies like greyhounds as well, but the legs and tails seemed
unhealthily stretched and unnaturally boneless.
They regarded Tylendel with unwavering, saffron eyes; they
seemed to be waiting for something.
He quavered out a single word, his voice breaking on the
final, high-pitched syllable—and they turned as one entity to face the cowering
folk of Leshara, mouths gaping in unholy parodies of a dog's foolish grin.
But before they had flowed a single step toward their
victims, a shrill scream of equine defiance rang out from behind Vanyel.
And Gala thundered through the Gate at his back, pounding
past him, then past Tylendel, ignoring the trainee completely.
She screamed again, more anger and courage in her cry than
Vanyel had ever thought possible to hear in a horse's voice, and skidded to a
halt halfway between Tylendel and the things he had called up. She was glowing, just like she had during
'Lendel's fit; a pure, blue-white radiance that attracted the eye in the same
way that the yellow glow of the beasts' eyes repelled. She continued to ignore
Tylendel's presence entirely, turning her back to him; rearing up to her full
height and pawing the air with her forehooves, trumpeting a challenge to the five
creatures before her.
They reversed their positions in an instant as her hooves
touched the ground again, facing her with silent snarls of anger. She pawed the
earth, and bared her teeth at them, daring them to try to fight her.
"Gala!" Tylendel cried in anguish, his voice
breaking yet again. "Gala!
Don't—"
She turned her head just enough to look him fully in the
eyes—and Vanyel heard her mental reply as it rang through Tylendel's mind and
heart and splintered his soul.
:I
do not
know you: she said coldly,
remotely. :You are not
my Chosen.:
And with those words, the bond that had been between them
vanished. Vanyel could feel the emptiness where it had been—for he was still
sharing everything Tylendel felt.
Tylendel's rage shattered on the cold of those words.
And when the bond was broken, what took its place was utter
desolation.
Vanyel moaned in anguish, sharing Tylendel's agony, and the
torment and bereavement as he called after Gala with his mind and received not
even the echo of a reply. Where there had been warmth and love and support
there was now—nothing; not even a ghost of what had been.
The link between them surged with loss, and Vanyel's vision
darkened.
He heard Tylendel cry out Gala's name in utter despair, and
willed his eyes to clear.
And to his horror he watched her fling herself at the five
fiends, heedless of her own safety.
They swarmed over and about her, their darkness
extinguishing her light. He heard her shriek, but this time in pain, and saw
the red splash of blood bloom vividly on her white coat.
He tried to stagger to his feet, but had no strength; his
ears roared, and he blacked out.
He barely felt himself falling again, and only Tylendel's
scream of anguish and loss penetrated enough to make him fight his way back to
consciousness.
He found himself half-sprawled on the cold ground. He shoved
himself partially erect despite his spinning head, and looked for Gala—
But there was no Companion, no fight. Only a mutilated
corpse, sprawling torn and ravaged, throat slashed to ribbons, the light gone
from the sapphire eyes. Tylendel was on his knees beside her, stroking the
ruined head, weeping hoarsely.
Beside her lifeless body lay one of the five monstrosities,
head a shapeless pulp. The others flowed around the Companion's body, as if waiting
for the corpse to rise again so that they could attack it. Two of the others
limped on three legs—but two were still unharmed, and given what they had done
to Gala in a few heartbeats, two would be more than enough to slaughter every
man, woman, and child of the Leshara.
Finally they left off their mindless, sharklike circling,
and turned to face the terrified celebrants. They took no more notice of
Tylendel than of the dead Companion.
A man bolted from the crowd. With a start, Vanyel recognized
him for Lord Evan. Whether he meant to attack the beasts, or simply to flee,
Vanyel couldn't tell. It really didn't matter much; one of the beasts that was
still unhurt flashed across the intervening space and caught him. He did not
even have time to cry out as it disembowled him.
A woman screamed—and that seemed to signal the beasts to
move again. They began to ooze in a body toward their victims—
And a bolt of brilliantly white lightning cracked from
behind Vanyel to scorch the earth before the leader.
There was a pounding of hooves from the Gate. Vanyel was
momentarily blinded by the light and by another surge of weakness that sent him
sagging back to the ground.
When his eyes cleared again, there were three whiteclad
Heralds and their three Companions closing on the fiends, lightning crackling from their upraised hands. They were
using the lightnings to herd the beasts into a tight little knot and barring
their path to their prey.
He barely had time to recognize two of the three as Savil and
Jaysen before battle was joined.
Once again he started to black out, feeling as if something
was trying to pull his soul out of his body. He fought against unconsciousness,
though he felt as if he had nothing left to fight with; both the rage and the
despair were gone now, leaving only an empty place, a void that ached
unbearably.
He felt a tiny inflowing of strength; it wasn't
much, but it was enough to give him the means to fight the blackness away from
his eyes, to fight off the vertigo, and to finally get a precarious hold on the
world again.
The first thing he saw was Tylendel; still on his knees, but
no longer weeping. He was vacant-eyed, white as bleached linen, and staring at
his own blood-smeared hands. Where the five creatures had been there was now
nothing; only the mangled body of Gala and the burned and churned-up earth.
Taking her hand away from his shoulder was Savil—her face an
unreadable mask.
"…then she said, 'I don't know you, you aren't my
Chosen,'" the boy whispered, eyes dull and mirroring his exhaustion, voice
colorless. "And she turned her back on him, just turned away, and charged
those things."
"Buying time for us to get here," Jaysen murmured,
his voice betraying the pain he would not show. "Oh, gods, the poor, brave
thing—if she hadn't bought us those moments, we'd have come in on a bloodbath."
"She repudiated him," said
Lancir, the Queen's Own, as if he did not believe it. "She repudiated him,
and then—"
"Suicided," Savil supplied flatly, her own heart
in turmoil; aching for Tylendel, for the loss of Gala, for all the things she
should have seen and hadn't. "Gods, she suicided.
She knew, she had to know that no single
Companion could face a pack of wyrsa and survive."
Tylendel sat where they had left him; unseeing,
unspeaking—all of hell in his eyes. Mage-lights of their own creation bobbed
overhead, pitilessly illuminating everything.
Jaysen contemplated Savil's trainee for a long moment, but
said nothing, only shook his head slightly. Then he spared a glance for Vanyel,
and frowned; Savil heard his thought. :The
boy is still tied to the Gate, sister. He grows weaker by the moment. If you
want him undamaged—:
Unspoken, but not unfelt, was the vague thought that perhaps
it would be no bad thing if Vanyel were to be "forgotten" until it
was too late to save him from the aftereffects of the Gate-magic. That
undercurrent of thought told Savil that Jaysen placed all of the blame for this
squarely on Vanyel's shoulders.
:It wasn't his fault, Jaysen: she answered,
heartsick, and near to weeping, but unable to be anything other than honest. :He didn't do anything worse than go along
with what 'Lendel wanted without telling me. What happened was as much due to
my negligence as anything he did.:
Jaysen gave a curt nod, but a skeptical one. :In that case, we need to get that Gate
closed down as soon as possible, or the boy will sicken—or worse.:
No need to ask what that "worse" was; Vanyel was
already looking drawn, almost transparent, as the Gate pulled more and more of
his life-force from him. How Tylendel, half-trained, and Vanyel, unGifted, had
managed that, Savil had no notion—but they dared not break the link until they
didn't need the Gate anymore.
:Fine, but what are we going to do about all that mess?: Savil asked, nodding her head at the
milling crowd, the mangled corpse of the single victim the wyrsa had killed, and the pathetic body of the
Companion. :Somebody had better take them in hand, or
no telling what they'll get up to. Go in for a wholesale slaughtering-party on
Tylendel's people, make up some kind of tale about Heralds being in on this—: Even a hair away
from breaking down into tears, she was still thinking; she couldn't help it.
:I'll stay here,: Lancir volunteered. :Elspeth can do without me for a moon or
so. I'll take care of the Leshara and see to—: his thought faltered. :—Gala.:
:And you'll get home how?: Jaysen asked, concerned. :We're going to shut the Gate from the other side as
soon as we're through, and you aren't up to Gating by yourself these days.:
:Like ordinary mortals,: he replied, with a deathly seriousness. :On our feet.:
:What—what
are we going to do about—: Savil's eyes flicked
to Tylendel and back; the boy was still staring vacantly into space, his face
pale and blank, his eyes so full of inward-turned torment that she could
scarcely bear to look into them for fear she would
break down and cry.
:I
don't
know,: Lancir replied
bleakly. :I just don't know. There's no precedent.
Get the boy home; worry about it when you've got time to think about it. Ask
your Companions; it was one of their number that died. That's all I can think
of. But you'd better get on with it if you expect to leave the other boy with a
mind.:
"Jays, take Tylendel, will you?" Savil said aloud,
reaching for Vanyel's arm and pulling him to his feet. "Lance—"
"Gods with you, heart-sibs," said the Queen's Own,
pity and compassion momentarily transforming his homely face into something
close to saintly, like that of a beautiful carved statue. "You'll need
their help. Taver?"
His Companion sidled up to him and held rock-still for
Jaysen to help him to mount; like the Queen, like Savil, Lancir was feeling his
age these autumn days, and needed the boost into place that Jaysen gave him.
But once in the saddle, he resumed the strength and dignity of a much younger
Queen's Own—the man he had been twenty years ago. Taver tossed his head, and
walked with calm and quiet steps toward the shocked, confused mob of Leshara at
the other end of the garden.
Jaysen tugged on Tylendel's arm; the boy rose, but with the
automatic movements of someone spellbound, his attention still turned within
himself. The Seneschal's Herald led the way to the Gate, followed closely by
his Companion, and guiding the boy with a hand at his shoulder.
He cast a look back at Savil. "I don't fancy the notion
of the ride we have ahead of us—too many things to go wrong on the way. You
know more about this spell than I do—do you think you can reset this Gate to
bring us out at the Palace?"
She wrenched her attention away from the unanswerable
problem of what to do about the boys, and contemplated the structure of the
Gate. The portal at this end
was an ornamental gazebo in the center of the blasted garden. Through the arch
of the entrance lay the dark of the ruinous cottage yard.
"I don't see any problem," she replied, after
study. "I can bring us out in the Grove Temple, if that's all right."
"That should do," Jaysen said, eyeing the sky on
the other side of the portal, which was flickering with lightnings. "Good
gods—why did that blow in? There wasn't
a storm due."
"Don't look so surprised, Jays," she growled,
needed to lash out at something and using his
absentmindedness to make him the target. "I've told you a dozen times that
Gating plays merry cob with the weather. That's why I don't like to use Gates.
It's going to get worse when I reset it, and all hell will break out when I
collapse it."
He pursed his lips and frowned, but didn't reply, just waved
at her with his free hand. She let go of Vanyel, who sagged back to his knees,
too weakened to stay standing without her support. She raised both her hands
high above her head, and made an intricately weaving little gesture. Filaments
of dull red light floated from the Gate toward her, and were caught up on her
fingers by that complex weaving. When she had them fast, she clenched her hands
on them and sent her will coursing down them in a surge of pure, commanding
power, the filaments turning from red to white as her will flowed back along them.
When the wave of white reached the Gate, the portal misted
over, then flared incandescently. When the light died, the scene framed in the
gazebo arch was that of Companion's Field, seen by the fitful flashes of
lightning, as viewed from the porch of the Grove Temple.
Savil reached down and caught the fabric of Vanyel's tunic,
pulling him to his feet again. She dragged him with her as she followed closely
on Jaysen's heels. He hurried across the Gate threshold, pushing Tylendel
before him; she half-ran a step behind him, dragging Vanyel with her by main
force.
The Gate-crossing hit her with its all-too-familiar,
sickening sensation of falling. Then—hard, smooth marble was beneath her feet,
and they were home.
Lighting struck a nearby tree, and thunder deafened her for
a moment. She cleared out of the path of the Gate and Kellan and Felar darted
across, ears laid back, as soon as she and Vanyel were out of the way.
She let go of Vanyel, who stumbled the two steps to one of
the pillars and clung to it. She turned to face the Gate even as another bolt
struck nearby. The Gate was going unstable, wavering from red to white and back
again, the instability in the energy fields mirrored in the increasing fury of
the lightning storm overhead. She raised her hands and began the dismissal—and
encountered unexpected resistance.
She tried again, wincing at the crack of thunder directly
above her. There was something wrong, something very wrong. The Gate was
fighting her.
"Jays—" she shouted over the growl of thunder and
the whine of the wind. "—I need a hand, here."
Jaysen let go of Tylendel to add his strength to hers—their
united wills worked at the spell-knot, forcing it to unravel faster than it
could knit itself back up again.
With a surge of wild power that brought a half-dozen
lightning strikes down on the Belltower of the Temple itself, the Gate
collapsed—
Then again the unexpected; the Gate-energy, instead of
dissipating back into the air and ground, flared up, and surged back down the
one conduit left to it. The force-line that had tied it into Vanyel. Savil Saw
it—but not in time to stop it.
Vanyel screamed in agony, convulsing, clutching the pillar
as the released power arced back into him—and from him, a second, weaker arc
leapt to Tylendel.
Tylendel jerked into sudden alertness—and uttered the most
painful cry of despair Savil had ever heard; it was a cry that would haunt her
nightmares for the rest of her life.
She pivoted and grabbed for him as quickly as she could as
Vanyel collapsed in a moaning heap at the foot of the pillar.
But it was too late. No longer held in deceptive docility by
his shock, he dodged her outstretched hand. She saw his face in another of the
lightning flashes; his eyes were all pupil, his face a twisted mask of nothing
but pain. He looked frantically about him with those terrible eyes that held no
sanity at all, dodged her again, and then dashed past her into the tangled
trees of the Grove.
Jaysen gave chase; Savil limped after both of them.
Lightning was striking so often overhead now that the sky was almost as bright
as day. She tried to use the line of their shared magic to get at Tylendel's
mind as she ran, hoping to bring him back to her, but stumbled in shock and fell when she touched his thoughts.
There was nothing to get a hold on—the boy was a chaotic, aching void of grief
and loneliness. It was so empty, so unhuman, that for a moment she could only
crouch in the cold, dry grass and listen to her overworked heart beat in panic.
It took every ounce of discipline she had to get her own mind back under
control after touching that terrible, all-consuming sorrow.
Belatedly she thought of Vanyel. If anyone could reach
Tylendel, surely he could.
She lurched painfully to her feet and stumbled back toward
the Temple. In the lightning flashes she could make out the younger boy
staggering blindly out of the Temple, clutching himself as if he were
freezing—saw him stumble and fall on his shoulder, without trying to save
himself.
Then she saw Tylendel dart out of the tree-shadows to her
right and race past her, past his fallen lover, and back into the Temple itself.
And her heart went cold with a sudden premonition of
disaster.
She forced her exhausted legs into a stumbling parody of a
run, but she wasn't fast enough.
Just as she reached the place where Vanyel lay, panting and moaning
in pain, she saw his head snap up as if in response to a call only he could
hear. He seemed to be looking up at the Tower that held the Death Bell. She
heard him cry out something unintelligible, and followed his horror-stricken
glance—
—and saw Tylendel poised against the lighting-filled sky,
arms spread as if to fly—
—and saw him leap—
He seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if he had somehow mastered flight.
But only a moment; in the next heartbeat he was falling,
falling—she couldn't tell if the scream she heard was hers, or Vanyel's or
both. It wasn't Tylendel's; his eyes were closed, and his mouth twisted and jaw
clenched in a rictus of pure grief.
She felt the impact of his body with the unforgiving ground
as if it had been her own body that had fallen—
—and the scream ended.
Jaysen stopped dead beside her, frozen in mid-step.
She whimpered in the back of her throat, and Jaysen walked
slowly to the crumpled thing lying on the ground, not twenty paces from where
she now stood. He went to his knees beside it, then looked up, and she saw him
shake his head slowly, confirming what she already knew.
And at that moment, the Death Bell began solemnly tolling.
She stumbled to Jaysen's side, each step costing her more in
pain than she had felt in a lifetime of sacrifice to Queen and Circle. She went
heavily to her knees, and gathered up the limp, pitiable body to her breast.
She held him, cradling him against her shoulder, gently
rocking a little as if she held a small child. Tears coursed silently down her
face to mingle with the rain that was pouring from the sky; it seemed that the
whole world echoed her grief. Jaysen knelt beside her, his head bowed, his
shoulders shaking with sobs, as the Companions gathered about them and the
Death Bell tolled above them.
It was only when the rest of the Heralds arrived to take
their burden from them that they thought of Vanyel, and sent someone to look
for him.
But the boy was gone.
Vanyel stumbled through the pouring, frigid rain. He was
half-blinded with grief, with no hope of finding comfort anywhere in this
world. There was nothing left for him—nothing.
He's dead—oh, gods, he's dead, and it's all my fault—
His whole body seemed to be on fire, a slow, smoldering pain
that was burning away at him from the inside the way the ice of his dream had
chilled him.
There was no reason to fight ice or fire anymore. Let either or both eat him, he couldn't
care.
Rain pounded him, hail struck like slung stones. His head
reeled and pounded with his pulse. He hurt, but he welcomed the pain.
It's all I deserve. It was all my fault—
He couldn't see where he was going, and he didn't give a
damn. He tripped and fell any number of times, but bruises and cuts didn't
matter; he just picked himself back up and kept running in whatever direction
he happened to be facing.
His whole universe had collapsed the moment Tylendel had
thrown himself off that tower. Somewhere down in the depths of his soul was the
dim thought that if he ran far enough, ran fast enough, he might run off the
edge of the world and into an oblivion where there would be no more feeling,
and no more pain.
He didn't run off the edge of the world, quite. He ran off
the bank into the river.
The ground just disappeared under his feet, and he flailed
his arms wildly as he half-fell, half-tumbled down the bank and somersaulted at
the bottom into the icy water. It closed over his head, and the cold shocked
him into an instant of forgetfulness; he lost the desire for oblivion as
instinct took over, and he fought back to the surface.
He gulped air, shook water out of his eyes, and in a flash
of lightning saw an oncoming tree limb too late to dodge it. He managed to turn
away from it, but it hit him across the back of the head and knocked him under
again. The second time his head broke the surface, he was dazed and unthinking;
in another glare of lighting he saw the branches of a bush beside him and
grabbed at them—
They were too far away, far out of his frantic reach—
Then the bush shook violently, and seemed to stretch toward him. He snatched at the ends of the branches—
He caught them, somehow; they cut into his hand, but he
managed to pull himself into the shallows.
He had just enough strength left to crawl halfway up into
the rain-slick bank, and just enough mind left to wonder why he'd bothered to
save himself.
He lay facedown in the sodden, dead grass on the bank;
chilled and numb, and growing colder, and wracked with anguished guilt and
mourning.
'Lendel, 'Lendel, it was
all my fault—oh, gods, it was all my
fault—I should have told Savil.
I should have tried to stop you.
He sobbed into the rough grass, the damp-smelling earth,
longing inarticulately for the power of a god to reverse time, to unmake all
that had happened.
I'm sorry—oh,
please, someone, take it all back! If you have to have someone, take me
instead! Make it a dream, oh, gods—please—
But it wasn't a dream; no more than the rain that was diluting
his tears, or the icy water that tugged at his legs. And no god intervened to
unmake the past. The wintry cold was closing in on him, chilling the fire along
his veins; he was too weak to move, and too tired, and far too grief stricken
to care. It occurred to him then that he might die here, as alone as Tylendel
had died.
It was no less than his deserts, and he changed his prayers.
Please—he asked, desperately,
of powers that were not answering. Please—let me die.
He thought of every mistake he had made, every wrong
turning, and moaned. I deserve to die, he thought in
anguish, closing his eyes. I
want to die.
:No.: The mind-voice was bright, bright as a flame, and sharp
as steel, piercing his dark hope for death. :No, you must not. You must live, Chosen.:
He raised his head a little, but couldn't get his eyes open,
and really didn't want to. :You
don't know,: he thought bleakly
back at the intruder. :Let
me alone. No one wants me, nobody should want me; I kill everything I care for.:
But someone grabbed him by the back of the collar and
half-dragged him up the bank. He tried to twist away, but his body wouldn't
work right anymore, and all he did was thrash feebly. Heartbeats later the rain
was no longer pounding his back, and the green-smelling, soft moss under his
weakly moving hands was dry; he'd been pulled into some kind of shelter.
Whatever had him let go of his collar, after lowering him gently down onto the
moss; he managed to get his eyes open, but with the lightning fading off in the
distance, he could see nothing but darkness.
Something warm and large lay down beside him with a sigh. A
soft nose nuzzled his cheek—
—like Gala had—
The sensation brought up memories that cut him into little
shreds. He brought his knees up under his chest and curled up on himself,
sobbing uncontrollably, driven to the edge of sanity by grief and loneliness.
:—but I am here—:
He brought his head up a little, and looked for the speaker
with vision blurred by tears—and in a last glare of the lightning met a pair of
glowing sapphire eyes—eyes so full of compassion and love that he knew their
owner would forgive him anything. That love reached out for him, and flowed
over into him. It couldn't erase his loss, but it could share the pain—and it
didn't blame him for what had happened.
He uncurled, and groped for the smooth white neck and
shoulder the way he had seized on the branches of the bush to keep from
drowning.
He sobbed himself into exhaustion on that shoulder, wept
until he hadn't the strength to shed another tear, and into a kind of fevered
half-sleep. And all the while, that bright voice murmured, like a litany, over
and over, into his mind—
:I am here, my Chosen. I love you. I will
never leave you.:
As he turned to close the door, Savil dredged up energy she
hadn't dreamed she still possessed, and started to rise. Jaysen and Healer
Andrel simultaneously seized her shoulders and pushed her back down into her
chair.
"Where?" she demanded, in a voice hoarsened by
weeping. "Who found him? Is he all right?"
"I dunno, the Companions found him; Yfandes did,
anyway," Mardic replied vaguely, swaying with weariness, looking colorless
with exhaustion in the yellow candlelight. "She found him on the garden
side of the river and dragged him into a grotto. Tantras thinks he's sick,
something like backlash, but he can't tell for sure. He's trying to persuade
her to let him bring Van back here so Andrel can take care of him."
Savil shook her head, trying to make sense of his words.
"Mardic, what are you trying to tell me? What has Yfandes got to do with
anything?"
"She won't let anyone lay a finger on him, Savil,"
Mardic replied, blinking, and still shivering despite the warmth of the room.
"She's adamant about it; damned near took Tantras' hand off when he tried
to get at Van. She told my Fortin that she doesn't trust us to protect him and
keep him under shield properly—that we won't understand what we've got—that
he's hurt, all torn up inside his mind, and we can't begin to help him—"
"Mardic," Jaysen said, slowly, "are you
saying that Yfandes Chose Vanyel? The only
full-grown Companion in the Field that hasn't Chosen—the Companion that hasn't
Chosen for over ten years—and now she's Chosen Vanyel?"
"She didn't come out and say so, but I guess she
did," Mardic said, fatigue slurring his words as he slumped against the
doorframe. "I dunno why in hell she'd be curled up around him like he was
her foal otherwise, and not letting us near him. We think he's unconscious; he
isn't moving, and he isn't responding when we talk to him, but Yfandes won't
let anyone close enough to get a good look at him."
Savil exchanged startled looks with the Seneschal's Herald,
but it was Healer Andrel who put their thoughts into words.
"By the Lady Bright," he murmured, green eyes gone
round with consternation, "what in the Havens is this going to mean?"
Sunlight gleamed weakly in through a rocky opening; he could
see the river gurgling by just a few paces beyond it. It looked as if he were
in a cave, but there were pink marble benches beside the entrance. Caves didn't
have pink marble benches. They didn't have cultivated, moss-covered floors,
either.
Then he recognized the place for what it was—one of the
garden grottoes set into the riverbank. They were popular with courting couples
or people seeking a moment of solitude from the Court. Tylendel had often
wistfully expressed the wish that they dared to use one—
Tylendel. Grief closed around his throat and stopped his breath.
:No, Vanyel, Chosen. Not now. Mourn later; now get up.:
Without knowing quite how he had gotten there, Vanyel found
himself on his feet, leaning heavily on the silky shoulder of a Companion.
His Companion. Yfandes.
He tried to make sense of that, but his head spun too much
and he couldn't get a good grip on any of the thoughts that half-formed and
then blew away.
:You are ill,: said the worried voice
inside his mind. :I cannot care for you. I did not wish to
let you away from my protection, but I cannot help you. You have fever, you
need a Healer. Move your foot. One step. Another—:
He discovered that he was shaking, and clung a little
tighter to the Companion's back. Obedient to that voice in his head, he put one
hesitant foot in front of the other, learning quickly that he had to rest most
of his weight on the arm clinging to Yfandes' shoulder. He had to close his
eyes after the first couple of steps and trust to her to guide him; he was so dizzy and nauseated he couldn't make any
sense out of what he was seeing.
They emerged into sunlight that was far too much for his
eyes; he opened them once, and shut them again, quickly. The Companion suddenly
stepped away from him, and he literally fell into the arms of a strange Herald;
and once out of contact with Yfandes there were dozens of voices in his head, all of them clamorous, all of
them confusing. He whimpered, tried to pull away, and hid his head in his arms.
They hurt, they hurt, and he couldn't make
out which were his own thoughts and which belonged to someone else.
:Tell your fool Chosen to shield him, Delian!:
That voice he recognized, although Yfandes had never spoken that
sharply to him. The stranger bit off a curse and touched Vanyel's forehead, and
the voices cut off. Vanyel opened his eyes again, and wished he hadn't; the
world was spinning around with him as the center of the chaos. He shut them
immediately, vowing not to reopen them.
"Let me, Tantras." The soft voice was that of yet
another stranger.
Two cool hands rested lightly on his head, and brought with
them the promise of comfort and the peace of sleep. He took what they offered,
falling into oblivion gratefully.
With any luck, he'd never wake up.
Tylendel. Oh, my 'Lendel, my poor, poor, 'Lendel.
Unshed tears made a hard knot in her throat and misted her
eyes. So she missed the moment that Andrel took his hand away from the boy's
forehead and sagged back into his chair with a sigh of weariness, his graying
red hair damp with sweat, his freckles twice as evident with his skin so washed
out and pale.
It was that sigh that brought her back to the urgent present.
"Andrel?" she said softly. "Can you tell me
anything?"
"I did what I could for him—and more, I've got a line
established," the Green-robed Healer to the Heralds replied, without
looking up. "I want you to follow it—or if you feel you can't, find me a
Herald-Mage your equal. I don't believe what I Saw, to be frank, and I want a
confirmation."
Savil tightened her jaw, and told herself again that none of
this had been Vanyel's fault. Besides, she was the only Herald-Mage at the
Palace who was likely to have any
feelings of charity toward the boy.
"I'll follow it. Have you got more to say, or—"
"I want you in there first. What I have to say is going
to depend on whether you think I've gone over the edge or not."
Savil raised one eyebrow in surprise, but moved in to stand
beside the Healer. She reached out for Andrel's soothing Presence as easily as
she could have reached for his hand; they'd been lovers, once, and had worked
together often, both before and since.
They meshed auras exactly as hand would close on hand, and
Savil followed the "line" the Healer had established down past the
churning chaos of Vanyel's sleeping surface mind to the dark, grief-stricken core
of him. The measure of that grief would have reconciled her to him even had she
felt him blameworthy; she'd known the depth of Tylendel's feelings, but it
seemed as if Vanyel's had run at least as deep. Certainly his grief and loss
were as profound as her own. More—
Oh, gods—it's
just what I warned 'Lendel against. He's lost, he's utterly lost without
'Lendel—
But that was not what rocked her back onto her heels with
real shock.
Savil had spent most of the past twenty years of her life as
the one Herald-Mage most intimately involved in training young Herald-Mages,
and the one most often set to identify youngsters with active Gifts and the
potential of being Chosen. She had seen children with one, two, or (most
commonly) no Gifts. Tylendel had been unusual in having Mindspeech, Fetching,
Empathy and the Mage-Gift, all at near-equal strength. Most Heralds or
Herald-Mages had one or two strong Gifts—and few had as many as three.
Vanyel had them all. Each channel she tested—with the sole
exception of Healing—was open; most of them had been forced open to their
widest extent. The boy had Mindspeech, Fetching, FarSight, Foresight, as much
Empathy as Tylendel had shown, even enough Fire-starting to ensure he'd never
need to use a tinderbox again, and the all-important Mage-Gift. His Mindspeech
was even of both types, Thought-sensing and Projecting.
And—irony of ironies—as if the gods were taking with one
hand and offering a pittance as compensation—the Bardic Gift.
This boy had more Gifts than any five full Heralds—and all
of them had come into full activity in less than a day.
To her horror she could See that all the channels were as
raw and sensitive as so many open wounds. The channels had not been
"opened," they'd been blasted open. It was a wonder the
boy wasn't mad with the pain alone.
Savil came up out of Vanyel's mind with a rush like a
startled fish jumping out of a stream, and looked from the boy to the Healer
and back in a state of surprise that closely resembled shock.
"Great good gods," she said, "What
the hell happened to do that?"
Andrel shook his head. "Your guess would be better than
mine. I never cared much where our powers came from, I was just concerned with
learning to use them effectively. But do you see what I'm up against with this
boy?"
"I think so," Savil replied, groping for the
bedpost and sitting down carefully on the foot of the bed. "Let me add
this up. You've got backlash trauma from when the Gate-energy got pulled from
him, and more trauma from when we sent it back into him; you've got the problems inherent
when you wake Gifts late or early. You've got the problems with them being at
full power from the moment they woke. Worst of all, you've got channels that
were burned open or torn open instead of opening of themselves."
"That, and more mundane emotional trauma and physical
shock. I hope to the Havens that he doesn't come down with pneumonia on top of
it all. I already fought off one fever, one his own body produced when it
couldn't handle the energy-overload." Andrel touched the back of his hand
to the boy's waxen cheek, checking his temperature. "So far, so good, but
it's a real possibility. And I'm fighting off the effects of exposure, too.
Savil, the child is a mess."
"Lover, you have a talent for understatement."
Savil contemplated Vanyel's pinched, grief-twisted face.
Even in sleep he doesn't lose his pain.
"Now I see why Yfandes was so reluctant to let him out
of her care. Until she gets him firmly bonded to her, he's going to have to be
in physical contact with her for her to protect him. But what can we do? I
can't fit her in here, I can't put him in the stables, not with the weather
being what it is."
"Try, and I'll call you up on charges," Andrel
replied, and Savil could tell that he was not joking. "Do that in this
chill, and you'll kill him. It's going to be touchy enough with him tucked up
in a warm bed."
"Well, how in hell do I protect him from his own
powers?"
"Put your own shields on him, and hope nothing gets
through."
"I can't keep them up forever," Savil reminded him
acidly. "I'm fairly well fagged out myself. A couple of hours is about all
I can manage at this point."
"Then go order -two graves, dammit!" the Healer snarled in
sudden frustration. "Because you're going to lose this one, too, if you don't do everything right with him!"
Savil pulled back, taken very much aback by the sudden
explosion of temper. "I," she faltered, then as his words penetrated,
and she thought of what was lying in the Grove Temple at this moment, lost her
own precarious hold on calm.
She got up, stumbling a little; turned away from him and
leaned against the doorframe, her shoulders shaking with her silent weeping.
"Savil—"
Strong but trembling hands on her shoulders turned her back
to face the room, and pulled her into an embrace against a bony chest covered
in soft, green wool. "Savil, I'm sorry," Andrel murmured into her
hair. "I shouldn't have said that. You're exhausted, I'm exhausted, and
neither of us are up to facing the problem this boy represents. Is there anyone you can turn him over to, for a day, at
least? Long enough for you to get some rest and a chance to think?"
A white square of linen appeared just when she needed it.
She mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief he offered, and blew her nose.
"Under any other circumstances I'd just let any of the others spell me—but I don't know, Andy. A lot of
them still think he's responsible for all this. Even if they shield—with Gifts
like his, what's he going to pick up? You of all people should
know how leaky we all are to a new, raw Gift, even when we aren't stressed."
Andrel sighed. "Dearheart, I don't think you have a
real choice. You'll just have to hope that if surface thoughts leak past, he
won't be able to understand them yet. If you don't get some rest, you're going to collapse, and even a novice
Healer would be able to tell you that."
She bowed her head, feeling the weight of all her years and
all her sorrows falling on her back. "All right," she said, acting
against her better judgment, but unable to see any other option open to her.
"See if you can round up Tantras for me, will you? At least he didn't know
poor 'Lendel all that well."
Then he opened his eyes, and found that he was in his own
bed, and his own room, now illuminated by carefully shaded candle-lanterns. And
there was something odd about the room.
After a long moment, he finally figured out what it was. The
feeling of "Tylendel," the sense of his being there even when he
wasn't physically present, was missing.
That told him. He swallowed a moan of despair, and closed
his eyes against the resurgence of tears—and just in time, for the door opened
softly and closed again, and he felt a new presence in the room with him.
He froze for a moment, then sighed, as if in sleep, and
turned onto his side, hiding his face away from the light.
He was hearing things—like someone talking to himself,
only—only, inside his head, the way
Yfandes' voice had been inside his head. It hurt to listen, but he couldn't
stop the words from coming in. And from the feel of that mind-voice, he knew
who it was that was sitting by his bedside, too; it was one of the Heralds that
had been with Savil, the one called Jaysen.
And Jaysen did not in the least care for Vanyel.
:—gods—: Vanyel heard, a little
garbled by the pain that came with the words. :—trade this arrogant little toad for Tylendel. Damn
poor bargain.:
Vanyel could feel brooding eyes on him, and the words in his
head came clearer, more focused. :No
matter what Savil said, I'll never believe he didn't have something to do with
the boy's death. If they'd been all that close, Tylendel would have listened to
him, and even if 'Lendel was crazed on revenge, this one wasn't. 'Lendel may
have loved him, but he could never have cared for the lad in the
same way, or he'd have stopped him. 'Lendel was just one more little addition
to his stable of admirers. If he'd left 'Lendel alone, if he hadn't played on
his—weaknesses—:
Vanyel cringed beneath the pitiless words, and the vision of
himself that came with them; arrogant, self-centered, self-serving. Using
Tylendel, not caring for him. And worse; worse than that, feeding him what he
craved, like feeding a perpetual drunk the liquor he shouldn't have.
Without thinking about it, he reached beyond his room; it
was a little like straining his ears to hear a conversation in the distance,
and the pain that came with the effort felt like muscles pulling against a
broken bone, but he found he could catch other snatches of—it must be
thoughts—that touched on him.
They could have been echoes of Jaysen's thoughts.
He pulled his awareness back, as a child pulls its singed
hand from the fire that has burned it. There were only two creatures in all the
world that he could be certain cared for him despite what he was; Tylendel and
Yfandes. Neither were to be trusted to know the truth about him. The second was
besotted by whatever magic had made her Choose him; the first was—
The first was dead. And it was his fault. Jaysen was right;
if he'd really cared for 'Lendel, he'd have
stopped him. It wouldn't even have been hard; if he hadn't agreed to get those
books, if he hadn't agreed to help with that spell, Tylendel would be alive at
this moment. And if he hadn't seduced 'Lendel with his own needs, none of this
ever would have happened.
Bad on top of worst; now he was a burden on the Heralds, who
hated him, but felt honor-bound to take him in Tylendel's place. And he could never replace Tylendel, not ever; even he knew that. He had none of Tylendel's
virtues, and all of his vices and more.
He listened to the mind-voice of
the one beside him with all his strength, ignoring the pain it cost, hoping
beyond hope that the Herald would somehow give him the chance to get away—get
away and do something to make this right. If the Herald would just—go away for
a moment, or—or better yet, fall asleep—
Jaysen was tired; though he'd
done less magic than Savil, and had more time to rest, he was still very weary.
He'd set himself up in the room's really comfortable chair; the one Tylendel
had sometimes fallen asleep in. Vanyel could feel Jaysen's mind drifting over
into slumber, and held his breath, hoping he'd drift all the way.
Because he'd gleaned something else from those minds out
there—
Because the Death Bell had rung for him, despite what he'd
done, Tylendel was being accounted a full Herald and tomorrow would be buried
with all the honors.
Tomorrow. But tonight—he was in the Temple in the Grove. And
if he could get that far, Vanyel was going to try to right the wrongs he had
done to all of them, atoning with the only thing he had left to give.
Jaysen's thoughts slipped into the vague mumbles of sleep,
and in the next moment a gentle snore from the chair beside the bed told Vanyel
that he was completely gone.
Vanyel turned over, deliberately making noise.
Jaysen continued to snore, undisturbed.
Vanyel sat up, slowly, taking stock of himself and his
surroundings.
About a candlemark later, he was dressed; even if he had not needed to move slowly for fear of waking
the Herald, he would have had to for weakness. He had even needed to hold onto
the furniture at first, because his legs were so unsteady. Even now his legs
trembled with every step he took, but at least he was moving a bit more surely.
He stole soundlessly across the floor and unlatched the
door, opened it just enough to squeeze himself through, and shut it again. It
was dark out here, a still, cloudless night. He wouldn't be seen, but it was a
long way to the Grove.
He steeled himself and stepped shakily onto the graveled
path that ran from his door through the moonlit garden.
But someone had been waiting for him.
Yfandes glided out of the darkness to his side almost before
he had made five steps along that path.
:No—: she said, sternly,
barring his way. :You
are ill; you should be in bed.:
For a moment he was ready to collapse right where he stood.
—gods, she's going to
stop me—
Then he saw a way to get Yfandes to help him—without her
knowing she was doing so.
:Please—: He directed everything
he could on part of the truth. He couldn't lie mind-to-mind, he knew that, but
he didn't have to reveal
everything unless Yfandes should ask a direct question about it. And besides
that, the link to her was fading in and out (and it hurt, like everything else)
and he would bet she wouldn't want to force anything. :Pleased, Yfandes, I have to—: he faltered. :—to
say—good-bye.:
She bowed her head almost to the earth as he let his grief
pour out over her. :Very
well,: he heard, the mind-voice heavy with reluctance. :I will
help you. But you must rest, after.:
:I will,: he promised, meaning
it, though not in the way she had intended.
She went to her knees so that he could mount; he, once the
best rider at Forst Reach, could not drag himself onto her back without that
help. His arms and legs trembled with weakness as he clung to her back, and if
it had not been that she could have balanced a toddler there and not let it
fall, he would have lost his seat within the first few moments.
He concentrated on his weariness, on how physically
miserable he was feeling, and spent not so much as an eyeblink on his real
intentions. He closed his eyes, both to concentrate, and because seeing the
ground move by so fast in the moonlight was
making him nauseated and disoriented again.
He had had no notion of how fast the Companions could travel
at a so-called walk. She was stepping carefully up to the porch of the Grove
Temple long before he had expected her to get there; the clear ringing of her
hooves on the marble surprised him into opening his eyes.
:We are here,: she said, and knelt
for him to dismount.
The marble of the Temple porch glistened wetly in the
moonlight, and he could see candlelight shining under the door. He slid from
Yfandes' back, and "listened" with this new, mental ear for other
minds within the Temple.
None.
He shivered in the cold wind; he'd dressed carefully, in the
black silk tunic and breeches Tylendel had thought he looked best in, and once
off Yfandes' warm, broad back the wind cut right through his clothing.
:Not for long,: she admonished, as he
clung to the doorframe and negotiated unlatching the door into the Temple
itself.
:No, Yfandes,: he said, sincerely. :Not for long.:
He got the door open and closed again—then, as quietly as he
could, locked it.
There was no clamor from the opposite side, so he assumed
she had not heard the bolt shoot home. He turned, bracing himself for what he
was about to do, and faced the altar.
The Temple itself was tiny; hardly bigger than the common
room of their suite. It had been built all of white marble, within and without.
The walls took up the candlelight, and reflected it until they fairly glowed.
There were only two benches in it, and the altar. Behind the altar were stands thick
with candles; behind the candles, the wall had been carved into a delicate
bas-relief; swirling clouds, the moon, stars and the sun—and in the clouds,
suggestions of male and female faces, whose expressions changed with the
flickering of the candles.
Before the altar stood the bier.
Vanyel's legs trembled with every step; he made his way
unsteadily to that white-draped platform, and looked down on the occupant.
They'd dressed Tylendel in full Whites; his eyes were
closed, and there was no trace of his grief or his madness in that handsome,
peaceful face. His hands were folded across his waist, those graceful, strong
hands that had held so much of comfort for his beloved. He looked almost
exactly as he had so many mornings when Vanyel had awakened first. His long,
golden curls were spread against the white of the pallet, a few of them tumbled
a little untidily over his right temple; long, dark-gold lashes lay against his
cheeks. Only the pose was wrong. Tylendel had never, in all the time Vanyel had
known him, slept in anything other than a sprawl.
Vanyel reached out, hesitantly, to touch that smooth
cheek—almost believing, even now, that he had only to touch him to awaken him.
But the cheek was cold, as cold as the marble of the altar,
and the eyes did not flutter open at his touch. This was no child's tale, where
the sleeping one would wake again at the magic touch of the one who loved him.
"Please, 'Lendel, forgive me," he whispered to the
quiet face, and took the knife from the white sheath on Tylendel's belt.
"I—I'm going to try to—pay for all of what I did to you."
His hands shook, but his determination remained firm.
Quickly, before he could lose his courage, he bent and
kissed the cold lips—hoping that this, too, would be forgiven, and caught in a
grief too deep for tears. Then he knelt on the icy white marble of the floor
beside the bier, and braced the hilt of the dagger between his knees, clasping
his hands with the dagger between his wrists, resting them on either side of
the blade-edge.
"'Lendel, there's nothing without you. Forgive me—if
you can," he whispered again, both to Tylendel and the brooding Faces
behind the altar.
And before he could begin to be afraid, he pulled both
wrists up along the knife-edges, slashing them simultaneously.
The dagger was as sharp as he had hoped—sharper than he had
expected. He cut both wrists almost to the bone; gasped as pain shot up his
arms, and the knife fell clattering to the marble, released when his legs
jerked involuntarily.
He sagged with sudden dizziness, and fell forward over his
bent knees; his head bowed over his hands, his arms lying limp on the marble
floor. Blood began to spread on the white marble; pooled before him under his
slashed wrists. He stared at it in morbid fascination.
Red on white. Like blood on the snow—
It was only at that moment that Yfandes seemed to realize
what it was he was doing.
She screamed, and began kicking at the door.
But it was far too late; his eyes were no longer focusing properly
anymore, and his wrists didn't even hurt.
But he was feeling so cold, so very cold.
:I'm sorry,: he thought muzzily at
the frantic Companion, beginning to black out, and feeling himself falling over
sideways. :Yfandes, I'm
sorry… you'll find someone… better than me. Worthy of you.:
"Savil, I swear to you, the boy was asleep. I dozed off
for a breath or two, and when I woke up he was gone," Jaysen answered, one
hand clutched at the side of his head on a fistful of hair, his expression
frantic and guilt-ridden. "I thought maybe he'd gone to the privy or
something, but I can't find him anywhere."
Savil swung her legs out of the bed and rubbed her eyes,
trying to think. Where would Vanyel have gone, and in the name of the gods, why?
But in a heartbeat she had her answer—the frightened,
frantic scream of a Companion rang across the river, and her Kellan's voice
shrilled into her head.
:Savil—the boy—: and an image of where
he was and what he had done.
From the stricken look on Jaysen's face, his own Felar had
given him the same information.
"Gods!" Savil snatched her
cloak from the chair beside her bed and ran out in her bare feet, through the
common room, and headed for the door of Vanyel's room, Jaysen breathing down
her neck.
She hit the garden door at a dead run, and it was a damned
good thing that it wasn't locked, because if it had been, she'd have broken it
off the hinges. The cold of the night slapped her in the face like an impious
hand; that stopped her for a
moment, but only a moment. In the next
instant Felar and Kellan pounded up at a gallop. Felar skidded around in a
tight pivot, presenting his hindquarters to his Chosen, who leapfrogged up into
his seat with an acrobatic skill that would have had Savil muttering about
"show-offs" had the situation been less precarious. Instead, she
waited for Kellan to come to a dead halt, and clambered onto her back anyhow,
her bedgown rucked up around her legs. Kellan launched herself into a full,
frantic gallop as Savil clung on as best she could.
Now Savil was a breath behind Jaysen, as the young
Seneschal's Herald led the way across the nearest bridge and up the Field to
the Temple of the Grove. Nor were they the only two summoned by the frantic
screaming, mind and voice, of Yfandes. Heralds and trainees were boiling out of
the Palace like aroused fire ants, rendezvousing with their Companions, and
heading across the river at breakneck speed.
But Jaysen and Savil were the first two on the scene; it was
their dubious privilege to see Yfandes trying to batter down the solid bronze
door of the Temple single-handedly, and not budging it by so much as a
thumbs'-breadth. Her hooves were screeching across the metal, leaving showers
of sparks in their wake, and her anguished screams were far too like a human's
for comfort.
Jaysen vaulted off Felar's back and hit the ground at a run,
ducking fearlessly under Yfandes' flying hooves to make a trial of the door
himself.
"It's locked from the inside," he shouted
unnecessarily, as Savil slid from Kellan's back to limp to his side. He put his
shoulder against the door, and rammed it, with no more luck than Yfandes had
had.
"Vanyel!" Savil put her mouth up against the crack
between door and frame, and shouted through it. "Van, lad, let us in!"
She put her ear to the crack and listened, but heard
nothing. :Kellan—:
:Yfandes says he's still alive, but unconscious and
weakening,: came the grim reply,
as Yfandes danced in place, her sapphire eyes gone nearly black with anguish.
"Somebody get me a mage-light on that
damned tower!"
It was Mardic; he had his hands on Donni's shoulders and was
staring up at the tower. Donni was holding a crossbow with a bulky missile
cocked and ready.
Savil responded first, running far enough back from the door
that she could see the top of the Belltower. It was glowing faintly, but
obviously too faintly for Donni to make out a target. Savil raised her hands,
and sent up such a burst of power that the entire top of the tower flowered
with light.
While Mardic closed his eyes and scowled in concentration,
Donni raised the crossbow, squinted carefully along it, and fired.
The oddly-shaped arrow flew strangely, and slowly, trailing
something light colored behind it—and in a moment, Savil realized why and what
it was. Donni had been a bright little apprentice-thief when she'd been Chosen;
this was a grapnel-arrow, meant to carry a light, but strong line through an
open window and catch on the sill. Mardic had a very weak, but usable
Fetching-Gift; he had invoked it to help the arrow carry something heavier than
a light line. A climbing-rope.
It lobbed through the loop of the Bell-house, clanging
ominously off the Death Bell itself. Savil felt a chill, and made a
warding-gesture, nor was she the only one. She could see most of the others
shivering at the least, and Yfandes moaned like a dying thing at the sound of
the Bell.
Donni, normally mobile face gone blank, was paying no
attention to anything other than her arrow and line; all her concentration was
on the task in her hand. She drew the rope to her with agonizing slowness;
Savil fought down the urge to shout at her to hurry. Finally Donni's careful
pulling met resistance; she tugged, then pulled harder, then yanked on the rope
with all her might.
Then, before Savil had time to blink, she was swarming up it
like a squirrel.
One or two of the trainees gave a ragged cheer; Donni
ignored them. She reached the opening and squeezed through, and Savil saw to
her surprise that Mardic was following her. She'd been so intent on Donni's
progress that she'd missed seeing him altogether until he got into the glow of
the mage-light.
Savil sprinted back for the door—the crowd there parted to
let her through—and waited, trembling with impatience, with the rest.
:Hang on, Savil,:
she heard
Mardic's mind-voice, in Broadsend-mode. :He's alive; thank the gods he didn't know the right way to
slit his wrists. Donni's got the blood stopped, but we II need a Healer, fast.
'Fandes warped the door pounding on it; it's going to take a bit of work to get
it open.:
A tall figure in Healer's Greens pushed through to Savil's
side as Mardic began pounding on the door, forcing the bolt back thumb-length
by thumb-length; Andrel opened his arms and wrapped Savil inside the warmth of
his fur-lined cloak with him.
Finally the door creaked open; Andrel deserted her, leaving
her suddenly in sole possession of the heavy cloak. She followed inside, hard
on his heels.
Donni knelt in front of the bier; there was a frighteningly wide
scarlet stain on the marble of the floor, and her hands looked as if she had
dipped them in vermilion dye. She was holding Vanyel's wrists; the boy was
sprawled on the floor beside her at the foot of the bier, his face as
transparently white as the marble under his head, and sickly unconscious.
Andrel was just beginning to kneel in the pool of blood on the other side of
the boy, heedless of his robes, and as Savil limped across the floor toward
them, followed by the rest of the would-be rescuers, he reached out and set his
hands firmly over Donni's bloodstained ones.
His face was fixed in a mask of absolute concentration, and
Savil could feel the power beginning to flow from him. But he'd been
hard-pressed today, and had little time to rest. And she knew that his few
reserves were not going to be enough—
She ran the last few steps and placed her hands on his
shoulders as he began to falter, sending energy coursing down into his center.
And in a moment, she felt herself joined by Jaysen—then Mardic—then Donni. The
four of them meshed in a union that was as nearly perfect as any magic she'd
ever witnessed, and sent Andrel all he needed and more, in a steady, steadfast,
stream.
Finally the Healer sighed, and lifted his hands away from
Donni's; the other three disengaged with something that was a little like
reluctance. It wasn't often that even Heralds experienced the peace that came
with a perfect Healing-meld; it was nearly a mystical experience, and as close
to the peace of the Havens as Savil ever wanted to get until she was Called.
Donni lifted her hands away from Vanyel's wrists, and Savil
could see that the skin, veins, and tendons beneath were whole again. For a
moment the wrists were marred by angry red scars, then gradually those scars
faded to thin white lines.
Jaysen moved swiftly to gather the unconscious boy in his
arms; blood from the boy's sleeves stained the front of his Whites, but Jaysen
didn't seem to notice.
Vanyel's head sagged against the Herald's chest. Despite
being moved, he showed no signs of reviving.
Savil helped Andrel to rise and go to him. The Healer
reached out a hand that shook uncontrollably and checked the pulse at the hinge
of Vanyel's jaw, lifted an eyelid, then shook his head.
"Nearer than I like, and he lost too much blood, given
what he's been through," Andrel said, grimacing. "Jays, can you and
Felar get him back into his bed as of a candlemark ago?"
"No," Savil interrupted. "No, you leave that
to me and Yfandes. Jays, give him to me as soon as I get mounted."
She pushed her way through the silent, shocked crowd and
found Yfandes waiting as close to the open door as she could get. The Companion
looked deeply into Savil's eyes, her own eyes back to a quiet, depthless
sapphire, then went to her knees for the Herald to mount.
Savil mounted, and Yfandes rose gracefully to her feet, not
in the least unsteady on the smooth marble. Savil held out her arms, amazed by
her own calm, and Jaysen lifted the limp form of Vanyel up into place before
her. She cradled the boy against her shoulder, wrapping Andrel's cloak about
both of them; he was no burden at all, really—almost too light a weight for the ease of her
heart and conscience.
Oh, lad, lad— she sighed, nudging Yfandes lightly with her heels to tell
her to go on. Poor
little lad—we've made a
right "mess of your life, haven't we? And all for lack of listening to
you. I don't know who is guiltier, me or Withen.
She held him a bit tighter as Yfandes headed at a gentle
walk toward the beckoning beacon of the open door of her suite. He was all the
legacy Tylendel had left to her, and she pledged the silent sleeper in the
Temple behind her that she would take better care of him from this moment on.
And the first task is to put you back together, my poor,
bewildered, heart-broken lostling. If ever I can.
Years later—or so it seemed—Savil finally crawled into some
clothing. She wanted, she needed, to collapse somewhere; wanted rest as a
starving man wants bread, but dared not leave Vanyel alone. She finally dragged
the chair Jaysen had been using close to the bedside and wrapped herself in the
first warm thing that came to hand (which turned out to be Andrel's fur-lined
cloak), intending, despite her exhaustion, to stay awake as long as possible.
But she dozed off, some time around dawn, and woke at the
sound of a strangled sob.
She fought her way out of the tangled embrace of the cloak;
when she got her head free of the folds of the hood, the first things she saw
were Vanyel's silver eyes looking at her with a kind of accusative sorrow.
"Why?" he whispered mournfully. "Why did you
stop me?"
Savil finally untangled the rest of her, sat up in her
chair, and took a quick look around. As she'd ordered, Mardic was still
standing weary guard over the door to the rest of the suite, and Donni was drowsing,
slumped against the door to the garden. Vanyel was not going to give them the
slip a second time, however unlikely the prospect seemed. It hadn't seemed
possible the last time.
She gave Mardic a jerk of her head and a Mindsent order; :Out, love, this needs privacy,: and woke Donni with a quick Mindtouch. Donni came
completely awake as soon as Savil touched her, a talent the Herald-Mage envied.
She pulled herself to her feet with the help of the doorframe at her back. Then
both of them left for their own quarters, closing the door into the common room
of the suite behind them.
Savil got up stiffly, every joint aching, and sat on the
side of the bed, taking both of Vanyel's hands in her own. They were like ice,
and bloodless-looking. "I stopped you because I had to," she replied.
"Because—Vanyel, self-destruction is no answer. Because we've already lost
one we loved—and I couldn't lose you, too, now—"
"But I deserve to die—" His voice was weak, and
broke on the last word.
And he wouldn't look her in the eyes.
Oh, gods—what was going through that head of his? What had
he convinced himself of? "For what?" she asked, her voice sounding
rough-edged even to her. "Because you made some mistakes? Gods, if that was worthy of a death sentence, I
should have been sharing that knife!"
His hands were chilling hers; she tried to warm them,
chafing them as gently as she could. "Listen to me, Vanyel—this whole
wretched mess was one mistake piled on top of another. I made mistakes; I should have watched 'Lendel more
carefully, I should have insisted he talk to Lancir when his brother was
killed. That's one of Lancir's jobs; to keep our heads clear and our minds able
to think straight. Dammit, I knew what 'Lendel was
capable of where Staven was concerned! And he would not have been able to hide that obsession
from a MindHealer! 'Lendel made mistakes—the gods themselves know that. He
should have thought before he acted; I'd been trying to get him to do that.
We—the Heralds—accept mental evidence! All he had to do was ask for a hearing,
and we'd have had the material we needed from his own mind to put the Leshara
down. You made mistakes, yes, but you made them out of love. He needed help,
asked you for it, and you tried to help him the only way anyone had ever taught
you was right. And, gods, even Gala made mistakes!"
Her voice was harsh with tears, and with her own guilt, and
she was not ashamed to let him hear it. "Van, Van, we're only simple,
fallible mortals—we aren't saints, we aren't angels—we fall on our faces and
make errors and sometimes people die of them—sometimes people we love dearly—"
She choked on a sob, and bowed her head.
He freed a hand and touched her cheek hesitantly; his fingers
were still snow-cold. She caught and held it, and looked back up into his eyes,
seeing worse than grief there before he dropped them.
"You thought the world would be better with you out of
it, is that it?"
He nodded, dumbly, and his hands trembled in hers.
"Did you stop to think how I would feel? You were 'Lendel's love. Didn't you think I'd
come to care for you at least a bit, if only for his sake?"
How was she to reach him—when she'd never been good with words? "I've buried
him today. Did you think I'd be indifferent about burying you as well? What
about Jaysen? I'd left him to watch you. How do you think he feels right now about his carelessness?
What do you think he'd have felt if you'd died? And—gods help us—what did you
think Yfandes would do?"
I "I thought—I thought she'd find somebody
better," he faltered, his voice quavering a bit.
"She'd die, lad; Companions very
seldom outlive their Chosen. And she Chose you. If you die, she dies; she'd probably pine herself to
death, and she does not deserve that."
He shrank into himself, pulling even farther away from her,
and she cursed her clumsy words, her inability to tell him what she really
meant without hurting him further. "Van—oh, hell—I'm not saying any of this
the way I wanted to. Listen to me; you're sick, you need to rest and get well.
We'll deal with this later, all right? Just—don't take yourself out of this
world right now, there are folks who'll have holes in their lives if you go.
And I'm one of them."
He nodded; he didn't look convinced, but now she had
exhausted what little eloquence she possessed, and didn't know what else to say
to him.
So she tried one last tactic. Let me just keep him alive—if I can do
that, maybe we can help him.
"Will you promise me, on your word of honor, that you won't
try to do yourself in again? If you will, I'll trust you, and I won't leave
guards on your doors."
He swallowed, pulled his hands out of hers, and whispered,
haltingly, "I—promise. Word of honor." He still wouldn't look her in
the face, but she trusted that sworn word.
She nodded. "Accepted. Now is there anything, anything
at all, that I can do for you?" Maybe— "Need to talk?"
He shook his head, and she sensed his complete withdrawal,
and cursed again. Dammit,
just when I need Lance the most, he's not here.
"Sure?" She persisted, even in the face of defeat;
that was her nature. "Vanyel—Vanyel, you're the only person I've got who
knew 'Lendel from the inside the way I did. If—if you need somebody to mourn
with…"
He shook his head again, avoiding her eyes altogether, and
she sighed, giving up. "If you change your mind—well, rest, lad. Get
better. Call, if you need anything—mind or voice, either, I'll hear you."
He nodded slightly, and closed his eyes again, leaning back
and turning his face to the wall. That face was as white as the pillows beneath
it, and it made her hurt all over again to see that lost look of his. She
waited for another response or a request of some kind, but he slipped right
back into an uneasy, shallow slumber. Finally she eased off the bed, gathered
up Andrel's cloak from the chair, and left him alone.
Savil's Hawkbrother masks on the wall behind Andrel's left
shoulder gazed at her from dispassionate and empty eyeholes. Candles flickered
on the table between them.
Neither of them had much interest in food at the moment;
both their minds were on the boy sleeping behind the closed door behind Savil's
chair. "What we need," she told Andrel glumly, eating a dinner she
did not taste, "is Lancir. We need his MindHealing; the boy's pulling
farther away from touching with every moment he's
awake, and I cannot get him to let me inside. He's barricading himself again; a
different kind of barricade than that old arrogance, but it's there all the
same. And Lance bloody would be out of touch right
now."
He sighed, his breath making the candleflame flutter, and
pushed his own food around on his plate with his fork. "I have to agree
with you. Is there no chance you can get Lance back via Gate?"
She shook her head, shoving her frustration back down out of
her way. She'd already been over this with Jaysen. "Not without knowing where
he is, and he's not a strong enough Thought-senser to read a Broadcast-sending.
And we don't know what route he's taking home; could be one of half a dozen. If
something were wrong with Elspeth we could afford to send out half-a-dozen
Heralds to look for him, but—Vanyel just is not that important." Her tone
turned acid. "Or so I've been told."
Andrel frowned, and his eyebrows met. "He may become
that important; I'm shielding him as much as I can, but his trauma is still
leaking through. Half the trainees are depressed to the point of tears right
now, Gifted Bardic, Healer, and Herald, and it's all
due to Vanyel's leakage."
"Well what do you expect?" she countered, letting
him see her very real anger. "You
saw the strength and depth of his Gifts. Even with raw channels he's
Broad-sending without knowing it, and he has no more notion of how to shield
than how to fly! And it's not every day you've got one half of a lifebonded
pair left after the other half suicides. If he were trained, he'd be leaking. But
nobody else believes how strong he is; they all think I'm letting my affection
for Tylendel magnify everything that was connected with him out of all
proportion to reality."
"Gods!" he looked up from his plate with the
expression of a stunned sheep. "Vanyel and Tylendel—lifebonded?"
She nodded unhappily. "I'm pretty damned sure of it;
what's more, so are Mardic and Donni, and if anyone would recognize a bonding,
it would be another bonded pair. I expected grief, mourning; the natural
responses for a youngster who's lost his first love under rotten bad
circumstances—I did not expect to find the
kind of gaping emotional wounds I saw before he started shutting me out today.
I've never seen that depth of feeling before in anyone, Herald, or no, except Mardic and Donni. So tell me; what the hell do I do about a
broken lifebond?"
He shook his head, obviously at a loss. "I can't tell
you; I don't know. I don't Heal minds, I Heal bodies. And I don't know of
anyone who Heals hearts."
She sighed, and looked down at her congealing dinner.
"That's what I was afraid you'd tell me. I have more bad news; the
relationship between them was one where 'Lendel was the leader and Van the
follower. Van had gotten totally dependent on 'Lendel for all his emotional needs.
I tried to warn 'Lendel, but—" She shrugged. "And to put the snow on
the mountain, Van's got some guilt he's hiding from me, and all I can think is
that he's convinced he cursed 'Lendel because he seduced Tylendel. Mind you, he
didn't; from all I know I'm positive the seduction, if seduction it was, was
mutual, but—there it is."
"Jaysen," Andrel said positively.
She nodded. "Good bet, my friend. Jays has got all
those Kleimar prejudices about same-sex pairings. He accepted 'Lendel, but mostly after I rammed his prejudices
right up in his face. But Vanyel? Vanyel wasn't even a Herald-candidate when he
and 'Lendel paired. Jays hasn't said a word, but you can bet on what he was
thinking when he was keeping watch on him. Resentment that Van is alive and
'Lendel dead would be the least of it."
"And Vanyel picked it up," Andrel said sadly.
"Probably." She took a bite, found it catch in her
throat, and gave up trying to eat, shoving the plate away. "From what I
can tell, he's sensitive enough to pick up things you've forgotten for years and do it right
through your shielding. Ah, gods."
She rested both elbows on the table, and covered her sore
eyes with her hands. A moment later she felt one of Andrel's hands stroking her
hair, and dropped her own back on the table, giving him a good long look across
the candleflames. His deeply green eyes were fixed on her face, reflecting a
profound concern.
"And what about you?" he asked, barely above a
whisper.
"I am trying to reach out to
him," she said, feeling old and tired and about ready to give up. "I
think I've convinced myself that none of this was any more his fault than it
was anyone else's. I bloody well hope so, or he's going to be getting knives in
the gut from me, too. And he doesn't deserve that. The rest—gods, I don't know
what to do."
"That isn't what I meant," he replied, taking his
hand away from her hair, and reaching for her wrist. "I want to know how you're weathering this. Need a shoulder?"
"Want the truth?" She tensed all over, trying to
keep from bawling like a little child. "Yes, I need a shoulder, and no, I
am not taking this well. I
want 'Lendel back, Andy—he was my soul-son, and I loved him, and I want him
back with me."
Her voice cracked; she lost her veneer of calm, and just
dissolved into tears. Andrel got up, gracefully, and without letting go of her
wrist; he moved around the table, and pulled her to her feet, then led her over
to the couch and gave her that shoulder she needed so badly.
His cry sounded like something in its death agonies, and
made Savil's hair stand on end.
The room trembled; literally. The walls shook as Vanyel's
muscles spasmed.
His eyes were wide open, but saw nothing, and his pupils
dilated with fear. He convulsed again, and the very foundation of the Palace
rocked. The bed shook as if it were alive. His lute fell from the wall, landing
with a sickening crack that surely meant it was broken past all repair; his
armor-stand crashed over and scattered his equipment across the floor, and
Savil was tossed from his bedside to the floor before she realized it.
She picked herself up off the floor beside his bed without
thinking about safety or bruises, and flung herself at him again.
He thrashed beneath her, fighting her with a paranormal
strength; he couldn't know where he was or who she was. All she could read from
him was terrible agony—and beneath the pain, confusion, panic, entrapment. She
caught his wrists and tried to pinion them against the pillows; then tried to
pin him down with the blankets. His chest arched against hers, he screamed, and
the walls shook again.
Mardic lay in the corner behind her, quite unconscious;
Donni had his head in her lap and she was trying to protect him from falling
objects with her own body. Vanyel had thrown him against the wall when this
nightmare—or whatever it was—had started, and Mardic had made the mistake of
trying to touch his mind to wake him.
:Donni—: Savil used a moment of
lull to Mindtouch her pupil, taking a tiny fragment of her attention from the
attempt—attempt, for it wasn't
succeeding—to shield Vanyel, to get him under some kind of control. :—Donni,
how's Mardic?:
:He's all right, just stunned,: came the reassuring reply. :—I can
spare you something. Catch this, quick—:
The girl "threw" her a mental line, and began
sending additional, sorely-needed energy down it as soon as Savil
"caught" it.
It helped to keep Savil from blacking out as Vanyel lashed
out with his mind, but that was
about all.
Jaysen was coming on the run; Savil could Feel him reaching
out to find out what the hell was going on, and Felt the panic in his mind when he realized they had a powerful
Gifted trapped in a pain-loop and hallucination. He all but broke down the
door, trying to get in, and flung himself into the affray without a second
thought.
"Shield him, dammit," he shouted, throwing
himself across Vanyel's legs, as the walls (but, thank the gods, not the
foundations again) shook.
"I'm trying," she snapped back, giving
up on the uneven struggle to pin Vanyel down, and settling for securing his
arms. "He breaks them as fast as I get them up!"
Jaysen succeeded in getting Vanyel physically restrained
where she, being lighter, had failed. He added his strength to Savil's and
Donni's on the crumbling shields they were trying to get on the boy. But it
wasn't even stalemate; they were losing him to his own nightmares.
Andrel appeared. Savil didn't even see or Sense him run in;
he was just there all in an instant. But
instead of flinging himself into the melee, he grabbed their arms and pulled
both of them off the boy.
Then he reached down for something at his feet, and came up
with a bucket of icy water. He doused the boy, bed and all, without a heartbeat
of hesitation.
The convulsions stopped as Vanyel came abruptly awake.
He sat up—stared—then he suddenly went limp.
The room stopped shaking.
"Savil, get me a blanket," Andrel ordered quietly.
"Jays, help me get him out of that wet bed before he goes into shock, then
get the bedding stripped before the mattress gets soaked."
By the time Savil returned with the goosedown comforter from
her bed, the two men had pulled the half-stunned boy from the tangled mess of
water-soaked bedcoverings, and the bedding was piled on the floor. Andrel was
carefully shaking the boy's shoulders while Jaysen supported him.
Behind them, Mardic was groggily climbing to his knees,
Donni steadying him, but the two of them waved Savil off when she made a
half-step in their direction.
:We're all right,: Donni Mindspoke. :I'll get
Mardic into bed myself, and then I'll come make up the bed in here again.:
Savil turned her attention back to the boy, knowing she
could trust Donni to deal with the situation if she had said she could.
"Come on, Vanyel," Andrel was saying, coaxingly.
"Come on, lad, come back to us. Wake up, come out of it."
Vanyel blinked, blinked again, and sense came back into his
eyes. He looked about him, momentarily confused, then the destruction about him
seemed to register on him. He closed his eyes, a soft, hardly audible moan
coming from the back of his throat.
And for one instant, Savil was nearly flattened beneath an
overwhelming load of blackest despair, terrible guilt, and a grief so heavy she
felt her knees start to give way beneath the weight of it.
Then it was gone; absolutely cut off, and so completely that
for a moment even she doubted that she had felt it.
But one look at Andrel and Jaysen convinced her otherwise;
the former was deeply shaken, and the latter white-lipped.
She expected tenderness and concern from Andrel—but
strangely enough, it was Jaysen who carefully got the boy into a chair, wrapped
in the comforter; and from the chair back into the bed when Donni had stripped
it of the wet coverings and remade it. It was Jaysen who stayed beside him,
leaving Savil free to see to it that Mardic was truly all right. Savil wasn't
in a mood to ask questions about his apparent change of heart.
Mardic was fine, and relatively cheerful. "I'll have a
godsawful headache," he told her; "Poor Van thought I was going to
kill him, took me for an enemy in his dream. When he realized it was a dream, he pulled most of it—"
"Most of it?" Savil choked. "He
flattened you, and he pulled most of it?"
"Near as I can tell." Mardic put both hands to his
temples and massaged a little. "Well when he pulled the blow, the energy
overflowed into those raw channels and hurt him, and he went over the edge;
couldn't control anything. Then—I think—he lost his center and got lost in his
own pain. Andrel had the right notion; physical shock is what gave him
something to home in on."
"But you are going to be all right?"
He gave her half a grin. "If you'll let me get some
sleep."
Savil took the statement as an unsubtle request and made a
hasty exit.
She got back just in time to see Andrel give Vanyel some
kind of sedative to drink. But it was Jaysen who sat with the boy until
Andrel's sedative took effect. And it was Jaysen who righted the armor-stand,
and picked up the broken-backed lute from the floor with a wince at seeing the
fine instrument so ruined.
"I'll see to getting this fixed, if it can be," he
said, when he saw Savil watching him before she knelt to put out the fire. They
daren't have a fire here while Vanyel was asleep, nor candles burning,
either—not unless Andrel could do something to keep him from going into another
fit.
"Jays, what am I going to do with him?" she asked,
quietly, standing up with a wince as a pulled muscle in her back told her what
a fool she'd been. He motioned that she should precede him out the door, and
she half turned to see his face as she walked past him. "He's sick with
backlash, and he's getting sicker, not better. His channels are all raw; you
can't Mindtouch him without doing that
to him, throwing him into convulsions. That was what set all this off, Mardic
trying to soothe him out of a bad dream. What am I going to do the next time he has a nightmare?"
Jaysen shrugged helplessly, and shut the door behind her.
She made a circuit of the common room, setting candles erect and lighting them.
"If you don't know, be damned if I do. Andy, can we keep him sedated long
enough to heal?"
Andrel grimaced, looking as if he'd swallowed something
sour. "With any other patient I'd tell you where to put that question—what
I just gave the boy was argonel."
Jaysen and Savil both started with surprise, and in Savil's
case the surprise was not unmixed with shock. "Great good gods, Andy!"
"Ease up; he's safe enough," Andrel interrupted
her, throwing himself down on the couch with his usual lack of concern for the
furniture. He groaned, stretched, and then raised an eyebrow at the Seneschal's
Herald. "Jaysen, may I mention that you have lovely legs?"
Jaysen, who was attired only in shirt and hose and only just
now really realized this, blushed a furious scarlet, but refused to be
distracted. "Argonel, Andy—" he began, taking a chair and crossing
his legs primly.
"He's burning it off at a respectable rate, or I
wouldn't have given it to him," Andrel replied. "The benefit of it is
that it's a muscle relaxant and a sedative; he won't
be able to go into convulsions again even if you Mindtouch him. I won't speak for him tossing the Palace around,
but he won't go into physical convulsions. As for
him healing, well that depends entirely on what you mean."
Savil took another chair, flopping down into it with a tired
thud as loud as the one Andrel
had made connecting with the couch cushions.
"Physically," she said, flatly. "Pure
physical healing. Backlash symptoms, exhaustion, blood loss. I'll worry about
raw channels later."
"Yes, I can keep him sedated long enough for the
effects of backlash to wear off, for his physical energy to recover and for him
to replace the blood he lost. I can combine the argonel with jervain, and dull
out all the Gift-senses enough so that they aren't so sensitive. That might let the channels heal. I don't know
for sure; I've never seen nor read of anything like this, Gifts being blasted
open like his were."
"Mentally?" Jaysen prodded, frowning. "Emotionally?"
"At this point I don't think even Lance can help
him," Andrel replied sadly. "You both felt—"
Jaysen nodded, ruefully. "That's—I think perhaps I
picked up something more than either of you," he said, a shadow of guilt
crossing his face. "He—he thinks that everything he touches is doomed,
cursed. Because of—what he and 'Lendel were. And I know exactly where he got that
particularly poisonous little thought. Only it isn't a 'little thought'
anymore. It's as much an obsession as Tylendel's was."
He hung his head, and wouldn't look at her. "I never
thought—" he faltered. "I never guessed—I thought he was just a user—"
Savil was not feeling charitable just now. "Damn right,
you never thought," she snapped. "You never thought at all! You and
your damned provincial—"
"Savil," Andrel said, warningly, his head turned
slightly to the side, nodding at the door to Vanyel's room.
She subsided. If she got angry, Van might pick it up; it
might set him off again. "Sorry, Jays," she finally said grudgingly,
not feeling sorry at all.
"At least you didn't send somebody out to cut their
wrists," he answered unhappily.
She winced. "No—I just—hell, this isn't getting us
anywhere. Andy, you think you can get him physically recovered, right?"
Candlelight reflected in his eyes, which had gone
inward-looking. "I would say yes, cautiously."
"Let's worry about that, then, for a couple of days. I
have a germ of an idea, but whether or not I can pull it off is going to depend
very strongly on whether or not you can get Vanyel fit to
ride."
"If I can't get him to that point in the next couple of
weeks or so, it's never going to happen," Andrel replied.
"What's the chance we can do something about the way
he's barricading himself—or even help him get some of his power under his own
control?"
He pondered her question while the fire crackled beside him.
"Why don't you ask your Companions? He may be able to barricade against
you, but I doubt he can do much against Yfandes."
She pressed her hand to her eyes and shook her head.
"Gods, why in hell didn't I think of that?" And at the same time,
Mindsent :Kellan?: knowing that Jaysen was doing the same with Felar.
:Here,: came the reply,
immediately.
She sent their dilemma in a complicated thought-burst, and
waited while Kellan digested the information, and possibly conferred with Felar
and Yfandes.
:Yfandes says that the bonding is weak,: came the reply, flavored with the acid tang of concern. :It fades in and out—and it
hurts the boy, sometimes, to speak with her.:
:Can we do anything about that?: Jaysen fell into the rapport, and if there was anything
other than genuine distress there on Vanyel's behalf, Savil couldn't feel it.
Through him, she could Hear Felar.
:Physical contact,: Felar said shortly.
Kellan agreed. :As
much as possible. That is what strengthens the bonding; now she cannot help him
to get control of what he does.:
:And if
the bond is strengthened?: Jaysen asked.
:Perhaps,: said Felar.
:A hope,: added Kellan.
Jaysen looked into Savil's eyes from across the room, and nodded,
a little grimly. At this point they would accept even a hope, however tenuous.
Only the empty place in him was pretty much the same; only
that continued to ache in a way the Healer's potions couldn't seem to touch.
The place where Tylendel had been—and now—
But the potions let him sleep, a sleep without dreams. And
he'd had the snow-dreams again—that was what had thrown him into that fit.
Oh, gods—he'd thought—he'd thought they'd never come again.
He'd thought 'Lendel had driven them away. But they weren't the dreams about
being walled in by ice, so maybe 'Lendel had—
Maybe not. He couldn't tell. It was the other dream, anyway.
Clear, vivid as no other dream he'd dreamed had ever been, and much more
detailed than the last time he'd had it.
He'd been in a canyon, a narrow mountain pass with walls
that were peculiarly smooth. He'd known, in the dream, that this was no real
pass—that this passage had been created,
cut armlength by armlength, by magic.
He'd known, too, that the magic had been wrong, skewed. It
had an aura of pain and death about it, as if every thumblength of that canyon
had been paid for in spilled blood.
It had been night; cloudy, with a smell of snow on the wind.
Where he stood the canyon had narrowed momentarily, choked by avalanches on
either side. He'd been very cold, despite the heavy weight of a fur cloak on
his shoulders; his feet had been like blocks of the ice that edged the canyon
walls.
He had felt a feeling of grim satisfaction, when he'd seen
that at this one point the passage was wide enough for two men, but no more.
And he knew that he had somehow
caused those blockages, to create a place where one man could, conceivably,
hold off an army.
Because an army was what was coming down that canyon.
He'd sent for help, sent Yfandes and Tylendel—
Tylendel? But Tylendel was dead—
—but he'd also known that help was unlikely to arrive in
time.
He had waited until they were almost on him, suspecting
nothing, and knowing that they could not see him yet because he willed it so.
Then he had raised his right hand high over his head, and a mage-light had
flared on it; so bright that the front ranks of that terrible army winced back,
and their shadows fell black as the heart of night on the snow behind them. He
had said nothing; nothing needed to be said. He barred the way; that was all
the challenge required.
They were heavily armored, those fighters; armor of some
dull, black stuff, and helms of the same. They carried the weight of that armor
as easily as Vanyel wore his own white fur cloak. They bore unornamented round
shields, again of the same dull, black material, and carried long broadswords.
For the rest, what could be seen of their clothing under the armor and their
cloaks over it, they were a motley lot. But they moved with a kind of sensitivity to the
presence of the next-in-line that had told Vanyel in the dream that they had
been drilled together by a hand more merciless than ever Jervis had been.
They stared at him, and none of them moved for a very long
time—
Until the front ranks parted, and the wizard stepped through.
Wizard he was, and no doubt; Vanyel could feel the Power
heavy within him. But it was Power of the same kind as that which had cut this canyon;
paid for in agony. And when it was gone, there would be no more until the
wizard could torture and kill again. Vanyel had all the power of life itself
behind him; the power of the sleeping earth, of the living forest—
He spread his arms, and the life-energy flowed from him,
creating a barricade across the valley—
—like the barricade
across his heart—
—and a shield behind which he could shelter. He faced the
wizard, head held high, defiance in the slightest movement, daring him to try
and pass.
But the ranks of the fighters parted again, and the first
wizard was joined by a second, and a third. And Vanyel felt his heart sinking,
seeing his own death sentence written in those three-to-one odds.
Still, he had stood his ground—
Until Mardic touched his mind.
It had hurt,
that touch; salt on raw flesh. He'd interpreted it as an attack of the wizards,
and had struck back, struck to kill, and only as he'd made his strike had
realized that—
—a
dream, oh, gods—it's
a dream, it isn't real, and that's Mardic—
And had tried to pull the blow; had pulled the blow, but that sent the aborted power
coursing back down places that burned in agony when it touched them. And he'd
tried to stop the flow, but that had only twisted things up inside him, until
he was a thrashing knot of anguish and he didn't know where he was or what he
was doing. It all hurt, everything hurt, everything burned, and he was trapped
in the pain, in the torment, crying out and knowing no one could hear him, and
lost—he couldn't feel his body anymore, couldn't hear or see; he was foundering
in a sea of agony—
Then a shock—like being struck—
He found himself gasping for breath, frozen to his teeth,
but back in a normal body that hurt in a normal way.
Then he had blacked out for a moment; came to with the
Healer shaking him, talking to him.
He was soaking wet, and shivering.
Mardic? What about Mardic?
The Herald Jaysen was holding him upright, more than half
supporting him—
Tylendel, dead, crumpled at Jaysen's feet. My fault, oh,
gods, my fault—
The grieving came down on him, full force; but somewhere at
the back of his mind he knew that they were feeling what he was feeling and he clamped down on
it—closed that line off—
In the stunned, mental silence he heard Jaysen's anguished
thoughts, as clearly and intimately as if he was speaking them into Vanyel's
ear.
:Gods—oh, gods, I didn't know, I didn't guess—I thought
he was playing with the boy, I thought he was—oh, gods, what have I done?:
He shuddered away from the unwanted sympathy, from the
mind-words that were like acid in his wounds, and blocked that line just as ruthlessly.
Then had come the potions—and the numbness. The blessed unfeeling. He drifted, nothing
to hold him, not even his worry for Mardic. It was pitchy dark, they hadn't
left a single flame in the room, which under the circumstances was probably
wise. Scraps of what he now knew were thoughts drifted over to him; now Savil's
mind-voice, now Jaysen's (dark with guilt, and Vanyel wondered why), now
Mardic's.
If he had been on his feet, he would have staggered with
relief at hearing that last. I didn't kill him—thank the gods, I didn't kill him.
He drifted farther, until he couldn't hear anything anymore.
Until he lost even his own thoughts. Until there was nothing left but sleep,
and the sorrow that never, ever left him.
For Savil, at least, it had gotten to that point.
Just beyond the window, bundled in quilts and blankets and
half-lying against Yfandes' side, Vanyel dozed in the sun, still kept in a
sleepy half-daze by Andrel's potions. Jaysen had carried him out there, with
his own mind so tightly shielded against leaking his thoughts that Savil fair
Saw him quivering under the strain. Jaysen would be back for the boy in another
two candlemarks, which was all Andrel would allow in this cold. This was the
third day of the routine; there had been no real repetition of the crisis that
had precipitated it, but Savil more than half expected one every night.
Vanyel sighed in sleep, and one arm stole out of the
blankets to circle around Yfandes' neck. The Companion nuzzled his ear, and
instead of pulling away, he cuddled closer to her.
But before Savil had a chance to really take in this first, positive
sign that the Herald-Companion bond was taking root in the boy, someone pounded on her outer door. She
half-turned, and heard Donni pattering across the common room to answer it.
There was a murmur too indistinct to make but.
The voice from outside the door strengthened. "Please,
I'm Van's sister—let me at least talk to my aunt—"
Savil started, and strode quickly across Vanyel's room,
pulling open the door. There could only be one of Vanyel's sisters likely to
show up on her doorstep at this point, the one that had fostered out in hopes
of a career in the Guard.
"Let her in, Donni," Savil said—and blinked in
surprise. The girl in the doorway could have been herself at seventeen or
eighteen.
God help her—no
wonder she went for the Guard, Savil thought irrelevantly. She's got that damned Ashkevron nose.
Evidently the same thought was running through the girl's
mind. "You must be my Aunt Savil," she said forthrightly, standing at
what was almost "attention" in the doorway. "You have the nose.
I'm Lissa. Can I help?"
Savil decided that she liked this blunt girl. "Perhaps,
I don't know yet," she replied. "First, Lissa, come in and tell me
what you've heard."
"And at that he looks better than he did three days
ago," Savil replied. She would have said more, but there was another
pounding on the suite door and a voice she knew only too well rumbled angrily
when Donni answered it.
"Like bloody hell she's too busy," Lord Withen
Ashkevron snarled. "I didn't bloody ride my best horse to foundering to be
put off with a 'too damned busy!' Now where in hell is she?"
Savil, with Lissa at her side, strode across to the door,
flung it open, and stood facing Withen with her back poker-straight, feet
slightly apart, arms crossed over her chest.
"What do you want, Withen?" she asked flatly,
narrowing her eyes in mingled annoyance and apprehension.
"What the hell do you think I want?" he growled,
ignoring Lissa and Donni as if they weren't there, placing his fists on his
hips, and taking an aggressive, wide-legged stance. "I want to know what
the hell you've been doing with the boy I sent you! I sent him down here for
you to make a man out of him, not turn
him into a perverted little catamite!" His face darkened and his voice
rose with every word. "I—"
"I think that's more than
enough, Withen," she snapped, cutting him off before he could build up to
whatever climax he had in mind. "I, I, I—dammit, you blustering peabrain,
is that all you ever think of?
Yourself? Vanyel almost died four days ago, he
almost died again three days ago, and he
could die or go mad in the next
candlemark, and all you can think of is that
he did something your back-country prejudices don't approve of! Gods above and
below, you can't even call him by his bloody name, just 'the boy'!"
She advanced on him with such anger in her face that he
actually fell back a pace, alarm and surprise chasing themselves across his eyes.
Lissa moved with her, and stood beside her with every muscle tensed, and her
fists clenched into hard knots.
"You come storming in here when we've maybe—maybe—got him stable, without
so much as a 'please' or a 'may I,' you don't even ask if he's in any shape to
put two words together in a sensible fashion! Oh, no, all you can do is scream that I've made him into a catamite when you sent
him to be made into a man. A man!" She laughed, a harsh
cawing sound that clawed its way up out of her throat. "My gods—what the hell did you
think he was? Tell me, Withen, what kind of a man would send his son into strange hands
just because the poor thing didn't happen to fit his image of masculinity?"
Savil ran out of things to say—but Lissa hadn't.
"What kind of a man would let a brutal bully break his son's arm for no damned reason?" the girl snarled.
"What kind of a man would drive his son
into becoming an emotional eunuch because every damned time the boy looked for
a little bit of paternal love he got slapped in the face? What kind of a man would take anyone's word over his son's
with no cause to ever think the boy was a liar?" Lissa
faced down her father as if he had become her enemy. "You tell me, Father! What right do you have to demand
anything of him? What did you
ever give him but scorn? When did you ever give him a single
thing he really needed or wanted? When did you ever tell him he'd done well?
When did you ever say you loved him?"
Withen backed up another two paces, his back against the
wall beside the door, his expression that of someone who has just been poleaxed.
Savil found her tongue again. "A man—may all the gods give you what you
deserve, you fathead! What
kind of a man would care more for his own reputation than his son's life?" She was backing him
into the corner now, unleashing on Withen all the pain and frustration and
anger she'd been keeping bottled up inside her over the past week. He had gone
pale—and started to try to say something, but she cut him off.
"Let me tell you this, Withen," she hissed.
"Everything that Vanyel's become, you had a hand in making—and mostly because you didn't want a son, you just wanted a
little toy copy of yourself to parade around so that people could congratulate
you on your bedroom prowess. You helped make him what he is—gave him a set of
values so distorted it's a wonder he even recognized love when he saw it, and
taught him that he had to keep everything he felt secret because adults
couldn't be trusted. And now I have one boy dead,
and one a hair from dying, and all you care about is that somebody might think you weren't manly enough to father manly sons! Oh, get out of here, get out of my
sight—"
She turned away from him before he could see the tears in
her eyes. Lissa put a steadying hand on her shoulder and glared at her father
as if she would be perfectly happy to take a piece out of him if he said one
wrong word.
"S-s-savil—I—I—" he stammered. "They said—but
I didn't believe—is Vanyel—"
"One wrong word, one wrong move, and he will die,
Withen," she said flatly, her eyes shut tightly as she reestablished
control over herself. "One wrong thought almost killed him. He
slit his wrists because he discovered that someone he trusted believed that his
love was the reason
Tylendel died. Are you pleased with what you made? It was certainly the honorable thing for him to do,
wasn't it?"
"I—I—"
"I am very gratified to be able to tell you that he isn't yours anymore, Withen, he's mine. He's
been Chosen—if he lives that long,
he'll be a Herald-trainee, and as such, he is my charge. You've forfeited any claim on
him. So you can have what you've always wanted—little Mekeal can be your
heir-designate, and you can wash your hands of Vanyel with a clear conscience."
Withen flinched at her pitilessly accurate words, and seemed
to almost shrink in size.
"Savil—I didn't mean—I didn't want—"
"You didn't?" She raised an ironic eyebrow.
He winced. "Savil, can I—see him? I won't hurt him,
I—dammit, he's still my son!"
"Lissa, do you think we should?"
Lissa looked at her father as one looks at a
not-particularly-trustworthy stranger. "I don't know that he can behave
himself."
Withen's face darkened. "You ungrateful little—"
Lissa shrugged, and said to Savil, "See what I mean?"
Savil nodded. "I see—but he has a point. Maybe he ought
to see his handiwork." She nodded toward the door to Vanyel's room.
"Follow me, Withen. And keep a rein on that mouth of yours, or I'll have
you thrown out."
He stopped dead at the garden door, and pressed his hands
and face against the glass in stunned disbelief. "My gods—" he gasped. "They said—but I
didn't believe them. Savil, I've seen men dead a week that looked better than
that!"
Lissa snorted. Savil pushed him away from the door
impatiently, and opened it, flinching a bit as the cold air hit her. She looked
back at him; he'd made no move to follow. "Are you coming, or not?"
she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to startle Vanyel.
He swallowed, his own face set and very white, and followed
her with slow, hesitant steps. She walked quickly to the patch of sheltered,
sun-gilded brown grass where the boy was lying with Yfandes; he hadn't moved
since she'd left. He didn't seem to notice she was there as she knelt in the
harsh, dry grass that prickled her knees through the cloth of her breeches and
hose.
"Van—Van, wake up a little, can you?" she said
softly, not touching him at all, either with hand or mind. "Van?"
He moved his head a little, and blinked in a kind of
half-dazed parody of sleepiness. "A-aunt?" he murmured.
"Your father's here—Withen—he wants to see you. Vanyel,
he can't take you home, he has no power over you now that you're Chosen. You
don't have to see him if you don't want to."
Vanyel blinked again, showing a little more alertness.
"N-no. S'all right. 'Fandes says s'all right; says I should."
Savil rose quickly and returned to where Withen waited
uncertainly on the worn path, halfway between the door and where the boy lay.
"Go ahead," she said roughly. "Don't raise your voice, and speak
slowly. We've got him pretty heavily drugged, so keep that in mind. You might
trigger more than you want to hear if you aren't careful."
She followed a few steps behind him, with Lissa behind her,
and remained within earshot as he knelt heavily in the dry grass and started to
reach out to touch Vanyel's shoulder. She very nearly snapped at him, but
Vanyel roused a bit more, and waved the blunt fingers away.
"Vanyel—" the man said, seeming at a complete loss
for words. "Vanyel, I—I heard you were sick—"
Vanyel gave a pitiful little croak of a laugh. "You
h-heard I was playin' ewe t' 'Lendel's ram, y'mean. Don' lie t' me, Father. You
lied t' me all m'life an' I couldn' prove it, but I know when people lie t'me now."
Withen flushed, but Vanyel wasn't through yet.
"Y're thinkin' now that—I—I'm perv'rt'd, unclean or
somethin', an' that I—I'm just bad an' ungrateful an' I n-never p-p-pleased you
an'—dammit, all I ev' wanted
was f'r you t' tell me I did somethin' right! Just once, Father, j-j-just one time! An' all you ever d-d-did was let J-J-Jervis knock me
flat, an' then kick me y'rself! 'Lendel loved me, an' I loved him an' you can stop thinkin' those—god—damned—rotten—things—"
Withen pulled back and started to his feet—opened his mouth
like he was about to roar at his son—
But that was as far as he got. Vanyel's eyes blazed; his
face went masklike with rage. And before Withen could utter a single syllable,
Vanyel surged up out of his cocoon of blankets and knocked Withen head over
heels into the bushes with the untrained, half-drugged power of his mind alone.
Withen struggled up. Vanyel knocked him flat. Lissa made as
if to go to one or the other of them, but Savil caught her arm.
"Look at Yfandes," she said. "She's calm, she
hasn't even moved. Let them have this out. Between us I think Yfandes and I could
keep the lad from killing his father, but that isn't what he wants to do."
Twice more Withen tried to get his feet, and twice more
Vanyel flung him back. He was crying now, silent, unnoticed tears streaking his
white cheeks. "How's it feel,
Father? Am I strong enough now? How's it feel t' get knocked down an' stepped on by
somethin' you can't reason with an' can't fight? You happy? I'm as big a bully as J-J-Jervis now—does that make you bloody happy?"
Withen's mouth worked, but no sound came out of it.
Vanyel stared at him, then the angry light faded from his
eyes and was replaced by a disgusted bitterness. "It doesn't make me happy, Father," he said, quietly,
and clearly; the last of the drug-haze gone from his speech. "Knowing I
can do this to you just makes me sick. Nothing makes me happy anymore. Nothing ever will again."
He sank back down to the ground, pulled his blankets around
himself, and turned his face into Yfandes' shoulder. "Go away,
Father," he said, voice muffled. "Just go away."
Withen got slowly and awkwardly to his feet. He stood;
shaken and pale, looking down at his son for a long time.
"Would it make any difference if I said I was
sorry?" he asked, finally; from the bewildered expression on his face,
acutely troubled—and more than that, vaguely aware that he had just had his
entire world knocked head-over-heels, and was entirely uncertain of what to do
or say or even be next.
"Maybe—someday," came the voice, thickened with
tears. "Not now. Go away,
Father. Please—leave me alone."
"Savil?"
Savil looked up. Mardic peeked around Savil's half-open
door, uncertainty in his very posture.
Huh. I'm getting better at reading people.
She gave a quick glance out her window. Vanyel was sitting
on the bench just outside it, talking with Lissa, Yfandes hovering over both of
them.
Bless the child; I don't know what I'd do without her.
For a moment she forgot Mardic; a terrible weariness bowed
down her shoulders like a too-heavy cloak.
Gods. What am I going to do? He's not getting better, just a
little stronger. He keeps trying to make me or Liss into a substitute for
'Lendel, into someone else to follow. I can't let him do that. It'll just make
things ultimately worse. But when we try and push him into standing on his own
feet, he goes into a sulk. She sighed. It
makes me so angry at him that I want to slap him into next week. And he's had
too much
of that already. He doesn't really deserve it,
either. Hellfires, those sulks are the closest he's ever gotten to normal behavior! Oh, gods—
Mardic cleared his throat, and she jumped. "I'm sorry,
lad, I'm woolgathering. Must be getting old. Come on in."
He edged into the room, crabwise. "Savil, Donni and I
want to ask you something," he faltered, hands behind his back, rubbing
his left foot against his right ankle. "We—Savil, you're the best there
is, but—Vanyel needs you more than we do."
"Gods," she sighed, rubbing her right temple.
"I have been shorting you two—I am sorry—"
"No, really, we don't mind," Donni interrupted,
poking her curly head past the edge of the door just behind Mardic's shoulder.
"I was wondering when you'd put in your
silver-worth," Savil replied.
"We do come as a set,"
she pointed out. "No, Savil, you haven't been shorting us. It's more that
we're afraid you're going to split yourself in half, trying to do too many
things. Vanyel needs you; we've
finally got what we needed from
you—there wasn't anybody else likely to be able to teach us to work in concert,
but look—"
Mardic moved farther into the room; Donni stayed by the
door. They reached out to one another, arms extended, and hands not quite touching, and—
Where there had been two auras there was now one; a
golden-green flow over and around them that was seamless—and considerably more than either aura had been alone. Savil
blinked in surprise. "Just when did you two start to do that?" she
asked.
"The night—when we had to get the Temple open,"
Mardic supplied. "When we had to get the arrow up, and then even more when
we meshed in the Healing-meld. That's when what you'd been showing us sort of
fell into place. So, well, now any Herald-Mage could teach us, and really,
given what we do together, it probably ought to be Jaysen, or Lancir. But
Jaysen hasn't got anyone right now."
"Piffle. You'd make a three-hour tale of a
limerick," Donni sniffed. "Savil, we asked Jaysen; he said he'd take
us if you allow it."
Savil put down her pen, and closed her gaping mouth. "I
think I may kiss you both," she replied, as Donni gave Mardic an "I
told you so" grin. "I was trying to think of a way to get you another
mentor and coming up blank because I 'm the only one who knows how to teach
concert work. Bless you, loves."
She rose and took both of them in her arms; they returned
the embrace; their support as much mental as physical.
"Savil," Donni said quietly, as she released them
with real reluctance. "What are you going to do with Vanyel? He's—he's
still so broken—and everything here has just got
to keep reminding him of 'Lendel. It's too bad you can't take him somewhere
really different."
"Gods, that's only too true," she replied.
—really different—gods—oh, gods, thank you for bright little
proteges!
"Donni," she said slowly, "I think you may
just have found my answer for me. Now I'm even more grateful to you for finding
yourselves a new teacher."
"You've got an idea?"
Savil nodded. "And kill two birds with one stone. Those
things the Leshara had brought in—they had to be from the Pelagirs, just like what 'Lendel conjured in
retribution. I'd have had to go out there anyway, to find out who's been
tampering. So—what I'm going to do is take Vanyel there to some friends of
mine, the Hawkbrothers. They're self-appointed guardians of the Pelagirs, so
they should be told if there's been a mage tampering with their creatures. And
they follow a different discipline; maybe they can help Van. And if they can't,
I know they can at least contain him."
"But you really think they can help him?" Donni
asked hopefully.
"Well, I can't; I know for a
fact that Starwind is better than I am. Besides, if we keep Van drugged much
longer, Andrel is afraid he'll become addicted, but if we take him off—"
"He could wreck the Palace." Mardic nodded
solemnly. "When are you taking him?"
"When—within the next few days, I think. The sooner the
better." She looked over his head, to the Wingsister talisman on her wall.
"The only problem is that to find Starwind k'Treva and Moondance k'Treva
I'll have to go to them—because they don't ever come out of the Pelagirs. That means two
things. I'll have to build a Gate, and I'll have to hope that I still know how to find them."
"Gods, I hate Gating," Savil
muttered to Andrel, squinting against the glare of sun on snow as she scanned
the sky for even a hint of cloud.
"Why? Other than the recent rotten associations—"
"It's damned dangerous at the best of times. It plays
fast and loose with local weather systems, for one thing; it's a spell that
sets up a local energy field, a kind that disrupts any kind of high-energy
weather pattern that's around it. Usually for the worse." She closed her
eyes, centered and grounded, and extended her Mage-Gift sense up and out,
looking farther afield for anything that might
move in while she had the Gate up. To her vast relief there didn't seem to be
anything of consequence anywhere nearby; the only energy-patterns she could
read were a few rising air currents over warm spots, too small to be any hazard.
She sighed. "Well, the weather's not going to cause any
problems. How was the lad?"
"Drugged to his teeth, and I would stake my arm that he
won't be able to count to one before some time tonight. And I am damned glad
you told me that you were planning on Gating out of here." Andrel tucked his
long, sensitive hands inside his cloak, and peered across the open Field
through the sunlight. "Since it was Gate-energy that blew his channels
open—"
"Probably," Savil interrupted.
"All right, probably blew his channels
open—he's going to be doubly sensitive to it for the rest of his life. He'll
likely know when someone's opening a Gate within a league of him. And actually
going through one may touch off
another fit. Which is why—"
"—you drugged him to the teeth. I have no objection;
it's a little awkward, but that's why we have the kind of saddles for our
Companions that we do."
They crunched their way across Companion's Field, now
covered with the first snowfall of the season. Savil repeated a quieting
exercise for every step she made, for she knew she needed to establish absolute
calm within herself; she would be Gating to her absolute physical limits (in
terms of the distance she planned to cover) and that would take every reserve
she had.
In light of that, she had turned everything (other than
establishing the Gate itself) over to the hands of others. Mardic and Donni had
done all her packing, Lissa had taken care of Vanyel's, and Lissa had taken
charge of the boy once Andrel was finished with him. They were all waiting at
the Grove Temple at this very moment.
"So why else don't you like Gating?" Andrel asked,
while the Field around them glowed under the sun.
"Because when I get there, I'm going to be pretty
damned worthless," she replied dryly, "And I'd better hope the
Talisman performs the way Starwind claimed it was supposed to, or we'll be a
pretty pathetically helpless pair, Vanyel and I."
"Why don't you do what Tylendel did, use someone else's
energy?"
"Because I don't really know what he did," she
said, after a long pause that was punctuated only by the sound of their
footsteps breaking through the light crust of snow. "None of us do. That
may be why we ended up feeding the energy back through poor Van instead of
grounding and dissipating it. I personally do not care to take the chance of doing
that to another living soul and neither do any of the others. Vanyel lived
through it; someone else might not. And it may well be that you have to have a
lifebound pair to carry it off at all. So," she shrugged, "we do this
the hard way, and I fall on my nose on the other side."
They entered the Grove, the leafless trees making a lacework
of dark branches against the bright blue sky. The peace of the Grove never left
it, no matter what the season was. That was one reason why Savil had chosen to set
up the Gate here. The other was that it was the safest place on the Palace
grounds that she could put a Gate; no one but Heralds ever came here without
invitation. There should be no accidents caused by a stranger wandering by at
the wrong moment.
The group waiting by the Temple, which looked today as if it
had been newly-made of the same pure snow that covered the ground around it,
was a small one. Jaysen, Donni and Mardic, and Lissa. There were only two
Companions there; Kellan and Yfandes. Companions tended to avoid the Grove
except when a Herald died. Vanyel was slumped over in Yfandes' saddle, wrapped
in the warmest cloak Savil could find and strapped down securely enough that
his Companion could fight or flee without losing him.
Avert—Savil thought, a little superstitiously. Let there be no reason for her to have to fight. We've had enough bad fortune
without that.
She went first to his side; his hands had been loosely tied
together at the wrist and the bindings were hooked over the pommel of the saddle.
The stirrup-irons were gone, probably stored in one of the packs bundled behind
his saddle; the stirrup-leathers had been turned into straps binding his calves
to the saddle itself. He was belted twice at the waist; once to the pommel,
once to the high cantle, using rings on the saddle meant for exactly that
purpose. He was not going to come off.
Andrel reached her side; he reached up and pried open one of
Vanyel's eyelids. The boy didn't react at all, and his pupils were mere
pinpoints. The Healer's eye unfocused for a moment as he "read" the
boy; then he nodded with satisfaction.
"He should be all right, Savil. No more drugs, though,
after this. Not even if those friends of yours—"
Savil shook her head. "They don't like this kind of
drug. Not for any reason. Drugs like you've been giving him are too easy to
abuse."
"I don't like them either, but there are times you've
got no other choice, and this was one of them." Andrel touched the boy's
hand; his green eyes darkened as he brooded for a moment. "Gods. I hope
you're right about these people. His channels haven't healed at all, not
really."
"If they can't help us, no one can." Savil turned
her back on her semi-conscious charge and faced the door of the Temple, and put
herself into the right mindset to invoke her spell.
To build a Gate—
It was the most personal of spells. Only one person could
build a Gate, because only one mind could direct the energy needed to build it.
The spell-wielder had to have a very exact notion of where the Gate was to exit, and no two
people ever had precisely the same mental image of a place. In any event, only
Savil had ever been in the k'Treva territory of the Pelagirs. She couldn't be
"fed" by another Herald-Mage, since she would need every bit of her
attention for the Gate itself and would have none to spare to channel incoming
energy. Lastly, because the energy had to be so intimately directed, it could
come from only one place—
From within
the builder of the Gate. Or—perhaps—one soul-bound to the builder of the Gate?
A lifebond was at such a deep level that it wasn't conscious, so perhaps that
was why Tylendel had succeeded in using Vanyel as his source of energy.
The kind of power needed to build a Gate was the kind that could be stored, could be planned for. But like
a vessel that could only hold so much liquid, a mage could only hold so much
energy within himself. Savil had prepared for this; she could replenish herself
within a day when the spell was completed and the Gate dismissed. But for that
critical period of twenty-four candlemarks she would be exhausted—physically,
mentally, and magically.
No time to think of that. Get to it, woman. First, the
Portal, then the Weaving.
The Temple door had been used so many times before as one
end of a Gate that it needed no special preparation. She needed only to—reach—
She raised her hands, closed her eyes, and centered herself
so exactly that everything about her vanished from her attention. There was
only the power within her, and the place where the Gate would begin.
I call upon the Portal—
She molded the power into a frame upon the physical frame of
the doorway; building it layer upon layer until it was strong enough to act as
an anchor to hold this place
when she warped space back upon itself.
Then she began spinning out threads of energy from the
framework; they drifted outward, seeking.
This is the place, she told them, silently willing them to find the
real-world counterpart of the image in her mind. Where the rocks are so and the trees grow thus and the feel of the earth is in this manner—
They spun out, longer, finer, more attenuated. When they
weakened, she fed them from within herself, spinning her own substance out and
feeling it drawn out of her.
Now she was losing strength; it felt exactly as if she were
bleeding from an open wound. And the power was not merely draining from her
anymore, it was being pulled from her by the Gate
itself. This was the point of greatest danger for a Herald-Mage; she was having
to fight the Gate to keep from being drained right down to unconsciousness.
Then one of those questing power-threads caught on
something, out beyond the farthest range of her sensing; another followed—
There was a silent explosion of light that she could see
even through her closed lids, and the Gate Wove itself in an instant into a
temporary, but stable, whole.
She dropped her hands, opened her eyes, and swayed with
uttermost exhaustion; Kellan was there beside her in time for her to catch the
pommel of her saddle to keep from falling.
The door of the Temple was no longer within the doorframe.
Instead, the white marble—glowing now, even in the bright sunlight—framed a
strange and twisted bit of landscape.
"That's where you're going?" Jaysen said
doubtfully, looking at the weird shapes of rock, snow and sand that lay beyond
the portal. It was snowing there, from black, lowering clouds; fat flakes
drifting down through still, dark air. Savil nodded.
"That's it; that's the edge of the Pelagirs near
Starwind's territory. The other end is a cave entrance, so we'll have some
shelter on the other side until Starwind and Moondance get there."
"And if they don't?" Jaysen asked. "Savil, I
don't like to think of you two alone out in a place like that. The boy is next
to useless, and you're exhausted."
"Jays, it's quite possible that they'd take one look at
you and kill you if they didn't see me right there with you," she said,
clinging to the saddle and trying to muster enough strength to climb into it.
"They're unbelievably territorial and secretive, and for good
reasons—think for a minute, will you? They have to have known someone was tampering, stealing creatures
they thought safely locked up. If they see a stranger and Sense he's
Mage-Gifted, they're likely to strike first and ask questions of the corpse.
And I mean that literally. I'm taking enough risk bringing the boy in, and he's
plainly in need of help, and branded as mine. "
She gave up trying to be self-sufficient. "Boost me up,
will you?" she asked humbly.
Jaysen went her one better; with the help of Andrel he lifted her into place. "Have you got
everything you need?"
"I think so." In actual fact, she was too tired to
think; it was all she could do to keep her mind on the next step of the
journey. "Toss the firewood through."
Four heavy bundles of dry, seasoned wood went through the
Gate to land in the snow on the other side.
Vanyel whimpered beside her; she could see his face was
creased with lines of pain. He's
feeling it, like Andy thought he might. Better hurry.
"Mardic—" she said quietly. "Donni—"
Savil's proteges came solemnly to her stirrup; she held out
her hands to them, and shared a moment of mind-melded intimacy with them that
was more than "farewell"; it was a sharing of gifts. Her pride in
them and love and blessing—and their love and well-wishing for her.
"Lissa—"
The girl came to stand beside her students.
"I can't begin to thank you," Savil began,
awkward, as ever, with words.
"Thank me by bringing Van home well," Lissa
replied earnestly. "That's all I want." She reached up and squeezed
Savil's hand once, then backed away.
The youngsters moved out of the way, and Jaysen and Andrel
came to take their place without any prompting. She gave a hand to each,
closing her eyes again, and opening herself to them in a melding even more
intimate than she had shared with her students, for there were no secrets among
the three of them, and nothing held back. What she had not told Mardic and
Donni was that there might be no returning from this journey. If she failed
with Vanyel, he might well destroy both of them, his Gifts were that powerful.
Even now he moaned again in his drug-induced slumber, feeling the Gate energies
despite a dose of narcotic that would have rendered a less sensitive Gifted
unconscious for a week.
For a moment, she was angry. He could kill us, and do it without
knowing what he was doing. Oh, gods. Gods, you owe him, dammit! You've taken his love—at the least give him something in return.
But she was too tired, too depleted to sustain even her
anger at Fate or the gods or—whatever. Especially when this might really be farewell.
So this was a moment when she asked forgiveness of her
friends for anything she might have done in the past—and they asked for and
received the same from her.
When she raised her heavy, weary head, the two pairs of
eyes, green and gray, that met hers were bright with tears that would not be
shed—at least not now. She squeezed their hands, and let go; they stepped away
from her as she straightened in her saddle, took a deep breath, and faced the
Gate and the gray landscape beyond it. It looked no more welcoming now than it
had before, and dallying wasn't going to make the leaving easier.
:All right, Kellan,: she Mindspoke. :Let's go.:
And they rode into the stomach-churning vertigo she had come
to hate.
Once she'd taken the Gate down, she'd had just enough
strength to lay the fire, and start it with the coal she'd brought in a
fire-safe. After that she'd sunk to the sand next to it, pulling Vanyel close
in beside her. He was curled up against her now, bundled with her inside her
cloak, his head in her lap; he shook like a reed in the wind. From time to time
he moaned and his hand groped for something that seemed to elude him; she
soothed him back into sleep, stroking his hair until he finally recognized that
she was still with him and calmed a little.
The Gate-crossing had been hard on him, as hard as she'd
feared. When she'd gone to take him from Yfandes' back, he'd been half-roused
out of his drugged daze; his eyes had been wide open, his jaws clenched. He had
been held paralyzed, not by the drugs, but by unfocused and overwhelming terror
and pain. It had taken a candlemark to get him soothed down again.
Somewhere just outside were Kellan and Yfandes, standing a
watchful guard in the falling snow. Still in their tack, poor things—she'd
barely been able to get Vanyel unstrapped from the saddle before collapsing
beside him. She had nearly forgotten to activate the Wing-sister Talisman. It
had taken Kellan's sharp reminder to shake her out of her fog of exhaustion
long enough to stab her finger and let the prescribed three drops of her blood fall
on it.
Memory came, then, as sharply defined as if she had bid
farewell to the Hawkbrothers scant days ago instead of years.
* * *
"Blood calls to blood, and heart to heart,"
Starwind told her gravely, his ice-blue eyes focused inward. He held his slashed
palm above the Wingsister Talisman of silver wire and crystals, and his blood
dripped onto the heart-stone of the piece, dyeing the clear crystal a vivid
ruby.
Savil watched, silently, feeling the power flowing and
weaving itself into the intricate design of rainbow crystal and silver wire.
This was nothing like the kind of magic she was used to
using; it really wasn't much like that the Hawkbrothers had taught her, either.
This was older magic, much older, dating, perhaps, from the times of the Mage Wars,
the wars that had wrecked the world and left the Pelagirs a twisted,
magic-riddled ruin. She shivered a little, and Starwind looked up, one of his
brief and infrequent smiles lighting his face for a moment.
He closed his hand; Moondance touched the back of it, and he
opened it again. The slash in his palm had been Healed with the speed of a
thought. At eighteen the young outlander now calling himself
"Moondance" was well on his way to becoming that rarest of mages, a
Healer-Adept.
Starwind fixed the Talisman in its place on the mask of
feathers and crystal beads; it resembled a palm-sized diadem perched on the
brow of the mask above the eye-slits. He handed the whole mask to her, and
nodded at the Talisman. "When you need us again, come to us, and let three
drops of your own blood fall upon the heart-stone. I shall know, and come to
you."
Vanyel stirred at her side, curling his knees tighter
against his chest. She shifted a bit, glad that the floor of the cave was
covered in several inches of dry, soft sand.
Poor child, she thought, her mind dark with despair. I'm at a loss for what to do with you.
You keep reaching out to me for support, and I want to give it to you, and I
can't, I mustn't. If I do, you'll just fall right back into the pattern you
danced with poor 'Lendel. She stroked the fine, silky hair beneath her hand, and her
heart ached for him. You
don't know what to think anymore, do you? You're afraid to touch again, afraid
to open yourself, you're full of such fear and such pain—gods, when you told
Withen that nothing would ever make you happy again—
She swallowed the lump in her throat that threatened to
choke her, and blinked at the dancing flames, then closed her stinging eyes and
felt tears bead up on her lashes. Starwind,
old friend, she thought desperately, where
are you? I'm out of my depth; I don't know what to do. I need your help—
:And you have it, sister-of-my-heart.:
She started. There was a swirl of snow at the cave entrance,
white-gold and shadow in the dancing firelight. There had been no alert from
either Companion—
But when the snow settled and cleared, he was there.
He hadn't changed, not at all.
The sword of ice, she had called him when she'd first seen him. Flowing
silver hair still reached past his waist when he put back the hood of his white
cloak and let the silky mass of it tumble free. There still were no wrinkles in
his face, not even around the obliquely-slanting, ice-blue eyes; he was still
tall and unbent, still slender as a boy. Only the cool deeps of his eyes showed
his age, and the aura of power that pulsed about him. No mage would ever have
any doubts that this was an Adept, and a powerful one.
He smiled at her, and held out his hands. "Welcome,
heart-sister, Wingsister Savil," he said in the liquid Tayledras tongue, gliding to her
to take the hands she held up to him in his own. "Always welcome, and well
come thou art."
"Starwind, shaydra," her sight darkened for
a moment, and when it cleared, the Tayledras Adept was kneeling at
her side, holding her upright.
"Savil, you stubborn, headstrong woman," he
chided, as she felt an inrushing of energy from his center to hers. She swayed
a little, and he held her upright. "What need could possibly have been so
great that you drain yourself to a wraith to Gate yourself here?"
"This need—" She pulled back her cloak to show him
the boy curled against her side, his face taut with pain.
"God of my fathers—" He reached out with his free
hand and barely touched Vanyel's brow. He pulled back his hand as if it had
been burned. "Goddess of my mothers! What have you brought me, sister?"
"I don't know," she said, slumping wearily against
him. "He's been blasted open, and he can't heal—more than that—I'm too
tired to tell you right now. So much has happened, and to both of us—I just
can't think what to do anymore. All I know is that he's hurting, and I can't
help him, and if I'd left him where he was he'd have destroyed himself at the
best, and half the capital at the worst."
"There is nothing wrong with your judgment, I pledge
you that," Starwind replied, sitting back on his heels and regarding the
boy dubiously. "There is such potential there—he frightens me. And such
darkness of the soul—no, Wingsister, not evil; there is nothing evil in him. Just—darkness. Despair is a
part of it, but—denial of what he is and must become is another. Self-willed darkness;
he wills himself not to see, I think."
"You see more than I do," she told him, rubbing
her aching forehead. "I haven't the right to ask it of you, but—will you
help me with him? Can you help me?"
The firelight turned the ice of his eyes to blue-gold flame.
"You have the right, sister to brother, to ask what you will of me. Did
you not gift me with the greatest of all gifts, in the person of my shay'kreth'ashke? "
She had to smile a little at that. Bringing Starwind another
boy long ago had been one of the few unalloyed good things she'd ever done.
"Where is Moondance, anyway?"
:Moondance stands in the snow, defending his head and his
lifeblood. Telling the stranger-lasha'Kaladra not to eat me,: came the laughter-flavored reply. :I frightened
her. She does not trust me, I think.:
:Kellan—: Savil Mindspoke
tiredly.
:He popped up right under Yfandes' nose and scared the liver
out of her, Chosen,: Kellan replied
apologetically. :She
went for him before we knew who it was. It's all right now, he's just making
amends.:
:Bright Havens, Kell, you know him, at least!: she snapped, her
tiredness making her impatient.
:Not anymore—:
"I fear I have greatly changed,
Wingsister," Moon-dance said contritely from the entrance. "And I
also fear I had forgotten the fact."
Savil looked over Starwind's shoulder and felt her mouth
gaping. Starwind put one finger beneath her chin, and shut it for her with a
chuckle.
"Great good gods!" she said after a moment of
stunned silence. "You have changed!"
The Moondance she had known—he hadn't had the name
"Moondance" for long at that point—had been brown-haired and
brown-eyed and as ordinary as a peasant hut. Not surprising for one of peasant
stock. But now—now the hair was as long and as silver and the eyes as ice-blue
as Starwind's. The lines of his face were still the same; square to Starwind's
triangle, but the cheekbones were far more prominent than Savil remembered, and
the body had grown out of adolescent gawkiness and into a slender grace so like
Starwind's that they could have been brothers by birth instead of by blood.
:He even smells different,: Kellan complained.
"How did you do that?" Savil
demanded.
Moondance made a fluid shrug, and tossed the sides of his
white cape over his shoulders, showing that he wore only thin gray breeches and
a sleeveless gray leather jerkin with matching boots. Savil shivered at this
reminder that the Tayledras never seemed to notice
the cold. "It's the magic we use," he said. "It makes us into
what it wants us to be. I think."
"As always, an oversimplification," Starwind
corrected him fondly. "Ka'sheeleth.
Savil has brought us a problem. Come look at this boy—"
Moondance drifted over to Savil's other side, sat on his
heels beside her, and studied Vanyel's face for several breaths.
"Hai'yasha, "he breathed. "Shay'a'chern, hmm? And Lovelost?
No, it goes deeper than that." He reached out as Starwind had, and touched
Vanyel's forehead, but unlike Starwind, did not pull away. "Ai'she'va—Holiest Mothers! The pain!" His jaw tightened and
the pupils of his eyes contracted to pinpoints. "Reft and bereft of shay'kreth'ashke." His face took on the
tranquillity of a statue. "Pawn he is now—pawn he has been—" he said,
his tone flat, his voice dropping half an octave. "Pawn to what he is and
what he wills not to be. But will or no, the pawn is in play—and the play is a
trial—"
"And what of the game?" Starwind asked in a
whisper.
Moondance hesitated, then life came back to his face as he
shrugged again, and his pupils went back to normal. "No way of
knowing," he replied, slowly taking his hand from Vanyel's forehead.
"That depends entirely upon whether he is willing to become more than a
pawn. But yours to be the Teaching, I think," he said, looking up sharply
at the Adept. "It is like your powers that he holds. As for Healing, I
think that half of it will be his doing—if he Heals at all—"
"And the other half yours," the Adept stated with
an ironic smile.
Moondance turned Vanyel's wrist up, showing the scar across
it—then turned over his own hand, and the firelight picked out the scar that
ran from the gold-skinned hand halfway to the elbow, a scar that followed the
course of the blue vein pulsing beneath the skin. "Who better?" he
asked. "We have something in common, I think."
Savil swayed again, caught in a sudden dizziness, and
Starwind took hold of her shoulders to steady her. "You need rest,"
he said in concern. "Will you have it here, or can you ride?"
Savil thought longingly of just lying down where she was,
and then reflected on being able to do so in a bed.
And also on the Companions, out there in the snow and cold,
and still in their harnesses.
"The Companions can and will carry double," she
sighed, feeling just about ready to fade away. "If you're willing to ride
them. Or strap us in, I don't much care which. But I'd like them in the warm."
"Then we ride," Starwind said, as Moondance
scooped Vanyel up in his arms as if he weighed next to nothing. The older Adept
rose to his feet and offered her his hand, and it took every scrap of will she
had left to her to stumble erect. "It is not far, Wingsister."
"I hope not," she told him earnestly, staggering
out into the snow, while Moondance put the fire out with a single backward glance.
"Because if it isn't, you're going to be carrying me as well as the boy."
Then there was pain; unfocused, but somewhere near at hand.
Like the touch of sun on skin already reddened and burned. It got past the
drugs, somehow; he tried to push it away, but it continued to throb in those
half-healed places in his mind, promising him more pain to come.
Then—nothing but pain; fire in his veins
and under his skin, flames dancing along his nerves and scorching his mind.
Gate-fire, Gate-energy—it was unmistakable, and unbearable, and yet it
continued long past the moment he thought his sanity would shatter or his heart
stop. He screamed, or thought he did. He was lost in it, and there was no way
out—not even death, for the pain would not let him die.
Then it was gone. But it left him aching, all the channels
burned raw again, and worse, all the memories replaying themselves over and
over—Gala dying, Tylendel throwing himself from the Tower, Tylendel lying in
state in the Temple—
Then, without warning, the Dream.
He stood blocking the way, a one-mage barricade across
Crook-Back Pass. Mage-light from his upraised hand reflected from the impassive
faces and hollow, empty eyes of the three wizards who opposed him.
This was not
like the old dream—the dream of being alone in the ice. This was—something
else. He could sense things, shards of meaning, just under the surface of it, but
couldn't seem to bring them out to where he could read them.
But it felt—real. Fearfully real.
"Why do you bother with this nonsense?"
The voice from behind the wizards was sweet, lilting. One
more figure paced forward as the ranks of the army backing the wizards parted
to let him pass.
"You are quite alone, Herald-Mage Vanyel." One of
the wizards stepped two paces to the side to allow the newcomer through to the
center, to face Vanyel.
He was beautiful; there was no other word for him. A
perfectly sculptured face and body, hair and eyes of twilight shadow, a
confidence, poise and power so complete they were works of art.
Except for the dark eyes, he could have been Vanyel's
brother; except that he was too perfect,
he could almost have been a younger Vanyel.
He was clad in dull black armor, like his soldiers, but
carried no weapon. He didn't need one; he was a weapon. He was a weapon with no other purpose than the
destruction and death he molded into his power. Unlike the knife which could
cut to heal or harm, this weapon would never serve any other purpose than pain.
Vanyel knew that as well as he knew himself.
"You are," the beautiful young man repeated;
smiling, choosing his words to hurt, "quite alone."
Vanyel nodded. "You tell me nothing I was not already
aware of. I know you. You are
Leareth." The word meant—
"Darkness."
Leareth laughed. "I am. Darkness. And these are my servants. A quaint
conceit, don't you think?"
Vanyel said nothing. Every moment he kept Leareth here was
one more moment speeding Yfandes
down the road with Tylendel—
—but Tylendel was dead—
"You need not remain alone,"
Leareth continued, moistening his lips with his tongue, sensuously. "You
have only to stretch out your hand to me, Vanyel, and take my Darkness to
you—and you would never be alone again. We could accomplish much together, we
two. Or if you wish—I could even—" he stepped forward a pace; two. "I could even bring back your long-lost love
to you. Think of him, Vanyel. Think of Tylendel—alive, and once more at your
side. "
"NO!"
He struck at the terrible, beautiful face, struck with all
the power at his command—and
wept as he struck.
:Dreams, young Vanyel.: A blue-green voice froze him in mid-strike. :Nothing but dreams. They vanish into mist
if you will it.:
The army, the pass, Leareth, all whirled away from him into
another kind of darkness; this was a darkness that soothed, and he embraced it
as eagerly as he had repudiated the other.
Cool, green-gold music threaded into the darkness; not
dispelling it, but complementing it. It wound its way into his mind, and
wherever it went, it left healing behind it; in all the raw, bleeding places,
in all the burning channels. It flowed through him and he sank into it,
drifting, drifting, and content to drift. It surrounded him, bathed him in
balm, until there was nothing left of hurt in him—
—except the place Tylendel had left behind—the place that
still ached so emptily—
The green-gold music was joined by another, a blue-green
harmony like the voice that had spoken to dispel the dream. And this music was
no longer letting him drift aimlessly. It was leading him; it had wound around
his soul and he had no choice but to follow where it wanted him to go.
The blue-green music took the melody, the green-gold faded
to a descant, and the voice spoke in his dreams again. :Look; you wish control—here is your center—so to center and so to ground—:
The music led him in a dance wherein he found a balance he
hadn't known he craved until he found it. The music spun him around; he spun
with it, and he knew that having found this point of equilibrium he would not
lose it again.
:So, so, so, exactly so,: the music chuckled. :Now, you would protect yourself—thus the barrier, see? Dense, and it keeps all
out, flexible to your will. Always your will, young Vanyel, it is will and
nothing less—
It spun him walls to keep others out of his mind; he saw the
way of it and spun them thicker, harder—then raveled them again down to the
thinnest of barricades, knowing he could build them up again when he wanted to.
Then the blue-green music faded, leaving the green-gold to
carry the melody alone. It sang to him then, sang of rest, sang of peace, and
he dreamed. Dreamed of waking, moving to another's will, to drink and care for
himself and sleep again. But no more dreams that hurt, only dreams full of the
verdant music.
Then he woke—truly woke, not dreams of waking—to the sound
of it; breathy, haunting notes that wandered into and out of melodies that he
half recognized, but couldn't identify. There was a scent of ferns; a smell of
growing things, a whiff of freshly-turned earth, and a hint of something
metallic. Behind the music, he heard the sound of gently falling water.
He was no longer drugged. And the mind-channels within him
no longer burned and tormented him.
He opened his eyes, slowly.
He thought for one mad moment that he was somehow suspended
in a tree. He was surrounded on all sides by greenery, and luxuriantly-leaved
branches hung over his head. Then he saw that while the branches were real, and
the leaves, they were not the same organism. The branches supported huge ferns
whose fronds draped down like a living canopy over his bed, and the greenery
about him was a curtaining of multi-layered, multi-shaded green fabric hung
from a framework of more branches, each layer as light and transparent as a
spiderweb, and cut to resemble a cascade of leaf shapes. He had never in his
life imagined that there could be so many colors of green.
Weak beams of sunlight threaded past the fern fronds. The
blankets—if that was what they were—were a darker green, like moss, and felt as
soft as velvet, but were thick and heavy.
He tried to sit up, and discovered that he couldn't. He was
absolutely spent, with no strength left at all.
The music beyond the curtains finished with a breathless,
upward-spiraling run, and a few moments later, the curtains parted.
Vanyel blinked in surprise at the young man who stood there,
framed by the green of the curtain material; he knew he was staring, and
rudely, but he couldn't help himself. He'd never seen anyone who looked like
this—
A young man—silver-haired as any oldster, with hair longer
than most women had, and with eyes of light blue that measured and weighed him,
full of secrets and thoughts that Vanyel couldn't begin to read. He wore a
sleeveless green jerkin, and breeches of a darker green, and in the hand that
held back the curtains there was a white flute that looked as if it had been
carved from luminescent, opaque crystal.
Vanyel suddenly realized that, indeed, he couldn't read the young man's
thoughts; there was presence there, but nothing
spilling over into his own mind.
He stammered out the first things in his mind—not terribly
clever, and certainly not original but—"W-w-where am I? W-w-who are you?"
The young man tilted his head to one side a little, and
Vanyel saw a faint hint of smile as he replied, very slowly and with a strange
accent, "Well. 'Where am I?' you ask me—better than I had feared. I had
half dreaded hearing "who
am I?' young Vanyel." He tilted his head the other way, and this time the
smile was definite. "You are in k'Treva territory in the Pelagir Hills,
and before you ask, your aunt, our Wingsister Savil, brought you here. We are
her friends; she asked us to help her with your troubles. I am Moondance
k'Treva; I am Tayledras, and I have been your
Healer. That is my bed you are lying in. Do you like it? Starwind says it is a
foolish piece of conceit, but I think that this is
only because he did not think of it first."
Vanyel could only blink at him in bewilderment.
Moondance shook his head, ruefully. "I go too fast for
you. Simple things first. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Would you like to bathe?"
All at once he was
hungry—and thirsty—and disgustingly aware that his skin was crawling with the
need for a bath.
"All three," he said, a little hesitantly.
"Then we remedy all three." Moondance pulled the
curtains back to the foot and the head of the bed, and—
—and reached to pull off the blankets. At which point Vanyel
realized that he was quite nude beneath the bed-coverings. He flushed, and
clutched at the blanket.
Moondance gave him an amused look. "Who do you think it
was that undressed you and put you where you are?" he asked. "I
pledge you, it was not the Eastern Wind."
Vanyel flushed again, but did not release the blanket.
"So, so—here, my modest one—" Moondance reached up
to one side among the hangings, and detached something which he tossed onto the
blankets. Vanyel reached for it—a wrap-robe of something green and silken that
was, thankfully, much more substantial than the hangings. As Moondance
pointedly turned his back, he eased out of the bed and wrapped it around
himself.
And reached for one of the bed-supports as dizziness made
the room spin around him.
"That will never do." There was a cool touch
between his eyes, and the room steadied.
"Come," Moondance was just in front of him,
holding out his hands encouragingly. "Keep your eyes on me—yes. A step. Another.
You have been long abed, young Vanyel, you must almost learn to walk again."
The Tayledras Healer walked
backward, slowly, as Vanyel followed, looking only at his eyes. But he did not
move to give the boy support in any way, except the one time Vanyel stumbled
and nearly fell. Then Moondance caught him; held him until he could find his
balance again, and only when Vanyel was standing firmly again did he draw away.
Vanyel was vaguely aware that they had crossed a threshold
into another room, but just walking was costing him so
much sweating, concentrated effort he didn't dare look around any. It seemed to
take years before Moondance stopped, caught his elbow, and guided him to a seat
on a smooth rock ledge that rimmed a raised pool of water so hot that it
steamed.
"Now, look about you." Moondance waved at the pool
and the rest of the room. "This is the pool for washing. Here is soap.
When you are clean, go there, the pool for resting."
Though the pool Vanyel was sitting beside was deep, it was
quite small. Next to the "pool for washing" was another, much larger,
much deeper, and slightly above it, with an opening in the side that spilled
hot water down into this pool. Both pools looked natural; rock-sided and
sandy-bottomed.
"I think even weak as you are, you shall be able to
find your way there. I shall return with food and drink." The young man
hesitated a moment—then with the swiftness of a stooping hawk, leaned over and
kissed Vanyel full on the lips. "You are very welcome, young Vanyel,"
he said, before Vanyel had a chance to get over his surprise. "We are
pleased to have you, Starwind and I, and not just for the sake of Wingsister
Savil."
He vanished before Vanyel had a chance to react.
Vanyel found that if he moved slowly and carefully he didn't
exhaust himself. He shed the robe and eased himself into the water with a sigh,
and soaped and rinsed until he finally
felt clean again. His pool emptied itself over the side and down a channel in
the floor—and where the water went from there he couldn't say. He had figured
by now that this was some kind of hot spring, which accounted for the metallic
tang in the air.
With Moondance gone, he had a chance to get a good look
around while trying to sort himself out. There didn't appear to be any
"doors" as such in this dwelling; just doorways. This bathing room
was multileveled; highest level was the "pool for resting" which
cascaded to the next level and the "pool for washing," which in turn
was above the "floor" and the channel carrying the water away that
was cut into it. There were no windows in the walls of natural rock; the whole
was lit by a skylight taking up the entire ceiling, and there were green and
flowering plants and ferns standing and hanging everywhere. There was only one
entrance into this room—that led back to the bedroom, also rock-walled and
roofed with a skylight, from what Vanyel could see of it.
The ledge between the pools was not that high, though it took far more of
Vanyel's strength to get over it than he would have believed. Once in the
larger pool he discovered that his surmise was right; crystalline hot water
bubbled up from the sand in the center of the pool; someone had improved on
nature by forming the rock of the pool sides below the waterline into smooth
benches.
It was wonderful; the water was about as hot as was
comfortable, and was forcing him to relax whether or not he wanted to. He
closed his eyes and sat back, deliberately thinking of absolutely nothing, and
only opened them again when he heard light footsteps crossing the stone floor
below him.
It was, as he expected, Moondance, who had brought with him
an earthenware beaker of what proved to be cider and a plate of sliced bread
and cheeses and fruit.
"Eat lightly," the young man warned, climbing to
Vanyel's level and setting his burdens down on the rim of the pool at Vanyel's
right hand. "You have been three weeks without true food, and spent more
than one of those days drugged."
"Three weeks?"
Moondance shrugged. "You needed Healing, of a kind your
good Healer Andrel could not give you. I think perhaps no Healer among your
folk could have given you such Healing; they know nothing of the Healing of
hurts caused by magic, only of illness and wounding. That is a study only a few have made, and
most of those few Tayledras. Eat, young Vanyel.
There are herbs in the bread and the drink to strengthen you."
"Where—where is Savil?" he asked, suddenly a
little worried at being alone with a stranger.
"With Starwind. She was very weary, both in body and in
soul. This—thing that has happened. It has been a deep grief to her, as well to
you. Her heart is as sore, I think. They are old friends, my shay'kreth'ashke and Savil, and there
are no secrets between them, and much love. She has need of such love. Perhaps
more than you, for she has had
no one to lend her support."
Vanyel had looked up at him sharply at that—with the word ashke striking him with the force of a cold
slap in the face, making his heart pound painfully.
Moondance looked down at him, something speculative in his
glance. He weighed Vanyel for a moment, then cleared his throat and looked
away, deliberately. "I have a thing to say to you, a thing I wish you to
think upon."
Vanyel put down his cider, and waited, apprehensively, to
hear the rest.
"I have shared your thoughts; I know more of you than
anyone, except, perhaps, your shay'kreth'ashke."
Moondance changed his position so that he was sitting with
his back to the pool, leaning his weight against his hands and staring up at
the clouds visible through the skylight. He was being very careful not to look at Vanyel.
"As you have guessed from my words," he said,
"I am shay'a'chern. As is Starwind. As
you." Now he gave Vanyel a very brief, sidelong glance. "I am a
Healer-Adept and I Heal more than people—I Heal places. I know the natural world as only one who
wishes to restore it to its rightful balances can. This is the thing I wish to
tell you; in all the world, there are more creatures than just man that make
lifetime matings. Among them, some of the noblest—wolves, swans, geese, the
great raptors—all creatures man could do worse than emulate, in many, many
ways. And with all of them, all, there are those
pairings, from time to time, within the same gender. Not often, but not unheard
of either."
Vanyel found himself unable to move, and unable to
anticipate the direction this was taking.
Now Moondance dropped his eyes to catch and hold Vanyel's in
a joining of glances and wills that was unbreakable.
"There is in you a fear, a shame, placed there by your
own doubts and the thoughts of one who knew no better. I tell you to think on
this: the shay'a'chern pairing occurs in nature. How then, 'unnatural'? Usual, no; and not desirable for the species,
else it would die out for lack of offspring. But not unnatural. The beasts of the
fields are innocent as man can never be, who has the knowledge of good and evil
and the choice between, and they do not cast out of their ranks the shay'a'chern. There was between you
and your shay'kreth'ashke much love—only love.
There is no shame in loving."
Vanyel couldn't breathe; he could only see those ice-blue
eyes.
"This I think I have learned: where there is love, the
form does not matter, and the gods are pleased. This I have observed: what occurs
in nature, comes by the hand of nature, and if the gods did not approve, it
would not be there. I give you these things as food for your heart and mind."
Once again, before Vanyel could move, he bent deliberately
and kissed him, but this time on the forehead.
"I leave you for a moment with both kinds of
nourishment." He smiled, and gave Vanyel a slow wink. "Since you are
not to stay in the pool forever, I must needs find you clothing. I would not mind, but your aunt grows anxious and wishes to
see you awake and aware, and we would not wish to put her to the blush, hmm?"
And with that, he jumped down from the pool ledge to the
floor, and vanished again.
"Here." Moondance, a crease of worry between his brows,
was back in a few moments with a towel and what looked like folded clothing;
green, like his own. "You shall have to care for yourself, I fear. There
is trouble, and I have been called to deal with it. Starwind and Savil will be
with you shortly." He hesitated a moment, visibly torn. "Forgive me,
I must go."
He put his burdens down on the pool edge and ran back out
the doorway before Vanyel could do more than blink.
Gods—I feel like somebody in a tale, going to
sleep and waking up a hundred years later. It seems so hard to think—like I'm
still half asleep.
He dressed slowly, trying to collect his thoughts, and
making heavy work of it. He did remember—vaguely—Savil
telling him that he was too ill for Andrel to help; and he definitely
remembered—despite the fog of drugs about the words—being told that she was
going to take him to some friends of hers. He hadn't much cared what was
happening at that point. He'd either been too drugged to care, or been hurting
too much.
Presumably Moondance, and the absent Starwind, were the
friends she meant. They were fully as strange as those weird masks of beads and
feathers that Savil had on her wall. As was this place. Wherever it was.
He pulled the deep green tunic over his head, and suddenly
realized something. He wasn't drugged—and he wasn't hurting, either. Those
places in his mind that had burned—he could still feel them, but they weren't
giving him pain.
Moondance said he Healed me. Is that why it feels like I
halfway know him? Tayledras. Didn't
Aunt Savil tell us stories about them? I thought that was all those were—stories. Not real. He looked around at
the strange room, half-structure, half-natural, each half fitting into the
other so well he could scarcely tell where the hand of nature left off and the
hand of man began. Real.
Gods, if I were to describe this place, nobody would ever believe me. This—it's all so different. I even feel
different.
He could sense some kind of barrier around him, around his
thoughts. At first it made him wary, but he tested it, tentatively, and found
that it was a barrier that he
could control. When he thinned it, he became aware of presences, what must be
minds, out beyond the limits of this room. Animals, surely, and birds, for
their thoughts were dim and here-centered. Then two close
together—very bright, but opaque and unreadable. One "felt" like
Savil and the other must be the mysterious Starwind. Then two more; just as
bright, just as opaque—but one he recognized by the "feel" as being
Yfandes. Then a scattering of others…
Yfandes. A Companion. My Companion.
So—it was no hallucination, then. He had somehow gotten Herald-Gifts and a
Companion.
Gifts I never wanted, at a cost I never thought I'd pay. I'd
trade them and half my life to have—him—back
again.
That hit like a blow to the gut. He descended from the level
of the uppermost pool to the floor and sat heavily on one of the stone benches
around the edge of the room, too tired and depressed to move.
Oh, 'Lendel… gods, he thought, bleak despair overcoming him. What am I doing here? Why didn't they
just let me die?
:Do you hate me, Chosen?: said a bright, reproachful voice in his mind, :Do you hate me for wishing you to live?:
:Yfandes?: He remembered what
Savil had said, about how his Companion would pine herself to death if he died,
and sagged with guilt. :Oh,
gods, Yfandes, no—no, I'm sorry—I just—:
He'd been able to not-think about it when he'd been drugged.
He'd been able to concentrate on nothing more complicated than the next moment.
Now—now his mind was only too clear. He couldn't ignore the reality of Tylendel
being gone, and there were no drugs to keep him in a vague fog of forgetting.
:You miss him.: she replied, gently. :You need him, and you miss him.:
:Like my arm. Like my heart. I just can't imagine going on
without him. I don't know what to do with myself; where to go, what to do next.:
If Yfandes had a reply, he never heard it; just at that
moment Savil and a second Tayledras, this one in white breeches,
soft, low boots and jerkin, entered the room. Vanyel started to stand; Savil
motioned for him to stay where he was. She and the stranger walked slowly
across the stone floor and took places on the bench beside him.
Vanyel was shocked at her appearance. Although her hair had
always been a pure silvery white, she'd never looked old before. Now she did; she looked every
year of her age and more. He recalled what Moondance had said about Tylendel's
death being as hard on her as it was on Vanyel. Now he believed it.
"Aunt Savil," he said, hesitantly, as she and the
stranger arranged themselves comfortably beside him. "Are you all right? I
mean—"
"Looking particularly haglike, am I?" she asked
dryly. "No, don't bother to apologize; I've got a mirror. I don't bounce
back from strain the way I used to."
He flushed, embarrassed, and feeling guilty.
"Van, this is Starwind k'Treva," she continued.
"He and Moondance are the Tayledras Adepts I told you
younglings about a time or two. This," she waved her hand around her,
"is his, mostly, being as he's k'Treva Speaker."
"In so much as any Tayledras can own the land," Starwind noted with one raised
eyebrow, his voice calling up images of ancient rocks and deep, still water.
"It would be as correct, Wingsister, to say that this place owns me."
"Point taken. This is k'Treva's voorthayshen—that's—how would you
translate that, shayana?"
The Tayledras at her side had a
triangular face, and his long hair was arranged with two plaits at each temple,
instead of one, like Moondance—and he felt
older, somehow. At least, that was how he felt to Vanyel.
"Clan Keep, I think would be closest," Starwind
said, "Although k'Treva is not a clan as your people know the meaning of
the word. It is closer to the Shin'a'in notion of 'Clan.'"
His voice was a little deeper in pitch than Moondance's and
after a moment Vanyel recognized the "feel" of him as being the same
as the "blue-green music" in his dreams.
"My lord," Vanyel began hesitantly.
"There are no 'lords,' here, young Vanyel," the Adept
replied. "I speak for k'Treva, but each k'Treva rises or falls on his own."
Vanyel nodded awkwardly. "Why am I here, sir?" he
asked—then added, apprehensively, "What did you do to me? I—forgive me for
being rude, but I know you did something. I
feel—different."
"You are here because you have very powerful
Mage-Gifts, awakened painfully, awakened late, and out of control," the
Adept replied. His expression was calm, but grave, and held just a hint of
worry. "Your aunt decided, and rightly, that there was no way in which you
could be taught by the Heralds that would not pose a danger to you and those
about you. Moondance and I are used to containing dangerous magics; we do this
constantly, it is part of what we do. We can keep you
contained, and Savil believes we can teach you effectively. And if we cannot
teach you control, then she knows that we can and will contain you in such a way that you will
pose no danger to others."
Moondance had not looked like this—so impersonal, so
implacable. Vanyel shivered at the detached calm in Starwind's eyes; he wasn't
certain what the Adept meant by "containing" him, but he wasn't eager
to find out.
"As to what we have done with you—Moondance Healed your
channels, which are the conduits through which you direct energy. And I have
taught you, a little, while you were in Healing trance. I could not teach you a
great deal in trance, but what I have given you is very important, and will go
a great way toward making you safe around others. I have taught you where your
center is, how to ground yourself, and how to shield. So that now, at least,
you are no longer out of balance, and you may guard yourself against outside
thoughts and keep your own inside your mind where they belong. And there will
be no more shaking of the earth because of dreams."
So that was what had
happened—with the music, the colors—and this new barricade around his mind.
Starwind leaned forward a little, and his expression became
far more human; concerned, and earnest. "Young Vanyel, we, Moondance and
I, we are perfectly pleased to have you with us, to help you. But that is all we can do; to help you. You must learn control; we cannot force it
upon you. You must learn the use of
your Gifts, or most assuredly they will use you. Magic is that kind of force; I
beg you to believe me, for I know this to be true. If you do not use it, it
will use you. And if it begins to use you," his eyes grew very cold,
"it must be dealt with."
Vanyel shrank back from that chill.
"But this is neither the place nor the time to speak of
such things," Starwind concluded, rising. "We have you under shield,
and you are too drained to cause any problems for the nonce. Youngling, can you
walk? If you can, you would do well with exercise and air, and I would take you
to a vantage to show you our home, and tell you a little of what we do here."
Vanyel nodded, not eager to be left to his aching memories
again; he found on rising that he was feeling considerably stronger than he had
thought. He couldn't move very fast, but as long as Starwind and Savil stayed
at a slow walk, he could keep up with them.
They went from the bathing room back through the bedroom; it
looked even more like a natural grotto than the bathing room had. Vanyel almost
couldn't distinguish the real foliage from the fabric around the bed, and the
"furniture," irregularly shaped chairs, benches and tables with thick
green cushions and frames of bent branches, fitted in with the plants so well
as to frequently seem part of them. There was a curtained alcove (with more of
those leaf-mimicking curtains) that seemed to be a wardrobe, for the curtains
had been drawn back at one side enough to display a bit of clothing.
From there they passed into a third, most peculiar room.
There was no furniture, and in the center of it, growing up from the stone
floor, was the living trunk of a tree, one a dozen people could not have
encircled with their arms. Attached to the trunk was a kind of spiral
staircase. They climbed this—Vanyel feeling weak at the knees and clinging to
the railing for most of the climb—to a kind of covered balcony that gave them a
vantage point to see all of Starwind's little kingdom.
This was a valley—no, a canyon; the walls were nearly perpendicular—of hot springs; Vanyel
saw steam rising from the lush growth in more places than he could count.
Although there was snow rimming the lip of the canyon high above, vegetation
within the bowl ran riot.
"K'Treva," Starwind said, indicating the entire
valley with a wave of his hand. "Though mostly only Moondance and I dwell
here-below. Beneath, the living-spaces for the hertasi and those who do not
wish the trees."
Vanyel looked over the edge of the balcony; below him was a
collection of rooms, mostly windowless, but with skylights, the whole too
random to be called a "house."
"There are other living places above—which is where
most of us dwell," Starwind continued, with an ironic smile.
"Moondance is not Tayledras enough to be
comfortable above the ground. The hertasi you may or may not
see; they serve us, we protect them and allow them to dwell here. They are shy
of strangers—even of Tayledras; really, only Moondance
is a friend to all of them. They are something like a large lizard, but they
are full human in wit. If you should see one, I pray you strive not to frighten
it. And although you may go where you will here-below, pray do not come
here-above without invitation."
Vanyel looked up, but couldn't see any sign of these
"living places"—only the staircase spiraling farther up the trunk and
vanishing into the branches. The very thought of being up that high was
dizzying, and he thought it was likely to take a great deal more than an
invitation to get him to climb above.
"Tchah—I stand on Moondance's side," Savil
replied. "I remember the first time I was here, and you made me try to
sleep up in one of your perches. Never again, my friend."
"You have no sense of adventure," Starwind
countered, putting his palms down on the rail and leaning forward a little.
"The last thing, one that you may sense, so that you know it is indeed there—the
barrier about the vale. It protects us from that which we would not have pass
within and it keeps the vale always warm and sheltered. So—this is k'Treva.
What we do here—two things. Firstly, we make places where the magic creatures
of the Pelagirs may live in peace. Secondly, we take the magic out of those
places where they do not live, making the land safe for man. We use the magic
we take to make boundaries about the places of refuge, so that none may pass
who do not belong. That is what the k'Varda, the Mage-Clans of the Tayledras, do. We guard the
Pelagirs from despoilers as our cousins, the Shin'a'in, guard the Dhorisha Plains."
"As I keep saying, you're like we are. You guard the
Pelagirs as the Heralds guard Valdemar," Savil said.
Starwind nodded, his braids swaying. "Aye, save that
your Heralds concern themselves with the people, and the Tayledras with the land."
"Valdemar is the people; we could
pack up and flee again, as we did at the founding, and still be Valdemar. I
suspect the same would be true of you, if you'd only admit it."
"Na, the Tayledras are bound to the land,
cannot live outside the Pelagirs; we must—" Starwind was interrupted by
the scream of a hawk somewhere above his head. He threw up his forearm, and a
large, white raptor plunged down out of the canopy of leaves to land on
Starwind's arm. Vanyel winced, then saw that the Tayledras wore white leather
forearm guards, which served to keep the wicked talons from his flesh.
It was a gyrefalcon; its wings beat the air for a moment before
it settled, its golden eyes fixed on Starwind's face. The Tayledras smoothed its head with
one finger, then stared into the hawk's eyes for a long, long time, seeming to
be reading something there.
Then, without warning, he flung up his arm, launching it
back into the air from his wrist. The falcon's wings beat against the thick,
damp air, then it gained height and vanished back up into the tree branches.
"Bad news?" Savil asked.
"Nay—good. The situation is not so evil as we feared. Moondance
is wearied, but he shall return by sunrise."
"I'm glad to hear something is going right for
someone," Savil replied, sighing.
"Indeed," the Adept replied, turning those
strange, unreadable eyes on Vanyel. "Indeed. Young Vanyel, I would advise
you to walk about, regain your health, eat and rest. When Moondance returns and
is at full strength, your schooling will begin."
It kept him occupied, at least. The vale was so exotic, so
strange, that he could lose himself in it for hours—and forget, in watching the
brightly colored birds and fish, how very much alone he was.
Half of him longed for the time—before Tylendel. The
isolation of that dream-scape. The other half shrank from it. He no longer knew
what he wanted, anymore, or what he was.
He certainly didn't know what to do about Yfandes; he needed
her, he loved her, but that very affection was a point of vulnerability,
another place waiting to be hurt. She seemed to sense his confusion, and kept
herself nearby, but not at hand, Mindspeaking only when he initiated the
contact.
Savil was staying clear of him, which helped. When Moondance
finally made an appearance, he made some friendly overtures, but didn't go
beyond them; Vanyel was perfectly content to leave things that way.
When he asked, the younger Tayledras acted as a kind of
guide around the vale, pointing out things Vanyel had missed, explaining how
the mage-barrier kept the cold—and other things—out of the vale.
The elusive hertasi never appeared,
although their handiwork was everywhere. Clothing vanished and returned cleaned
and mended, food appeared at regular intervals, rooms seemed to sweep
themselves.
When the vale became too familiar, Vanyel tried to catch a
glimpse of them. Anything to keep from thinking.
Then he was given something else to think about.
:But—: Vanyel protested from
the midst of the barrier-circle the Adept had cast around him, :I—: He was having a hard time shaping his thoughts into
Mindspeech.
:You,: Starwind nodded. :Exactly so. Only you. Until you match
your barrier and merge it with mine, mine will remain. And while mine remains,
you cannot pass it, and I will not take you from this room.:
Vanyel drooped with weariness; it seemed that the Tayledras mage had been
schooling him, without pause or pity, for days, not mere hours. This was the
seventh—or was it eighth?—such test the Adept had put him to. Starwind would go
into his head, somehow,
show him what was to be done. Once. Then Vanyel fumbled his way through
whatever it was. As quickly as Vanyel mastered something, the Adept sprang a
trial of it on him.
There was no sign of exit or entrance in this barren,
rock-walled room where he'd been taken, and no clue as to where in the complex
of ground-level rooms it was. There was only Starwind, his pointed face as
expressionless as the rock walls.
Vanyel didn't know what to think anymore. These new senses
of his—they told him things he wasn't sure he wanted to know. For
instance—there was something in this valley. A power—a living power. It
throbbed in his mind, in time with his own pulse. He had told Savil, thinking
he must be ill and imagining it. She had just nodded and told him not to worry
about it.
He hadn't asked her much, or gone to her often. If I don't touch, I can't be hurt again. The half-unconscious
litany was the same, but the meaning was different. If I don't
open myself, I won't be open to loss either.
The Tayledras, Starwind and
Moondance, alternately frightened and fascinated him. They were like no one
he'd ever known before, and he couldn't read them. Starwind in particular was
an enigma. Moondance seemed easier to reach.
But there was always that danger. Don't reach; don't touch, whispered the part of
him that still hurt. Don't
try.
There had been a point back at Haven when he'd tried to
reach out, first to Savil, then to Lissa. He'd wanted someone to depend on, to
tell him what to do, but the moment he'd tried to get them to make his
decisions for him, they'd pushed him gently away.
Now—no more; all he wanted was to be left alone.
It seemed, however, that the Tayledras had other plans.
Savil had come to get him in the morning, after several days
of wandering about on his own, reminding him of what Starwind had said about
being schooled in controlling these unwanted powers of his. He'd followed her
through three or four rooms he hadn't seen before into—
something—
He wasn't sure what it was; it had felt a little like a
Gate, but there was no portal, just a spot marked on the floor. He'd stumbled
across it, whatever it was, and found himself on the floor of this room, a room
with no doorways.
Savil had appeared behind him, but before he could say
anything, she'd just given him a troubled look, said to Starwind, "Don't
hurt him, shayana," and left. Stepped into
thin air and was gone. Left him alone with this—this madman. This unpredictable
creature who'd been forcing him all morning to do things he didn't understand,
using the powers he hadn't even come to terms with possessing, much less comprehending.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he cried, ready to
weep with weariness. Starwind ignored the words as if they had never been
spoken.
:Mindspeech, Chosen,: came Yfandes' calm thought, :That is part of his testing. Use
Mindspeech.:
He braced himself, sharpened his thoughts into a kind of
dagger, and flung them at
Starwind's mind.
:Why are you DOING this to me?:
:Gently,: came the unruffled reply. :Gently, or I shall not answer you.:
Well, that was more than he'd gotten out of the Adept in
hours. :Why?: he pleaded.
:You are a heap of dry tinder,: Starwind replied serenely. :You are a danger to yourself and those
around you. It requires only a spark to send you into an uncontrolled blaze. I
teach you control, so that the fires in you come when you will and where you
will.: He stared at Vanyel
across the shimmering mage-barrier. :Would
you have
this again?:
He flung into Vanyel's face memories that could only have
come from Savil—a clutch of Herald-trainees weeping hysterically, infected with
his grief; Mardic flying
through the air, hitting the wall, and sliding down it to land in an
unconscious heap; the very foundations of the Palace shaking—
:No—: he shuddered.
:There could be worse—: Starwind showed him
what he meant by "worse." A vivid picture of Withen dead—crushed like
a beetle beneath a boot—by the powers Vanyel did not yet comprehend and could
not direct.
:NO!: He tried to deny the
very possibility that he could do anything of the kind, rejecting the image
with a violence that—
—that made the floor beneath him tremble.
:You see?: Starwind said, still
unperturbed. :You see?
Without control, without understanding, you can—and will—kill, without ever meaning to.
Now—:
Vanyel hung his head, and wearily tried to match the barrier
one more time.
* * *
Savil ran for the pass-through, in response to Starwind's
urgent summons, Moondance a bare pace behind her. She hit the permanent
set-spell, a kind of low-power Gate, at a run; there was the usual eyeblink of
vertigo, and she stumbled onto the slate floor of Starwind's Work Room and
right into the middle of a royal mess.
Starwind was only now picking himself up off the floor
behind her; there was a smell of scorched rock and the acrid taint of ozone in
the air. And small wonder; the area around all around Vanyel in the center of
the Work Room was burned black.
Lying sprawled at one side of the burned area was the boy
himself, scorched and unconscious.
Moondance popped through the pass-through, glanced from one
fallen body to the other, and made for the boy as needing him the most. That
left Starwind to Savil.
She gave him her hands and helped him to his feet; he shook
his head to clear it, then pulled his hair back over his shoulders. "God
of my fathers," he said, passing his hand over his brow. "I feel as
if I have been kicked across a river."
Savil ran a quick check over him, noted a channel-pulse and
cleared it for him. "What happened?" she asked urgently, keeping one
hand on his elbow to steady him. "It looks like a mage-war in here."
"I believe I badly frightened the boy," Starwind
said, unhappily, checking his hands for damage. "I intended to frighten
him a little, but not so badly as I did. He was supposed to be calling
lightning and he was balking. He plainly refused to use the power he had
called. I grew impatient with him—and I cast the image of wyrsa at him. He panicked; and not only threw
his own power, he pulled power from the valley-node. Then he realized what he
had done and aborted it the only way he could at that point, pulling it back on
himself." Starwind gave her a reproachful glance. "You told me he
could sense the node, but you did not tell me he could pull from it."
"I didn't know he could, myself. Great good gods—shayana, it was wyrsa that his shay'kreth'ashke called down on his
enemies, didn't I tell you?" Savil's gut went cold; she bit her lip, and
looked over her shoulder at Moondance and his patient. The Healer-Adept was
kneeling beside the boy with both hands held just above his brow. "Lord
and Lady, no wonder he nearly blew the place apart!"
Starwind looked stricken to the heart, as Moondance took his
hands away from the boy's forehead and put his arm under Vanyel's shoulder to
pick him up and support him in a half-sitting position. "You told me—but I
had forgotten. Goddess of my mothers, what did I do to the poor child?"
"Ashke, what did you do?" Moondance called
worriedly, one hand now on Vanyel's forehead, the
other arm holding him. "The child's mind is in shock."
"Only the worst possible," Starwind groaned.
"I threw at him an image of the things his love called for vengeance."
"Shethka. Well, no help for it;
what is done cannot be unmade. Ashke, I will put him to
bed, and call his Companion, and we will deal with him. We will see what comes
of this." He picked the boy up, and strode through the pass-through
without a backward glance.
"Ah, gods—this was going well, until this moment,"
Starwind mourned. "He was gaining true control. Gods, how could I have
been so stupid?"
"It happens," Savil sighed, "And with Van more
so than with anyone else, it seems. He almost seems to attract ill luck. Shayana, why did you throw
anything at him, much less wyrsa?"
"He finally is willing enough to learn the controls,
the defensive exercises, but not the offensive." Starwind
put his palms to his temples and massaged for a moment, a pain-crease between
his eyebrows. "And if he does not master the offensive—"
"The offensive magics will remain without control," Savil said grimly,
the smell of scorched rock still strong about her. "Like Tylendel. I
couldn't get past his trauma to get those magics fully under conscious lock. I
should have brought him to you."
"Wingsister, hindsight is ever perfect," Starwind spared
a moment to send a thread of wordless compassion her way, and she smiled wanly.
"The thing with this boy—I told you, he had the lightnings in his hand, I could see him holding them,
but he would not cast them. I thought to frighten him into taking the
offense." He lowered his hands and looked helplessly at Savil. "He is
a puzzle to me; I cannot fathom why he will not fully utilize his powers."
"Because he still doesn't understand why he should, I
suppose," Savil brooded, rocking back and forth on her heels. "He
can't see any reason to use those powers. He doesn't want to help anyone, all
he wants now is to be left alone."
Starwind looked aghast. "But—so strong—how can he not—"
"He hasn't got the hunger yet, shayana, or if he's got it,
everything else he's feeling has so overwhelmed him that all he can register is
his own pain." Savil shook her head. "That, mostly, would be my
guess. Maybe it's that he hasn't ever seen a reason to care for anyone he
doesn't personally know. Maybe it's that right now he has no energy to care for
anyone but himself. Kellan tells me Yfandes would go through fire and flood for
him, so there has to be something there. Maybe Moondance
can get through to him."
"Only if he survives what we do to him," Starwind
replied, motioning her to precede him into the pass-through, and sunk in gloom.
He could tell that he was lying on his bed, still clothed, but
his hands and forearms felt like they'd been bandaged and the skin of his face
hurt and felt hot and tight.
The full moon sent silver light down through the skylight
above his head. He saw the white rondel of it clearly through the fronds of the
ferns. His head hurt, and his burned hands, but not so much as the empty place
inside him, or the guilt—the terrible guilt.
'Lendel, 'Lendel—my fault.
He heard someone breathing beside him; a Mindtouch confirmed
that it was Moondance. He did not want to talk with anyone right now; he just
wanted to be left alone. He started to turn his face to the wall, when the
soft, oddly young-sounding voice froze him in place.
"I would tell you of a thing—"
Vanyel wet his lips, and turned his head on the pillow to
look at the argent-and-black figure seated beside him on one of the strange
"chairs" he favored.
Moondance might have been a statue; a silvered god sitting
with one leg curled beneath him, resting his crossed arms on his upraised knee,
face tilted up to the moon. Moonlight flowed over him in a flood of liquid
silver.
"There was a boy," Moondance said, quietly.
"His name was Tallo. His parents were farmers, simple people, good people
in their way, really. Very tied to their ways, to their land, to the cycle of
the seasons. This Tallo… was not. He felt things inside him that were at odds
with the life they had. They did not understand their son, who wanted more than
just the fields and the harvests. They did love him, though. They tried to
understand. They got him learning, as best they could; they tried to interest
the priest in him. They didn't know that what the boy felt inside himself was
something other than a vocation. It was power, but power of another sort than
the priest's. The boy learned at last from the books that the priest found for
him that what he had was what was commonly called magic, and from those few
books and the tales he heard, he tried to learn what to do with it. This made
him—very different from his former friends, and he began to walk alone. His parents
did not understand this need for solitude, they did not understand the strange
paths he had begun to walk, and they tried to force him back to the ways of his
fathers. There were—arguments. Anger, a great deal of it, on both sides. And
there was another thing. They wished him to wed and begin a family. But the boy
Tallo had no yearning toward young women—but young men—that was another tale."
Moondance sighed, and in the moonlight Vanyel saw something
glittering wetly on his eyelashes. "Then, the summer of the worst of the
arguments, there came a troupe of gleemen to the village. And there was a young
man among them, a very handsome young man, and the boy Tallo found that he was
not the only young man in the world who had yearnings for his own sex. They
quickly became lovers—Tallo thought he had never been so happy. He planned to
leave with the gleemen, to run away and join them when they left his village,
and his lover encouraged this. But it happened that they were found together.
The parents, the priest, the entire village was most wroth, for such a thing as
shay'a'chern was forbidden even to
speak of, much less to be. They—beat Tallo, very badly; they beat the young
gleeman, then they cast Tallo and his lover out of the village. Then it was
that the young gleeman spurned Tallo, said in anger and in pain what he did not
truly mean, that he wanted nothing of him. And Tallo became wild with rage. He,
too, was in pain; he had suffered for this lover, been cast out of home and
family for his sake, and now he had been rejected—and he called the lightning
down with his half-learned magic. He did not mean to do anything more than
frighten the young man—but that was not what happened. He killed him; struck
him dead with the power that he could not control."
Moonlight sparkled silver on the tears that slowly crept
down Moondance's face.
"Tallo had heard his lover's thoughts, and knew that
the young man had not meant in truth the hurtful things he had said. Tallo had
wanted only for the boy to say with words what he had heard in the other's
mind. So he called the lightning to frighten him, but he learned that the
lightning would not obey him when called by anger, and not by skill. And he
heard the boy crying out his name as he died. Crying out in fear and terrible
pain, and Tallo unable to save him. Tallo could not live with what he had done.
With the dagger from his lover's belt, he slashed his own wrist and waited to
die, for he felt that only with his own death could he atone for murdering his
love."
Moondance raised his left arm to push some of his heavy hair
back from his face, and the moon picked out the white scar that ran from his
wrist halfway to his elbow.
"There was, however, a stranger on the road; an
out-lander who had sensed the surge of power and read the signs and knew that
it was uncontrolled. She came as quickly as she could—though not quickly enough
to save both. She found the young men, one dead, one nearly—she saved the one
she could, and brought him to a friend who she thought might understand."
Moondance was so silent and for so long, that Vanyel thought
he was through speaking. He stared up at the moon, eyes and cheeks shining
wetly, like a marble statue in the rain.
Then he spoke again, and every syllable carried with it a
sense of terrible pain. "So here is the paradox. If the boy Tallo had not
misused his fledgling powers and struck down his lover, they would have gone
off together, and, in time, parted. Tallo would likely have been found by a
Mage and taught, or—who knows?—gotten as far as Valdemar and been taken by a
Companion. Those with the power are not left long to themselves. It might even
have been that the Mage that found him was a dark one, and Tallo might have
turned for a time or for all time to evil. But that is not what happened. The
boy killed—murdered in ignorance—and was brought to k'Treva. And in k'Treva he
found forgiveness, and the learning he needed as the seed needs the spring
rain—and one thing more. He found his shay'kreth'ashke. In your tongue, that
means 'lifebonded.'"
Vanyel started. Moondance nodded without turning to look at
him. "You see? Paradox. Had things not fallen as they did, Tallo would
never have met with Starwind. The Tayledras are very secretive and
Wingsister Savil is one of the first to see one of us, much less to see
k'Treva, in years beyond counting. The two meant to be life-bonded would never
have found each other. There would be no Healer-Adept in k'Treva, and much Tayledras work would have gone
undone because of that. So—much good has come of this, and much love—but it has
its roots in murder. Murder unintentional, but murder all the same."
Moondance sighed again. "So what is the boy Tallo to
think? Starwind's solution was to declare the boy Tallo dead by his own hand, a
fitting expiation for his guilt, and to bring to life a new person altogether,
one Moondance k'Treva. So there is no more Tallo, and there is one that magic
has changed into a man so like Tayledras that he might have
been born to the blood. But sometimes the boy Tallo stirs in the heart of
Moondance—and he wonders—and he weeps—and he mourns for the wrongs he has done."
He turned his head, then, and held out his hand to Vanyel. "Ke'chara, would you share grief
with Tallo? Weeping alone brings no comfort, and your heart is as sore as mine."
Vanyel started to reach for that hand, then hesitated.
If I don't touch—
"If you do not touch," said Moondance, as if he
read Vanyel's thought, "You do not live. If you seal yourself away inside your barriers, you seal
out the love with the pain. And though love sometimes brings pain, you have no
way of knowing if the pain you feel now might not bring you to love again."
"Tylendel's dead." There; he'd said it, said it
out loud. It was real—and couldn't be changed. The tight, burned skin on his face
hurt as he held back tears. "Nothing
is going to bring him back. I'll never be anything but alone."
Moondance nodded, slowly, and left his hand resting on the
edge of the bed; Vanyel couldn't see his face, shadowed as it was by the white wing
of his hair.
"The great love is gone. There are still little
loves—friend to friend, brother to sister, student to teacher. Will you deny
yourself comfort at the hearthfire of a cottage because you may no longer sit
by the fireplace of a palace? Will you deny yourself to those who reach out to you in hopes of warming themselves at
your hearthfire? That is cruel, and I had not thought you to be cruel, Vanyel.
And what of Yfandes? She loves you with all her being. Would you lock her out
of your regard as well? That is something more than cruel."
"Why are you telling me, asking me this?" The
words were torn out of him, unwilling.
"Because I nearly followed the road you are
walking." The Tayledras shifted slightly in
his chair and Vanyel heard the wood creak a little. "Better, I thought,
not to touch at all than to touch and bring hurt upon myself and others. Better
to do nothing than to make a move and have it be the wrong one. But even
deciding to not touch or to be nothing is a decision, Vanyel, and by deciding
not to touch, so as to avoid hurt, I then hurt those who tried to touch
me." He waited, but Vanyel could not bring himself to answer him.
Moondance's expression grew alien, unreadable, and he
shrugged again. "It is your decision; it is your life. A Healer cannot
live so; it may be that you can."
He uncoiled himself from his chair and in a kind of seamless
motion was standing on his feet, shaking back his hair. The tears were gone
from his eyes, and his expression was as serene as if they had never been there
as he looked down on Vanyel. "If you are in pain, Mind-call, and I shall
come."
Before Vanyel could blink, he was gone.
Finally he found a way out into the valley itself, and stood
by the rock-arch of the doorway, blinking a little at the bright sunlight,
unfiltered by the tinted skylight. There were ferns the size of a small room,
bushes and small trees with leaves he could have used as a rain shelter, and
the larger trees, while not matching the one growing up through the middle of
the "house" in girth, were still large enough that it would take five
people to encircle their trunks with their arms.
:Yfandes?: he Mindcalled
tentatively. He wasn't at all sure he'd get a reply.
But he did. :Here,: she said—and a few moments later, she came frisking through
the undergrowth, tail and spirits held banner-high. She nuzzled his cheek. :Are your hands better?:
He had unwrapped them this morning from their bandages, and
aside from a little soreness, they seemed fine—certainly nothing near as
painful as they had been last night.
:I
think so.: He rested his forehead against her neck. It was incredibly
comforting just to be in her presence, and hard to remember to barricade
himself around her. :Where
is everybody?:
:Savil is up above, in Starwind's place.: She gave him a mental picture of a kind of many-windowed
room perched in the limbs of what could only be the tree growing up through the
center of the "house." :She
doesn't much care for it, and having her up there makes Kellan nervy, but he
was upset over the accident yesterday and he feels happier up in the boughs. They're talking.:
:With the other k'Treva?:
:I think perhaps. :
:Where's Moondance?:
:By himself. Thinking,: Yfandes said.
:'Fandes—did I—: He swallowed. :Did I do something wrong last night?:
She looked at him reproachfully. :Yes. I think you ought to talk to him.
You hurt him more deeply last night than he showed. He's never told that story
to anyone; Savil and Starwind know it, but he never told them. And he's never even told Starwind
how badly he still feels. It
cost him a great deal to tell it to you.:
His first reaction was guilt. His second was anger.
By his own admission, Moondance's tragic affair had been
nothing more than that—an affair doomed to be brief. How could he even begin to compare his hurt with Vanyel's?
Moondance wasn't alone—
Moondance hadn't murdered Starwind—just some stupid gleeman,
who would have passed out of his life in a few weeks. A common player, and no
great love.
Moondance still had Starwind. Would always have Starwind.
Vanyel would be alone forever. So how could Moondance compare the
two of them?
Yfandes seemed to sense something of what was going on in his mind; she pulled away from him,
a little, and looked—or was it felt?—offended.
That only made him angrier.
Without another word, spoken or thought, he turned on his
heel and ran—away from her, away from the Tayledras—away from all of them. Ran to a little corner at the end of
the vale, a sullen grove of dark, fleshy-leaved trees and ferns, where very
little light ever came. He pushed his way in among them, and curled up around
his misery and his anger, his stomach churning, his eyes stinging.
They don't give a damn about me—just about what I can do.
They don't care how much I hurt, all they want is for me to do what I'm told.
Savil just wants to see me tricked into being a Herald, that's all. They don't
any of them understand! They don't any of them know how much—I—
He began crying silently. 'Lendel, 'Lendel, they don't know how much
of me died with you. All I want is to be left alone. Why can't they leave me alone? Why can't they stop trying to make me do
what they want? They're all alike, dammit, they're just like Father, the only
thing different is what they want out of me! Oh 'Lendel—I need you so much—
Only to find it as vacant as when he'd left it. In fact,
only the night-lamps were burning, and those were only left for the benefit of
any of the Tayledras who might care to come
down to the ground during the night. It didn't even look as if he'd been missed.
They don't care, he thought forlornly, surveying the empty, ill-lit rooms. They really don't care. Oh, gods—
His stomach knotted up into a hard, squirming ball.
No one cares. No one ever did except 'Lendel. And no one
ever will again.
His shoulders slumped, and a second hard lump clogged his
throat. He made another circuit of the rooms, but they stayed achingly,
echoingly empty. No sign of anyone. No sign anyone would ever come back.
After pacing through the place until the echoes of his own
footsteps were about to drive him into tears, he finally crawled into bed.
And cried himself to sleep.
Leareth laughed; his icy laughter echoed off the cliffs as
he held up one hand and made the simplest of gestures. A mage-storm swirled
into being precisely at the edge of Vanyel's defenses. Vanyel poured power into
his shielding; this was the last, the very last of his protections. He was drained, the energy-sources were
drained, and he himself had taken far more damage in the duel than he would
allow Leareth to know.
He was no match for the scouring blast that peeled his
shields away faster than he could replace them. Leareth smiled behind his
mage-storm, as if he knew that Vanyel was weakening by the moment. Sweat ran
into his eyes and started to freeze there; he went to his knees, still
fighting, and knowing he was going to lose. Leareth seemed not even wearied.
A final blast struck down the last of his protections.
Vanyel screamed as agony such as he'd never known before arced through his body—
Vanyel woke up; the bed was soaking with sweat, and he was
shaking so hard the ferns over his head quivered. He was afraid that he had
screamed out loud.
But when no one came running into the room, he knew that he
hadn't; that everything had been in the dream. At least this time he hadn't
awakened anyone, and hadn't been trapped in the dream.
Dream. Oh, gods, it isn't just a dream. He shivered, despite
the warmth of the room, and stared up through the fern fronds at the descending
moon. The nightmare had him in a grasp of iron claws and would not let him go. This is going to be real, it feels real. It's ForeSight. It has to be.
Leareth calls me "Herald-Mage Vanyel," and I'm in Whites. I'm
dreaming my own death. This is what is going to happen to me, how I'm going to
die, if I become a Herald. Alone. In terrible pain, and all alone, fighting a
doomed battle.
He shivered harder, chilled by the cold of the dream,
chilled even more with fear. He finally threw the covers back, grabbed his
robe, and padded into the room with the hot pools, finding his way by moonlight
and habit.
For this was not the first time he'd awakened in the middle
of the night, dream-chilled and needing warmth. This was just the first time
since he'd arrived here that the dream had been clear enough to remember.
He climbed into the uppermost pool, easing himself down into
the hot water with a sigh and a shiver. Oh, gods. I don't want to die like that. They can't want me to have to face that,
can they? If they knew about this dream, would they still want me to be a
Herald? Gods, I know the answer to that—
He eased a little farther down into the hot water, until it
lapped at his chin. He was fighting blind, unreasoning panic, and losing. What am I going to do? Oh, gods—I can't
think—
I have
to get away. I can't stay here. If I do, they'll try and talk me around. Where can
I go? I don't even know where "home" is from here. But I can't stay—I'll just
go, I'll just pack up and go, and hope something turns up, it's all I can do.
It means leaving Yfandes—
For a moment that thought was more than he could bear.
But—fear was stronger. It's
lose her, or lose my life. No. I can't. I can't face an end like that. Besides, he choked on a sob, she just wants me to be a Herald, too—
He looked up, judging the hour by the moon. I've got a few hours until dawn. I can be
out of the valley and well away before they even start looking for me. And they
might not—Starwind still
isn't ready to deal with me again; they might just think I've gone off
somewhere to be alone, especially if I block Yfandes out now and keep her out.
He climbed out of the pool and dried himself with his robe;
he knew exactly where the clothing he'd arrived in was hung—the far end of
Moondance's closet. He pulled it on as quickly as he could, taking the heavy
cloak and draping it over one arm. One of the packs was in there, too, the one
with the rest of his winter clothes. They were too warm to wear in the valley,
so he'd never unpacked them, wearing instead Moondance's outgrown things. There
was always food out in the room beside the one with the staircase; Tayledras sometimes kept odd
hours. He filched enough bread and cheese to last several days and stuffed it
into the pack with his clothing.
It took him most of a candlemark to reach the entrance to
the valley. If it hadn't been snowing, he might have turned back at that
moment—but it was, lightly, enough to cover his tracks. He swung the heavy
cloak over his shoulders, braced himself for the shock of the temperature
change, and stepped out into the dark and cold, remembering just in time to put
up a shield so that he could not be tracked by his own aura.
Savil gulped, and gripped the arms of her low chair, looking
resolutely away from the windows and their view of the birds flying by below them. Starwind never would tell her what
it was they used in those windows instead of glass—which wouldn't have lasted
ten breaths in a high wind. It was the same thing they used for the skylights,
only thinner. Some kind of tough, flexible, transparent membrane—and Savil
could not bring herself to believe that it would hold if you fell against it.
The ekele creaked again, and she
shuddered as she saw the window-stuff ripple a little with the warping of the
window frames.
"Would you mind explaining that cryptic remark?"
she asked, as the rest of Moondance emerged from the "entrance."
"Oh, thy pupil, Wingsister," he said, at his most
formal, closing the hatchway against another gust of chill air. The ladder was
sheltered, but not entirely enclosed—that would have been impractical—and
Starwind couldn't see wasting a mage-barrier on the entrance to his
"nest" when the hatchway served perfectly well most of the time.
"Bright the day, Master-ashke."
"Wind to thy wings," Starwind replied
automatically, turning away from the window, his gloom brightening a little. "Shay'kreth'ashke, there is no
'Master' here for thee."
"Nay, till the day thy wings bear thee upwards, thou'rt
my Master." Moondance glided across the unsteady floor to Starwind's side,
as surefooted as a sailor on a moving deck.
"Enough, I'm drowning," Savil groaned. "Gods,
life-bonded—it's enough to make me celibate. What about my pupil? And will you please come away from that window? I keep
thinking the next gust is going to pitch you out."
"The window would hold. Besides, no Tayledras has fallen from his ekele in years beyond counting,
Wingsister," Starwind said, turning his back to the window and leaning on
the ledge.
"So the time is long past for it to happen, and I don't
want it to be you, all right?" Another gust made the whole tree groan, and
she clutched at the arms of the chair, her knuckles going white.
"Very well," Starwind was actually smiling as he
stepped away from the window and folded himself bonelessly into one of the
chairs bolted to the floor of his ekele. He got a certain
amount of pleasure out of teasing Savil about her acrophobia.
Each ekele was something like an
elaborate treehouse; there was one for each major branch of the King Tree, some
twenty in all. Not all were tenanted, and they were mostly used for meditation,
sleeping, teaching, and recreation. For everything else, the "place
below" served far better. But when a Tayledras needed to think, he frequently retreated to his ekele, sometimes for weeks, touching foot to
ground only when he needed to.
An ekele consisted of a single
windowed room, varying in size, made of polished wood so light in color that it
was almost white, and furnished at most with a few chairs bolted to the floor,
a table likewise bolted, and rolled pads stored in one corner for sleeping.
Starwind's was one of the highest, hence, one of the smallest. The view was
majestic. It was wasted on Savil.
Moondance took a third chair, and sat in it sideways, legs
draped over the arms. "Well?" Savil demanded. "Are you going to
explain yourself?"
"Your pupil. First, we strive to bring him to not
depend upon others. So—then he pulls in upon himself, confiding not even in his
Companion, hiding his pain within. Then I try to bring him to confess the pain,
to share it, to reach out—"
"So?"
Moondance shrugged, and Savil sensed he hadn't told
everything.
"What did you tell him?"
Moondance's moods could be read from his eyes; they were a
murky gray-blue. "I—told him of myself. I thought if he could see that he
is not the only soul in the world that feels pain, he might be brought to share
it."
Savil's eyes narrowed; Moondance was unhappy. "Shayana, did he hurt you? If he
did—"
"Na, the only one who hurt me was myself." His
eyes cleared, and he gave her a wry smile. "He only pushed me away, is
all. So, he hides all day, and this morning he is hiding again. His bed is
empty, the hertasi say he went to the end
of the vale, and his Companion says he has blocked her out entirely. To put it
rudely, Wingsister, he is sulking."
Savil sighed, forgetting to clutch the arms of the chair.
"Gods, what are we to do with him?"
Starwind's expression sobered again, and he began to
answer—but was interrupted. Both Tayledras snapped to attention;
their heads swung to face the window as if a single string had pulled them in
that direction.
Two birds shot up from below and hovered there, just outside
that window; the white gyrefalcon, and a second, of normal plumage. Starwind
leaped out of his chair and flung the window open; the birds swirled in on the
blast of wind that entered, and he slammed the window shut again.
Moondance had jumped to his feet, holding both arms out,
ready for the birds, the moment Starwind went for the window. The falcons homed
for him unerringly and were settling on the leather guards on his forearms
before Starwind had finished latching the window closed.
The elder Tayledras held out his arm, and
the buff falcon lofted to his forearm with a flutter of pinions, settling
immediately.
Both Tayledras stared into their
birds' eyes in silent communion. Savil kept as still as she could; while the
bond between Hawkbrother and his birds was a strong one, and the magic-bred
birds were considerably more
than their wild brethren, their minds were something less than that of a very
young child, perhaps a trifle superior to a cat, and it didn't take much to
distract them.
The white falcon mantled; the buff cried. The Tayledras' eyes refocused, and
Savil read "trouble" in the grim lines of their mouths.
"What?" she asked.
"First—tampering, as you had reported it to us, but
this time on our ground and not on
k'Vala," Starwind said, soothing his bird by stroking its breast-feathers.
"A clutch of colddrakes, from the look of it. Something has made them move, so when we deal with the
drakes, we shall have to look farther afield; there are folk settled in that
direction under k'Treva protection. This is the first time we have caught the
culprit in the act, and I do not intend to take this lightly."
"I hope you're counting me in that 'we'; a clutch of
drakes needs every mage you can muster," she said, getting carefully to
her feet and bracing herself against the sway of the ekele.
"If you would—you would be welcome." Starwind
looked relieved. "But Vanyel—"
"If he's hiding, he'll only come out when he's ready.
He's not going to come to any harm while he's in the vale. How far are these
monsters, anyway?"
"Half a day's footpace; perhaps less," Moondance
replied, "The which I do not like. It speaks for them being harried, or
even Gated. In which case, why and who?"
"Good questions, both of them," Savil agreed.
"Who can we count on?"
"Nothing under an Adept, not with drakes; not even
Journeymen should handle drake-swarms, at least not to my mind. Shethka. "
"Don't tell me, we're the only three in any shape to
take them on, right?"
"Sunsong is still recovering from moving the firebirds
to sanctuary, Brightwind is too old to travel, Stormwing is pregnant."
"Lord and Lady—lock her up!" Savil exclaimed.
"No fear, she's steadied since she reached Adept. No
more headlong races into danger just for the thrill. So—Rainstar is out
already, with another call from the kyree, as is Fireflight. And
that is the total of k'Treva Adepts." Starwind grimaced. "If this
were summer…"
"If this were summer, it wouldn't be colddrakes, ashke," Moondance reminded
him. "We work with what we have, and grateful that Wingsister Savil is
with us."
"Let's get on with it," Savil said, steadying
herself for the long climb down, as the Tayledras transferred their birds from forearm to shoulder for the
descent. "So far as I'm concerned, I'll take a
colddrake over your bedamned ladder any time!"
He sat down on a stump, tired and winded, and suddenly
seemed to wake out of the hold of his nightmare. What am I doing out here? he thought, panting. I don't know where I'm going, I don't
know what I'm going to do when I get there, I have no idea where I am! I just—hared off into nowhere, like a complete
idiot!
He put his pack down at his feet and scooped up some of the
new snow in his mitten and ate it; it numbed his tongue, but it didn't do much
for his thirst. I can't believe I did anything this stupid.
He wrapped his cloak tighter, and tucked his knees up under
his chin, staring at the delicate tracery of white branches against the
painfully blue sky. He began to think things through, slowly; one small,
painful step at a time.
He flushed with shame. I can't believe I did this. Dammit, I know
how much Savil loves me, I've felt it—and
Yfandes, and—damn, I am a
rotten fool. Moondance was just trying to say that it's—easier to have other
people around who hurt when you hurt,
not that he thought he hurt worse than me. I hurt him by pushing him away.
His blush deepened. Worst of it is, he'll likely forgive me without my asking.
They didn't abandon me yesterday; they were busy—probably over my welfare. They
gave me exactly what I wanted; to be left alone. I should have been knocked up
against a wall.
He brooded, watching the birch branches swaying in the
breeze. He was alone, completely alone, as he had not been since he left Forst
Reach. The only thing breaking the silence was the whisper of the breeze and
the occasional call of a winter bird. It was the kind of solitude he had
sought—and not found—in the ice-dream. And now that he had it, he didn't want
it.
Not that this place wasn't peaceful—but a sanctuary, as he
had discovered with his little hideaway at the keep, could all too easily
become a prison.
When you lock things out, he thought slowly, you lock yourself in. I think maybe that
was what Moondance was trying to tell me.
He stared at the white branches, not seeing them, and not
really thinking; just letting things turn over in the back of his mind. There
was a half-formed thought back there, an important one. But it wasn't quite
ready to come out yet.
Finally he sighed, and turned his thoughts back to his own
stupidity. Even if that
dream
is ForeSight, there's
probably ways around it. Nobody's going to force me into being a Herald. I
could probably stay here if I asked to. There was no reason to go running off
into the wilderness with nothing but what I could carry and no weapons. Gods,
what a
fool I am!
He swiveled around to look down his backtrail. Even as he
watched, the brisk breeze was filling in the last of his tracks with the light,
powdery snow.
He groaned aloud. Oh,
fine. Just fine. I probably won't be able to find my way back now! I don't need
teachers, I need nursemaids!
Then he blinked, caught in sudden astonishment at the tone
of his own thoughts. He sat up a little straighter and took stock of himself,
and found that he was—feeling alive
again. Feeling ready to be alive.
It's like I've been sick, fevered, and the fever just broke.
Like I've been broken inside, somehow, and I'm finally starting to feel healed.
I haven't felt this—good—since Tylendel—died—
He closed his eyes, expecting pain at that thought. There was pain, but not the debilitating agony
of loss it had been.
'Lendel, he thought with a
tinge of wonder, I still miss you. It still hurts, you not
being here. But I guess Moondance was right. I have to get on with my life,
even though you aren't here to share it.
He opened his eyes on the snow-sparkling forest, and
actually managed a weak smile at his own folly. "I really am an idiot, a right royal moon calf. And
you'd have been the first to laugh at me, wouldn't you, 'Lendel?" He shook
his head at himself. "All right, I guess I'd better figure out how to find
my way back without a trail to follow."
Then the answer came to him, and he laughed at his own
stupidity. "Lord and Lady, it's a good thing you take care of fools. All I
have to do is look for mages. It's not like there's
too many enclaves of mages out here, after all! The power should be there for
even a dunderhead like me to see."
He closed his eyes again, and took a deep breath of the
cold, crisp air. Center—ground—and open—well, just like I figured, there they are—
The surge of Gate-energy hit him with a shock, knocking him
senseless.
* * *
When Vanyel came to again, the sun was high overhead,
shining down on his cheek; it was noon, or nearly. He was lying where he'd
fallen, on his side, braced between his pack and the stump. He'd curled up
around the pack, and the roots from the stump were digging into his side and
leg. His ears were ringing—or was it his head? Whatever; it felt as if he'd
been graced with one of Jervis' better efforts.
Gods. He glanced up at the sun, and winced. That was a Gate. Nothing else feels like
that. Oh, I hurt. It's a good thing I was wrapped up in this cloak when I fell
over, or I'd have frozen.
He pushed the pack away, and rolled over onto his stomach.
That at least got the sun out of his eyes. He got his knees under him, and
pushed himself up off the snow with his arms; he was stiff and cold, but
otherwise intact. Only his head hurt, and that in the peculiar
"inside" way that meant he'd "bruised" those new senses of
his. He knelt where he was for a moment, then pushed his hood back and looked around.
It looked as if he'd fallen right over sideways when the shock hit him.
Guess I'd better get moving. Before I turn into a
snow-statue. He pulled himself to his feet with the help of the stump, then
stamped around the snow for several moments, trying to get his blood moving
again.
I hope nobody noticed I'm gone. I hope that
Gate wasn't somebody out looking for me. I feel enough of a fool as it is.
He hitched his pack over his shoulder, and took his
bearings. All right,
let's try again. Center—and
ground—and open—and
If I find out that Moondance had anything to do with this I'll—
His head rang again, and he swayed and almost fell, but this
time the shock was a clear, urgent, and unmistakable wordless cry for help. It
sobered him as quickly as Andrel's bucket of cold water.
There was no "presence" to the cry, not like any
of the Gifted or the Tayledras had; it was just
simple and desperate. This was no trained mage or Herald. It could only be an
ordinary person in mortal fear.
Gods! His head swiveled toward the source of the cry as a needle
to a lodestone. And without any clear notion of why he was doing so, except that it was a cry for help, and
he had to answer it, Vanyel
began stumbling toward the source at a clumsy run.
He had been following a game-trail; now he was right off any
path. He ran into a tangle of bushes, and could find no way around it. Driven
nearly frantic by the call in his head, he finally shoved his way through it.
Then he was in a beech grove; there was little or no growth between the
straight, white columns of the trunks, and he picked up his pace until he was
at an all-out run.
But the clear, growth-free area was too soon passed; his
breath was burning in his lungs as the forest floor became rougher, liberally
strewn with tangles of briar and rocks, and hillier as well. His cloak kept
hanging up on things, no matter how hard he tried to keep it close to his body.
He tripped; stumbled wildly into the trunk of a tree, and picked himself up
only to trip a second time and fall flat in the snow. The breath was knocked
out of him for a moment, but that panicked, pleading voice in his "ear
within" would not let him give up. He scrambled to his feet, pulled his
cloak loose from a bramble, and started running again.
He must have tripped and fallen a good dozen times over
obstacles hidden in the snow, and he surely made enough noise to have warned
anything that wasn't deaf of his coming.
Anything that wasn't deaf—or very busy.
Winded, floundering blindly, and unable to focus on anything
more than a few feet ahead of him, he fell over a root just as he reached the
crest of a low hill, and dropped into a thicket of bushes that crowned it.
He saw the danger before he got up and broke through their
protective cover. He froze where he was. The "danger" was too intent
on its victims to have paid any attention to the racket he'd been making.
Likely an entire cavalry troupe could have come on it unawares.
This was the very edge of the cleared lands of some
smallholder; a fertile river-valley, well-watered, sheltered from the worst of
the winter weather and summer storms. Arable land like this could well tempt an
enterprising farmer out into the possible perils of the Pelagirs. There had
been a stockade around the house and barns to guard against those hazards that
could be foreseen.
But the stockade, of whole tree trunks planted in a ring
around the buildings, was flattened and uprooted. It could not have held more
than a few moments against what had come at the settlers out of the bright
winter morning.
Vanyel had never seen a colddrake, but he knew what it was
from descriptions in far too many songs and tales to count.
Less like a lizard, and more like a snake with short, stubby
legs, it was the largest living creature Vanyel had ever seen. From nose to
tail it was easily as long as six carts placed end-to-end. Its equine head was
the size of a wine barrel; it had row upon row of silvery needle-sharp spines
along its crest and down its back, and more spines formed a frill around its
neck. It snarled silently, baring teeth as long as Vanyel's hand, and white and
sharp as icicles. Its wickedly curved claws had torn the earth around it.
Vanyel knew what those looked like; Moondance
had a dagger made from one. Those claws were longer
than his hand, and as sharp as the teeth. Huge, deep-purple eyes, like perfect
cabochon amethysts, were fixed unwaveringly upon its prey, a young woman and
her two children. It was a pure silver-white, like the cleanest of snow, and
its scales sparkled in the sunlight; it was at least as beautiful as it was
deadly.
As one mangled body beneath its forefeet testified, the
creature knew very well how to use its wickedly sharp claws and teeth.
But neither tail nor fangs and claws was what held the terrified
woman and her two children paralyzed almost within reach. It was the
colddrake's primary weapon—the hypnotic
power of its eyes.
It stared at them in complete silence, a silence so absolute
that Vanyel could hear the woman panting in fear where he lay. The drake was
not moving; it was going to bring its prey to within easy reaching distance of
it.
Vanyel hadn't reshielded since he'd first been impaled upon
that dreadful dagger of the woman's fear. He could still sense her
thoughts—incoherent, hysteric, and hopeless. Her mind wailed and scratched at
the walls that the colddrake's violet gaze had set up around it. She was
trapped, they were trapped, their
wills gone, their bodies no longer obeying them.
That was how her husband, the children's father, had died;
walking right into the creature's grasp, his body obedient to its will, not his own. The beast was slow, that was the true horror of it—if they
could just distract it for a crucial moment, break its gaze, they could escape
it.
Vanyel could "hear" other minds, too—out there on
the opposite side of the clearing. The rest of the extended family—there must have been dozens of
them—had made it past the slow-moving drake to the safety and shelter of the
woods. Only these four had not; the woman, burdened with her toddlers, and the
man, staying to protect them. He could "hear" bits of their anguish,
like a chorus wailing beneath the woman's keening fear.
Vanyel stared at the trapped three, just as paralyzed as
they were. His mouth was dry, and his heart hammered with fear. He couldn't
seem to think; it was as if those violet eyes were holding him captive, too.
There was movement at the edge of his field of vision.
No—not all had fled to the woods. From around the corner of
the barn came a man; limping, painfully, slowly, but moving so quietly that the
snow didn't even creak beneath his boots. He was stalking the drake. A new set
of thoughts invaded Vanyel's mind, fragmentary, but enough to tell him what the
man was about.
:—get
close enough to stick 'im—:
It was an old
man, a tired, old man; it was the woman's grandfather. He'd been caught in the
barn when the thing attacked and knocked the stockade flat, and he'd seen his
granddaughter's husband walk into the thing's jaws. He'd recognized the drake
for what it was, and he'd armed himself with the only weapon he could find. A
pitchfork. Ridiculous against a colddrake.
:—get them eyes off 'er an' she kin run fer
it—:
The colddrake was paying no attention to anything except the
prey right before it. The old man crept up behind it without it ever noticing
he was there.
The old man knew, with calm certainty, that he was going to
die. He knew that his attack was never going to do anything more than anger the
creature. But it would break the thing's
concentration; it would make it turn its head
away for one crucial moment.
His attack was suicidal, but it would give his granddaughter
and her children a chance to live.
He came within an arm's length of the colddrake—he poised
the pitchfork as casually as if he were about to stab a haybale—and he struck,
burying the pitchfork tines in the colddrake's side with a sound like a knife
burying itself to the hilt in a block of wood.
The drake screamed; its whistling shriek shattered the dreadful
silence, and nearly shattered Vanyel's eardrums. It whipped its head around on
its long, snaky neck, and it seized the old man before he even let go of the
pitchfork. With a snap of its jaws that echoed even above its shrill
screeching, it bit the old man's head neatly off his shoulders.
Vanyel screamed as he felt the old man die—and the oldster's
desperate courage proved to be too much of a goad for him to resist.
Anger, fear, other emotions he couldn't even name, all
caught him up, raised him to his feet, drove him out into the open and exploded
out of him with a force that dwarfed the explosion he'd caused when Starwind
had tried to make him call lightning.
He was thinking just enough to throw up a shield around the
woman and her children with one shouted word. Then he hit the drake with
everything he had in him. The blast of raw power caught the drake in the side
and sent it hurtling up over the roof of the house—high into the sky—and held
it suspended there for one agonizing moment while Vanyel's insides felt as if
they were tearing loose.
Then the power ran out, and it fell to the earth, bleeding
in a hundred places, every bone in its body shattered.
And Vanyel dropped to his knees, then his hands, then
collapsed completely, to lie spent in the open field under the pale winter sun,
gasping for breath and wondering what he had done.
"No sign of her," he replied, shortly, holding to
his feet with pure will. He'd taken the brunt of the attack, and he was dizzy
and weak from the effort of holding the center while Savil and Moondance closed
the jaws of the trap about the colddrake swarm.
"I have not seen her, either," Moondance called up
the hill. He was checking each carcass in case one should prove to be an
immature queen. It was unlikely to see a swarm with a juvenile queen, but it
wasn't unheard of, either.
Yfandes had consented to carry the Tayledras double—the need to get
to the place where the drake swarm was before the swarm reached inhabited areas
was too great for any other consideration. Starwind had then served as the
"bait" afoot, while Moondance on Yfandes and Savil on Kellan had been
the arms of the trap.
"No queens," he said, flatly, having checked the
sixth and final body.
The fight had stripped the snow from the hilltop, exposing
the blackened slope. The six drakes lay upon the scorched turf in twisted
silver heaps, like the baroque silver ornaments of a careless giantess strewn
across black velvet.
"Ashke, are you well?" Moondance asked
anxiously, leaving the last of the bodies and climbing the hill with a certain
amount of haste. Starwind looked as if his legs were going to give out on him
at any moment, and Yfandes had moved up to lend him her shoulder as support. He
leaned on it with a murmur of gratitude as the Healer-Adept reached his side.
"I will do well enough, once I have a chance to
breathe," the elder Tayledras replied, as Moondance
added his support to Yfandes'. "I am more worried that we did not find the
queen."
"Do you suppose," Savil began—
Then all three of them felt an incredible surge of raw, wild
power—and it had Vanyel's "presence" laced through it.
Someone was tugging at his shoulder. Vanyel lifted his head
from his arms; that was just about the limit of his capabilities right now.
"Gods," he said, dazedly, as the stocky young
cloak-shrouded woman at his side tried to get him to sit up. "Oh, please—just—don't
do that right now."
"M'lord? Ye be hurt?" she asked, thick brows
knitting with concern. "Ye bain't hurt, best ye get inside fore 'nother
them things comes."
"Aren't… anymore," he replied heavily, giving in to
her urging and hauling himself into a sitting position. The sun seemed very
bright and and just on the verge of being painful to his watering eyes.
Gods, it's one of the holders. She's going to lay into me
for not coming sooner, he thought, squinting at her, and already wincing in
anticipation of harsh words. She's
going to want to know why I didn't save the old man, or come in time to save
the young one. What can I tell her? How can I tell her it was because I was too
scared to move until the old man threw himself at the thing?
"Ye saved us, m'lord," she said, brown eyes wide,
the awe in her voice plain even to Vanyel's exhausted ears. "Ye came t'
save us, I dunno how ye knew, but, m'lord, I bain't got no way t' thank ye."
He stared at her in amazement. "But—"
"Be ye with the bird-lords, m'lord? Ye bain't their
look, but they be the only mages abaht that give a bent nail fer folks' good."
"Bird-lords?" he repeated stupidly.
"Tchah, Menfree, 'tis only a boy an' he's flat paid
out!" The newcomer was an older woman, a bit wrinkled and weathered, but
with a kindly, if careworn, face. She bunched her cloak around her arms and
bent over him. "Na, lad, ye come in, ye get warm an' less a'muddled, an'
then ye tell yer tale, hmm?"
She took Vanyel's elbow, and he perforce had to get up, or
else pull her down beside him. The next thing he knew, he was being guided
across the ruts of the plowed field, past the carcass of the colddrake (he
shuddered as he saw the size of it up close) up to
the battered porch of the house and into the shadowed doorway.
He was not only confused with exhaustion, but he was feeling
more than a little awkward and out of place. These were the kind of people he
had most tried to avoid at home—those mysterious, inscrutable peasant-farmers,
whose needs and ways he did not understand.
Surely they would turn on him in a moment for not being
there when they needed help.
But they didn't.
The older woman pushed him down onto a stool beside the
enormous fireplace at the heart of the kitchen, the younger took his cloak and
pack, and a boy brought him hot, sweetened tea. When one of the bearded,
dark-clad men started to question him, the older woman shooed him away, pulling
off her own dun cloak and throwing it over a bench.
"Ye leave th' boy be fer a bit, Magnus; I seen this
b'fore with one a' them bird-laddies. They does the magickin', then they's
a-maundered a whiles." She patted Vanyel on the head, in a rather
proprietary sort of fashion. "He said there ain't no more critters, so ye
git on with takin' care a' poor old Kern an' Tansy's man an' let this lad get
hisself sorted."
Vanyel huddled on the stool and watched them, blinking in
the half-dark of the kitchen, as they got their lives put back together with a
minimum of fuss. Someone went to deal with the bodies, someone saw to the
hysterical young mother, someone else planned of rites. Yes, they were mourning the deaths; simply
and sincerely, without any of the kind of hysterics he'd half feared. But they
were not allowing their grief to get in the way of getting on with their lives,
not were they allowing it to cripple their efforts at getting their protections
back in place.
Their simple courage made him, somehow feel very ashamed of
himself.
It was in that introspective mood that the others found him.
* * *
"—I know it was a stupid thing to do, to run off like
that, but—" Vanyel shrugged. "I won't make any excuses. I've been
doing a lot of stupid things lately. I wasn't thinking."
"Well, don't be too hard on yourself. Foresight dreams
have a way of doing that to people," Savil said, crossing her legs and
settling back on her stool beside the hearth. "They tend to get you on the
boil and then lock up your ability to think. You wouldn't be the first to go
charging off in some wild-hare direction after waking up with one, and you
probably won't be the last. No, thank you, Megan," she said to the
wide-eyed child who offered her tea. "We're fine."
If the settlers had been awed by Vanyel, they'd been struck
near speechless by the sight of the Tayledras. They didn't know a
Herald from a birch tree, but they knew who and what the Hawkbrothers were, and
had accorded them the deference due a crowned head.
All three of the adults were weary, and relief at finding
both that Vanyel was intact and that the queen-drake was indisputably deceased
had them just about ready to collapse. So they'd taken the settlers'
hospitality with gratitude; settling in beside the hearth and accepting tea and
shelter without demur.
Vanyel had waited just long enough for them to get settled before
launching into a full confession.
"So when I finally managed to acquire some sense,"
he continued, "I figured the best way to find my way back would be to look for where all the
mage-energy was. I did everything like you told me, Master Starwind, and I
opened up—and the next thing I knew it was nearly noon. Somebody'd opened up a
Gate—I think somewhere nearby—and it knocked me put cold."
"Ha—I told you those things were
Gated in!" Savil exclaimed. "Sorry, lad, I didn't mean to interrupt
you. Then what?"
"Well, I didn't think there was anyone around here but Tayledras, so I thought one of
them had done it. I started to open up again to find the vale, and I heard a
call for help. I got here, and when I saw that colddrake—kill the old man—I
just—I just couldn't stand by and not do anything. I didn't even think about
it. I wish I had, I think I overdid it."
"With a colddrake, particularly a queen, better
overkill," Savil replied, exchanging a look of veiled satisfaction with
Starwind. "You may have acted a fool, but it put you in the right place at
the right time, and I am not going to berate you for it."
"Aunt Savil, I," he flushed, and hunched himself
up a little, "I got here before the old man came out. I didn't do anything until he—I mean—I was just
hiding in the bushes. I guess," he said, in a very small voice, "I
guess Father's right. I am a coward. I could have
saved him, and I didn't."
"Did you know you could have saved
him?" Moondance asked, quietly, his square face still. "Did you know that your mage-powers would work against
the drake?"
"Well—no."
"You ran toward the danger when you
Mindheard the call for help, right?" Savil asked. "Not away?"
"Well—yes."
"And you simply froze when you saw the strange monster.
You did not flee?" Starwind raised one long eyebrow.
"I guess that's what happened."
"I think perhaps you have mistaken inexperience for
cowardice, young Vanyel," Starwind said with conviction. "A coward
would have run away from a plea for help. A coward would have fled at the first
glimpse of the drake. You were indecisive—but you remained. It is
experience that makes one decisive, and you have precious little of that."
"M'lord Starwind?" One of the homespun-clad men of
the settlement was standing diffidently at the Tayledras' elbow.
"Phellip, I wish you would not call me
'lord,'" Starwind sighed, shaking his head. "You hold your lands
under our protection, yes, but it is a simple matter of barter, foodstuffs for
guardianship, and no more than that."
"Aye, m'—Master Starwind. Master, this drake—she just
be chance-come, or be there anythin' more to it?"
Starwind turned to look at him more closely, and with some
interest. "Why do you ask that?"
Phellip coughed, and flushed. "Well, m'lord, I was born
'n' bred west a' here. M'people held land a' Mage-lord Grenvis—he were all right, but—well, when 'is
neighbors had a notion t' play war, they useta bring in drakes an' th' like
aforehand."
"And you think something of the sort might be in the
offing? Phellip, I congratulate you on your foresight. The thought had only
just occurred to me—"
"Da?" One of the boys
couldn't contain himself any longer, and bounced up beside his father.
"Da, there gonna be a war? With fightin' an' magic an'—"
Phellip grabbed the loose cloth of the boy's tunic and pulled
him close. "Jo—I want ye t' lissen t' what m'lord
Starwind is gonna tell ye—m'lord, you tell 'im; 'e don' believe 'is ol' man that fightin'
ain't good fer nothin' but fillin' up graveyards."
"Young man," Starwind fixed the boy with an
earnest stare. "There is nothing 'fine' about warfare.
There is nothing 'glorious' about battle. All that a war means to such as you
and I is that people we know and love will die, probably senselessly; others
will be crippled for life—and the fools who began it all will sit back in their
high castles and plot a way to get back what they lost. If there were to be a war—which,
trust me, Phellip, I shall try most earnestly to prevent—the very best you could hope for, young man, would be
to see these lovely fields around you put to the torch so that you would face a
very hungry winter. That is what warfare is all
about. The only justifiable fight is a defensive one, and in any fight it is the innocents who ultimately
suffer the most."
The boy didn't look convinced.
Vanyel cleared his throat, and the boy shot a look at him.
"Pretty exciting, the way that drake just nipped off that fool old man's
head, wasn't it, Starwind?" he drawled, in exaggerated imitation of some
of the young courtiers of his own circle.
The boy paled, then reddened—but before he could burst into
either tears or angry words, Vanyel looked him straight in the eyes so fiercely
that he could not look away.
"That's what you'll see in a war, Jo," he
said, harshly. "Not people in tales getting killed—your people getting killed. Younglings,
oldsters—everybody. And some fool at the rear crowing about how exciting it all is. That's what it's about."
Now Jo looked stricken—and, perhaps, convinced. Out of the
corner of his eye Vanyel saw the farmer nodding in approval.
Out of nowhere, Vanyel felt a sudden rush of kindred feeling
for these people. Suddenly they weren't faceless, inscrutable monoliths
anymore—suddenly they were people.
People who were in some ways a great deal more like him than his own relatives
were. They had lives—and loves and cares.
Their outlook on warfare was certainly closer to his than
that of any of his blood relations.
They aren't that much different than me. Except—except that I can do something they
can't. I can—I can protect them when they can't protect
themselves. And they can do things I can't. But I could learn to grow a carrot if I had to. It
probably wouldn't be a very good carrot, but I could grow one. They won't ever
be able to blast a colddrake.
What does that mean, really?
What does that say about my life?
Why can
I do these things, and
not someone else—and what about the people out there who—who send drake-swarms out to eat helpless
farmers? If I can protect people like this from people like them—doesn't that mean—that I really have to?
He looked up and saw his aunt's eyes; she was watching the
children at their chores, cleaning and chopping vegetables for a stew. Her
expression was at once protective and worried.
It's the way Savil feels—it's
got to be. That's why she's a Herald.
And suddenly Tylendel's words came back to him; so clearly
that it seemed for a moment as if Tylendel were sitting beside him again,
murmuring into his ear.
"… it's
a kind of hunger. I can't help it. I've got these abilities, these Gifts, and I
can't
not use them. I couldn't
sit here, knowing that there were people out there who need exactly the kind of help I can give them and not
make the effort to find them and take care of them."
Now he understood those words. Oh, the irony of it; this
part of Tylendel that he had never been able to comprehend—now it was clear. Now that Tylendel was gone—now he understood.
Oh, gods—
He closed his eyes against the sting of
tears.
Oh, yes—now he understood. Because
now he felt that way, too.
Too late to share it.
:Well?: To all appearances,
Savil was asleep beside the settlers' stone hearth as she Mindspoke Starwind in
Private-mode. In actuality, despite her weariness she was anything but sleepy,
and was watching the fire through half-slitted eyes as she waited for the
opportunity to confer with him. Her single word contained a world of overtones
that she was fairly certain he'd pick up.
:Interesting, on several levels,: he replied. He was lying on his back, arms beneath his
head, his eyes also closed.
The settlers—Savil had learned before the evening was over
that they were calling their lands "Garthhold," and that there were
seven loosely-related families in the group—had offered the Tayledras and their friends
unlimited hospitality. All four of them were bone-tired even after rest and
tea, and it was agreed among the three adults that it would be no bad thing to
take them up on it. They refused, however, to put anyone out of his bed. So
after a dinner of bread and stew, they made it plain that they intended to
sleep by the fireside. The four of them were currently rolled up in their
cloaks, on sacks of straw to keep them off the stone of the floor, beside the
glowing coals of the kitchen hearth.
Vanyel was genuinely asleep. Savil wasn't certain of
Moondance; he was curled on his side, his face to the fire, as peaceful and
serene as a child's.
By all rights, he should really be asleep. There'd been
several injuries related to the colddrake's attack and the hasty escapes, and
Moondance had had his hands full Healing them. Then he had delegated himself
magical assistant to getting the stockade back up. It had saved the
Garthholders no end of effort to have the logs spell-raised back into place. He
should have been exhausted.
So Savil thought, until he Mindspoke both of them. :May I enter the conversation? I assume
there is one.:
So much for Moondance being weary.
:Be welcome, but keep it in private,: she replied, :Among
other things, we're discussing the boy. Starwind, go on please.:
:From the small things to the great—I think perhaps you
may cease to fear for the boy. I think he now feels the hunger you spoke of,
and understanding has been attained. Herein the question is if the boy can
conquer his fears.:
:I wondered about that. He's been wearing a
very odd look on his face this evening, and I've never known
him to be as friendly with common folk as he was tonight.: She opened her eyes wide and stared at the glowing embers
of the hearth without really seeing them. :Poor Van. If that dream of his is ForeSight—that's a hell of a burden to carry around.:
:It still may never come to be,: Moondance reminded them, and the straw of his bedding
crackled as he shifted. :We
still See only the thing most likely
at this moment. And the moment is always changing. I would change
the subject. We have a more urgent consideration. Those colddrakes were Gated
here. That speaks of—:
:—great
trouble to come,: Starwind replied, his mind-voice dark and grim. :There is no doubt in my mind at this
moment that the drakes were sent to harry this area in advance of a fighting
force.: The fire popped once. :This has gone beyond tampering. There
was a village to the west of here under tacit k'Treva protection. I can no
longer sense it; it is under a foreign shield.:
:Someone moved in and took it over, hmm?: Savil brooded on that a moment. :What would you say to us organizing a
little surprise for whoever sent those drakes? I doubt anyone is expecting k'Treva
response this soon. By rights, dividing the swarm should have kept us busy for
a week.:
Starwind's mind-voice was troubled. :I would
say that you are not k'Treva—:
:And I would reply that I am Wingsister, which makes me just
as much k'Treva as Moondance. I would say also that two mages tampering in this
area is a very unlikely coincidence, it is far more likely that this is the
same mage who was hired by the Leshara of Valdemar. Which makes it the more my
fight.:
More straw rustled, and Savil moved her head slightly; just
enough to see Starwind's ironic gaze bent on her for a long moment.
:And I,: Moondance put in, :would say that my shay'kreth'ashke is unlikely to win a battle of wills with
such a stubborn one as I know the Wingsister to be. I would also say that three
Adepts are better in this than two.:
Starwind sighed. :I
fear I am defeated ere I begin. What do we do with the boy, then? We cannot
leave him here, and I mislike taking the time to take him back to the vale.
That will lose us the element of surprise.:
:He may prove useful,: Moondance said unexpectedly. :He did defeat the queen-drake.:
:We bring him, I suppose,: Savil agreed, though with some misgiving. :Surely Yfandes can be counted on to
keep him out of serious trouble.:
:I cannot like it, but I must agree,: Starwind replied reluctantly. :This is a great deal of danger to be
taking one so untested and so newly-healed into.:
:I know,: Savil said, wishing the coals burning in the fireplace didn't
look so much like a burning town. :Believe
me, I know.:
"You all look like Heralds," Vanyel said, from the
pillion-pad behind Moondance. "Everyone does except me."
"How so?" Moondance asked, somewhat surprised.
"It's your white outfits," Savil supplied, as
Kellan lagged a little so that she could reply without having to turn her head.
"Heralds always wear white uniforms when they're on duty."
"Ah—youngling, Tayledras always wear the colors best suited to blend into the
treetops. In winter—white. In summer, obviously, green." Moondance was
carefully plaiting a new bowstring using both hands; he wasn't even bothering
with the reins, he had those looped up on the pommel of the saddle. Vanyel
didn't much care for riding pillion, but it wasn't bad behind Moondance; the
younger Tayledras didn't mind talking to
him. As Vanyel had suspected, he had forgiven Vanyel even before he made his
apology to the Tayledras. Which he had done as
soon as he could get Moondance alone; it only seemed right. Now it was as if
the incident had never occurred; Moondance even seemed to welcome his questions
and encouraged him to ask them.
They'd talked about Vanyel's Gifts, mostly. Vanyel hadn't
actually talked about them to anyone;
Savil hadn't had much opportunity to do so, and Starwind had just gone directly
into his head, showed him what to do, and then expected him to do it.
"So, what were we up to?" Moondance asked.
"ForeSight." Vanyel shivered. "Moondance, I don't
like it. I don't want to know what's going
to happen. Is there any way I can block it?"
"Now that it is active? Not to my knowledge. But you
must not let it cripple you, ke'chara. You are not seeing
the irrevocable future, you see the
future as it may be if nothing changes. The most likely at this moment. These
things may change; you can change them."
"I can?" Vanyel perked up at this.
"Assuredly. But it may be that the cost of such a
change is to dissolve a friendship or a love you would not willingly forgo. You
may feel such a bond is worth the price." He smiled crookedly back over
his shoulder. "If I were to have the certain knowledge that my lifebond to
Starwind would send me to my death tomorrow, I would go willingly to that fate.
But I would not tell Starwind of my foreknowledge. Think on that, if you will."
Vanyel did brood on that for several furlongs.
It was Moondance in Yfandes' saddle and not Vanyel, because
if they were surprised by an attack, Vanyel had been ordered to drop off the
pillion pad and stay out of the fight.
It was humiliating—but sensible. Vanyel was rather more
acutely interested in "sensible" than in "humiliating" at
the moment. If an attack came, he'd obey those orders. He'd learned his lesson
with the colddrake.
"Well, are there no more questions, ke'chara?"
Vanyel shook his head.
"Then I have one for you. Starwind has said that when
you were frightened in practice you pulled power from the valley-node. Is this
true?"
"What's the valley-node?"
"Savil did not tell you?" Moondance made a face.
"No patience, that one. You surely have felt that all things have energy
about them, yes?"
"Even rocks—"
"Ge'teva, if you sense that,
then your Mage-Gift is a most strong one! Even I have some difficulty with
seeing that. So; have you seen that this energy flows along lines, as rainwater
to streams?"
Vanyel hadn't, but when he closed his eyes and extended he could see that
Moondance was right.
"I do now."
"Then follow a stream to the place where it meets
another."
He did. There was a kind of—knot. A concentration of power.
He told Moondance so.
"That is a node." Moondance nodded. "Tayledras can direct the course of
these streams on occasion, which is how we take the magic from places where the
wars left it and move it to a place where it is useful. We build our
strongholds over places where two or more powerful streams meet; nodes. The
energy of the node is such that all of us can use it, but we have found that
a-many out-land mages not only cannot sense the streams, they cannot sense nor
use the nodes. This may be something only those outsiders at the level of our
Adepts do well; I think it is perhaps unique to the Tayledras that all of us, from
the time we start to feel our Gifts awaken, manipulate this energy as easily as
a child plays with building bricks. There was a time—very long ago—when the Tayledras adopted outlanders
very commonly, and it is said that these outlanders changed even as I have. I
think that the key to change is using this magic under the direction of Tayledras born. So; of outland
Adepts we have known, only Wingsister Savil can link into the nodes as well as Tayledras; her Gift is very
strong. So, it seems, is yours.
Vanyel was confused as to where all this was leading.
"But what does that mean, Moondance?"
"For now—you exhausted yourself when you killed the
colddrake. That is something you need not do quite so quickly, if you remember that you can pull from the
life-energy nodes within your sensing range. When they are drained—then you use your own strength."
:That's what I've been trying to tell you,: Yfandes said unexpectedly in his mind.
That gave him food for thought for several more candlemarks.
They'd journeyed westward from Garthhold with the rising of the
sun, stopping three times on the way to question folk Starwind knew. The first
had been a fur trapper, who'd told them of rumors of a renegade wizard, who was
half-human, half-Pelagir changeling and had sorcerous skills and a taste for
worldly power. The second was a kyree, a wolflike creature
with a mind fully the equal of any human. He stopped them; Mindspeaking to warn
them of of the same wizard, but his stories were more than mere rumors; to his
certain knowledge the changeling was planning to carve himself a realm of his
own as quickly as he could, and had already begun that task.
The third had been
one of k'Treva's border-guards—not Tayledras herself, but another
of the Pelagir changelings, a tervardi, a kind of flightless
bird-woman.
She was no longer among the living.
When Starwind had been unable to Mindcall her, they had
detoured to the grove of trees that held her ekele. There was no sign of a struggle, but they found the
fragile, white-plumaged wraith in her ekele, dead, without a mark
upon her, but with her bow in her hand, bowstring snapped, and her empty,
glazed eyes wide with what Vanyel assumed was fear.
Starwind spent some moments beside the body, working some
kind of subtle magic. Vanyel could feel things stirring, even if he couldn't yet
read them. What it was Starwind found, he would not tell Vanyel, but the three
adults grew very grim—and Moondance took the bow and its arrows when they left.
They had been riding all day, cutting cross-country at the
ground-eating pace only a Companion could maintain; it was nearing sunset when
they slowed, on coming to what looked to be a fairly well-traveled road.
Savil and Kellan halted while they were still within the
cover of the forest, and Yfandes came up beside them as silently as it was
possible for something the size and weight of a Companion to do. The snow-laden
branches of an enormous evergreen shielded them from the view of anyone on that
road, although the road itself looked deserted. There didn't seem to be any new
tracks on it, and all the old ones had been softened with a layer of new,
undisturbed snow. The road was lined on both sides by a row of these
evergreens, though, and anything could lie in wait undetected behind them.
"The village of Covia lies a few furlongs up that
road," Starwind whispered, as the sun sank in sullen glory ahead of them.
"There is still a shield upon it, and I do not like the feel of the power
behind that shield. I do not, however, sense that the power is presently in the
village."
"Nor I," replied Savil, after a moment.
:Nothing,: Yfandes said to
Vanyel.
"'Fandes says she doesn't feel anything either,"
he reported, feeling rather in the way.
"My thought is to enter the village and see how much is
amiss—and what the people know. Then—Vanyel, it is in my mind to leave you with
the villagers. You have enough mage-training to be some protection to them, and
they may be of some physical protection to you."
"I—yes, Master Starwind," he replied, not much
liking the idea, but not seeing any other choice. "What about 'Fandes?"
:I don't like it, but I'll go with them,: Yfandes said reluctantly. :If you need me, I'll know, and they need
a second mount.:
Vanyel reported Yfandes' words with a sinking heart.
Starwind nodded. "I think she has the right of it; we can cover more ground
mounted. Well." He peered up the road through the gathering evening gloom.
"I think it is time to see the handiwork of our enemy."
It was well after sundown, and pitchy dark outside of the
village square. The entire population of the village, upwards of seventy
people, was jammed into the tiny square. Many of them had brought lanterns and
torches. They were crowding about the four strangers and two Companions, like
baby chicks seeking the shelter of the hen's wings—although they were paying
scant attention to Savil and less than that to Vanyel and the Companions. The
Herald was a dubious and unknown quantity, and the boy and the
"horses" were being dismissed out of hand.
The party had made a kind of impromptu dais out of the low
porch of the Temple, which was barely large enough to hold the four humans; the
Companions were serving as living barricades on either side, to keep them from
being totally overwhelmed. As it was it was getting a little cramped, behind
the two Tayledras. But Vanyel was
beginning to be rather glad he was being ignored. Between the tales the
villagers were telling Starwind—and the physical evidences they were displaying
in the flickering of the torchlight to substantiate those stories—it wasn't
easy for Vanyel to control his nausea.
This had been a pleasant little
village, as safe as any place inside the Pelagirs. People could feel
comfortable about raising children; had time for celebrations now and again.
It was no longer pleasant, nor safe. It was now a place
under siege, with no way out.
Two weeks ago a stranger had come to the village, mounted on
something that was not a horse,
and accompanied by a retinue of some of the Pelagirs' least attractive
denizens. He had announced that the town and its inhabitants were now his, and had helped himself to whatever he
wanted. After one demonstration of his power had left a heap of ash where the
village inn had once stood, these folk had more sense than to resist—but they had attempted to send for help. The remains
of their messenger were found the next morning, impaled on a stake in the
middle of the outbound road. The frozen corpse was still there; the Companions
had passed it on the way in. From the look of the man, simple impalement had
come as a relief.
He had come back about every other night, each time taking
both goods and victims. The villagers told Starwind that they had been praying
for help; they assumed he was the answer to those prayers. He seemed, to Vanyel
at least, to be agreeing with that assumption.
Vanyel was just grateful that the fitful torchlight wasn't
bright enough for him to see much of the details of what had been done to some
of the wizard's victims. He was equally grateful that he was in the dark at the
back of the porch, behind Savil.
"—this's the last, Master Starwind," the swarthy,
unshaven headman said, wearily, his red-rimmed eyes those of one who had seen
far too much of horror in the past few days. "This girl."
He pushed a mousy blonde female right up onto the porch,
where Vanyel couldn't avoid looking at her. The young woman would still have
been attractive—if she hadn't been vacant-eyed and drooling. She was filthy,
her hair matted and hanging in lank snarls. Starwind flinched at the sight of
her, but Moondance fearlessly took her face in both his slender hands and gazed
into her blank brown eyes for a long time.
When he finally released her, his face and voice were tight
with anger. "I think that Brightwind may be able to bring her mind
back," he said, slowly and carefully, as if he was trying to keep from
saying something he had rather not speak aloud. "It will require many
months—and she will never be able to bear the touch of a man; she has been too
far hurt within. Even so, all those channels meant for pleasure have been
warped, and now can only carry pain. I do not know if even I can Heal that. I
do not think that anything will be able to Heal her heart and soul of what was
done to her; not entirely. It may be it is better not to try; it may be that it
is better to wipe all away and begin with her as with a small child."
The balding headman nodded as if that was what he had
expected to hear. "She was one of the first he took," he said
heavily, "Her and her mother. Her father was the messenger we sent—we
never found anything of her mother."
"And he grows stronger, this Krebain, with every person
he takes?" Starwind asked.
The torches wavered in the wind, casting weird shadows
across the man's hollow-cheeked face as he nodded. Vanyel could scent the
coming of more snow in that wind. "He seems to. Seems to me he's doing
blood-magic, wouldn't you say, Master Starwind?"
Starwind nodded, and narrowed his eyes in thought.
"Aye, Gallen; you know your lore well, I think. So. This Krebain has
retreated to whatever place he has made for a fastness, and it is bound to be
somewhere near; I think we shall continue with my original plan. Gallen, I
shall leave young Vanyel here with you. He knows something of material strategy
and warfare; he is also Mage-Gifted."
Vanyel shivered at the thought of being left alone here. The
headman cast one doubtful look at him and ventured a protest; Vanyel didn't
much blame him. "Master Starwind—I beg you—this is only a boy—"
"He destroyed a queen colddrake, alone and
unaided," Moondance said quietly, pushing Vanyel forward and putting one
hand on Vanyel's shoulder. "It is in my mind that he could deal with more
than you would reckon."
"He did?" This time the look Headman Gallen gave
him was a little less doubtful, but it was still not overly confident.
"Gallen, I do not expect Vanyel to have to defend you
from this Krebain," Starwind said patiently. "He could never be a
match for a blood-bound Adept, and I would not expect it of him. I expect him
to have to deal with some of this renegade's creatures at worst. My thought is
that the three of us shall find Krebain and deal with him—and that when his
control over his slaves is gone, some of them may think to attack here. I see
no reason why, among you, you folk and Vanyel could not defend yourselves
against such lesser dangers. Does that content you?"
It didn't—that was obvious. But it was all that Headman Gallen
was going to get, and he well knew it. Vanyel attempted to put himself into the
mindset of a warleader. He didn't feel particularly successful at it.
"Van, see what you can do about organizing these
folk," Savil said quietly. "You know most of those old ballads by
heart, and there's lots of good advice in them; that's why we make you learn
them. I don't want you to try anything more than a token defense if something
does come at you that you can't handle. Just call Yfandes for help and delay
things as long as you can. For the rest—the creatures they've described are
strong, but not particularly bright. Barricades across the road and fire should
keep most of them at bay. You took that queen colddrake; remember that. You can
take just about anything else except this Krebain himself so long as it isn't a
small army."
Vanyel gulped, and tried to look competent and brave. This is what it all comes down to,
doesn't it? This is what I have to do; I have to, like 'Lendel said. Because these people need me. "Yes, Aunt," he said
carefully. "Barricades and fire."
Savil looked worried and preoccupied. "Do your best,
lad. Remember that 'voice' I used to stop you and 'Lendel fighting? It makes
people listen; goes right to their guts. Imitate that if you can." She
mounted Kellan from the porch; Starwind took Yfandes' saddle, but Moon-dance
hesitated a moment before taking the pillion behind him.
"Vanyel, ke'chara, remember what I told
you about the nodes. Use them. There are—"
he paused, and his eyes unfocused for a moment. "There are three that I
can sense that you should be able to use. I wish you could reach the
valley-node as we can, but I think it is beyond your strength for now. None of
the three nearby are as strong as the valley-node, but taken together they
should serve." He took Vanyel's face between his hands and kissed him on
the forehead. "Gods be with you, youngling. With fortune, this will be no
more than an interesting exercise for you."
He mounted behind Starwind, and the crowd of villagers
parted to let them through. Vanyel watched them vanish into the darkness with a
heavy heart.
It wasn't that they were stupid; it was that they were so
completely without hope. They couldn't see any chance of holding off anything, and so they had abandoned
any thought of being able to do so. After all, their best efforts hadn't done anything but get
folks killed. Vanyel, who was counting on them to be as much protection for him as he would be for them,
was nearly frantic. It took hours before he was finally able to get them going
under their own power.
Then there was the matter of defense.
When dawn came and he asked for their weaponry, he got as
ill-used and motley an assortment of near-junk as he'd ever seen, and there
wasn't a one of them who knew how to use any of it. These were farmers born and
farmers bred; most of them off lands held of lords or mage-lords who were bound
to protect them. The k'Treva had
bartered protection for made-stuffs and foodstuffs, and they had never thought
they'd need to raise a blade in their own defense.
So Vanyel was faced with the task of showing rank amateurs
the way of the sword. Forget teaching them
point-work; forget the finer points of
defense. In the end he padded them to the eyebrows and set them to bashing at
each other. Teach them to hold something long and poke with it, or hold
something heavy and smash with it—and if it was something with an edge, hope
that the edge, rather than the flat, connected.
By the second day of this he was tired to the bone, half-mad
with frustration, and frantic with the fear he dared not show. So when Veth,
Gallen's half-grown son, came at him wide open for the hundredth time, he lost
his temper completely and hit him with a full force blow he had not consciously
intended to deliver. And tried to pull it too late to do any good.
He knocked the boy halfway across the square.
Veth landed sprawled on his back—and didn't move—
And Vanyel's heart stopped—
And in his mind he saw—Jervis—standing over him—
Oh, gods!
Vanyel's sword went flying; his helm followed it as he ran
to kneel at Veth's side in the cold dust of the square.
Oh, gods—oh,
gods—I've done to him what Jervis did to me. Oh, please, gods, please don't let
me have hurt him—
He unlaced the boy's helm and pulled it off; about then Veth
blinked up at him and started to sit up of himself, and Vanyel nearly cried
with relief.
"Veth—please, Veth, I'm sorry, I—I lost my temper—I
didn't mean it—"
The boy looked at him with bewilderment. "Eh, Master
Van, I be all right. I been kicked by our old mule worse nor this—just let me
get a bit of a drink, eh?"
Vanyel sagged back on his heels, shutting his eyes against
the harsh sunlight, limp with relief. The boy got gingerly to his feet.
Oh, gods. I—I'm as bad as Jervis. I'm worse than Jervis; I
know better. Oh, gods—
"Vanyel, young sir—"
He looked up; it was Reva, Veth's mother, her tired face
anxious. He winced, and waited for her to give him the tongue-lashing he
deserved.
It didn't come. "If you'll forgive me for being an
interfering old hen," she said, with a little quirk of her mouth, "I
think you've about worn yourself into uselessness, young sir. I know you
haven't eaten since last night. Now here—"
She offered him her hand; astounded, he took it, and to his
utter befuddlement she hauled him to his feet. "Now," she put one arm
around his shoulders, the other about Veth's, "I think it's time you both
got a bit of food in you. The time it takes to eat won't make Veth a better
fighter, nor you a better teacher." She hugged them both, as if they were
both her sons, then released them.
The words he had thrown into Withen's face—was it only a
year ago?—came back to shame him further.
"Let every man that must go to battle fight within his
talents, and not be forced to any one school."
I've been treating them exactly the way Jervis treated me.
Forcing them to use things they don't know, to go outside of their talents. I
am a complete and incompetent fool.
Vanyel blushed. And stammered. "I—I'm no kind of a
teacher, Mistress Reva, or I'd not have chosen what I did to teach." He
raised his voice so the rest of those practicing in the square could hear him.
"This is getting us nowhere. It's like you trying to teach me to—to plow
and spin, for a Midsummer contest a week away. We haven't the time, and I'm a
fool. Now, please, what are your real weapons? Any of you
know the use of bow? Or sling? Boar-spear, maybe?"
It was not his imagination; there were looks of real relief
all across the square—and the beginnings of smiles.
But in the end, all his preparations were in vain.
The only thing that saved him from unconsciousness this time
was that he was completely under shield. He found himself gasping for breath,
and completely disoriented for a moment. His eyes had flashing lights in front
of them, and he shook his head to try and clear it. That was a mistake; his head reacted poorly to
the abrupt movement.
He could hardly think, much less see. Gods—what in—
"What do we have here?"
The clear, musical tenor voice sounded amused—and Vanyel
froze. The voice carried clearly; the petrified silence in the square was as
deep as the Nine Pits.
He looked up when his eyes cleared, and found that all he could
see were the backs of people. The members of his erstwhile war-council were
standing huddled together as if to keep him hidden in the shadows behind them.
Vanyel got hold of the splintery side of the storehouse and pulled himself
cautiously to his feet, ducking his head behind Gallen's and standing on tiptoe
to peek over the shoulders of the men in front of him. His gut went cold when
he saw the flamboyantly dressed stranger in the middle of the cleared square.
This could only be the wizard Krebain.
The torches falling from the hands of the stunned villagers
were unneeded; the wizard had brought his own mage-light with him. It hung over
his head, a tiny green-yellow sun. People were slowly backing away until they
ran into the walls and the barricades, leaving the stranger standing in
arrogant isolation in the exact center of the dusty square.
The wizard was a gaudy sight; he wore scarlet and gold;
skin-tight breeches, close-cut gold-embroidered velvet tunic, scarlet cloak
with cloth-of-gold lining. Even his boots and velvet gloves were scarlet. He
had a scarlet helm that was more than half mask, ornamented with a preposterous
crest of a rampant dragon in gold. With one hand on his hip, he tapped at his
chin with a gloved finger as he turned to survey the people surrounding the
square.
"A rebellion—I do believe this is a rebellion! How droll!" He laughed; it had a
nasty sound to it.
He was graceful, slim, and very tall. White-blond hair
tumbled from beneath the helm in wavy, shining cascades. What could be seen of
his face was like elegantly sculptured marble. Vanyel found himself caught by
the wizard's sheer charismatic beauty. None of the villagers had said anything
about that.
Vanyel felt almost sick. Evil such as had been described to
him shouldn't be—beautiful!
But then he thought, Artificial—that really is what he is. He's changed himself,
I'm sure of it, like—painting
his face, only more so. If I had a lot of power and didn't care how I used it,
I suppose I'd make myself beautiful, too.
"I wonder what could have roused you worms to think to
stand against me?" Krebain mused aloud. "None of you had half an
ounce of courage before this. But then—none of you smelled of the mage-born
before this, either, other than that foolish old witch of yours over there."
He smiled slyly. "I think I detect a stranger among you—hmm? Now where
have you hidden him?"
Ice crawled up Vanyel's spine. All they have to do is point a finger at
me—and even if they don't, if I call Yfandes
for help, he'll know where I am. Oh, gods, can I hide? I can't challenge him!
They can't expect it of me—I'm no match for him!
But to his surprise, not a single one of those remaining in
the square answered the wizard's question. In fact, the men standing in front
of Vanyel moved closer together, as if to shield him from the wizard's chance
sight.
The wizard's voice sharpened with impatience. "I grow
weary, curs. Where is the stranger I sensed?"
Silence.
Except for the herb-witch, who whispered back at Vanyel,
with the merest breath—"Stay quiet, boy. You're no fit opponent for him,
and we know it. Won't do any of us any good for you to get caught, and he just
may take us apart for spite even if he gets you. Maybe if he gets bored, he'll
go away."
"I said, I want to know where the
stranger is." The wizard looked about him, both hands on his hips now, and
anger in his pose. "Very well. I see it's time you learned another
lesson." He turned slightly, so that he was staring right at the group
clustered in front of Vanyel, and raised his left hand. "You—Gallen."
He made a little summoning motion. "Come here…"
Gallen made a staggering step, then another. He was fighting
the wizard with his will, but losing. Sweat popped out all over his brow, and
he made a whimpering noise in the back of his throat.
Behind him, the group closed ranks, still shielding Vanyel
from view. Before him, the wizard grinned sadistically. "You really
haven't a hope of fighting me, you know," he said pleasantly. "It's
like a babe challenging an armed warrior. Come along, there's a good dog."
Gallen ran the last few steps, coming to a trembling halt at
the wizard's side. Krebain strolled around him, looking him over carefully. The
mage-light followed in faithful attendance above his head. "Let's see—I
believe you have a wife." He swept his gaze over the rest of the
villagers. "Yes, indeed—and there she is. Reva—my goodness. A would-be
sword-lady, are you? Come here, my dear."
He crooked his finger, and dusky Reva stumbled out of the
group at the barricade on the west road, still clutching her improvised pike of
a knife strapped to the end of a staff. Her face was strained, white—and a mask
of despair.
Krebain shook his head. "Really, my dear, you have no
use for a weapon like that. Take it from her, Gallen."
Gallen did not move; sweat poured down his face, glistening
in the mage-light.
"I said, take it." Krebain's voice
sharpened with command, and Gallen's gnarled hands slowly reached forward to
take the pike from his wife.
"Now—just rest the point of that wicked little knife on
her stomach, why don't you." Gallen his face reflecting his agony, lowered
the pike until the point of the blade touched his wife's stomach. He whimpered
again as Krebain's will made him brace it. Krebain's smile grew broader.
"Of course, Reva, it would be very painful if you were to walk forward
just now—"
Vanyel couldn't bear it. He gathered what little there was
of his courage, and shouted, his voice breaking.
"Stop it!"
He pushed his protectors aside and walked out from behind
them to stand in the open, a pace or two in front of them.
And in the moment when Krebain turned to face him, licking
his lips, he Mindcalled with all his strength—
:Yfandes! The mage—he's
here! 'Fandes—:
"That's enough, child."
Vanyel felt a barrier close down around the village, a
barrier that allowed no thought to escape, and no further call for help.
He raised his chin with the same bleak defiance that had
served him against his father.
"Let them alone, wizard," he said, his voice
trembling despite his efforts to keep it steady. He could feel sweat trickling
coldly down the back of his neck and his mouth was dry and sour with fear.
"I'm the one you wanted."
Krebain made a dismissing gesture, and Reva and Gallen
staggered as his hold over them was released. Gallen threw down the pike and
seized her shoulders, and together they melted into the crowd at Krebain's back.
"Come where I can see you," the wizard said,
mildly.
Vanyel walked, with slow and hesitant steps, into the area
where the mage-light was striking.
"What a pleasant surprise—"
Unless Krebain was feigning it—which was possible—he was surprised.
And—pleased.
If Vanyel could keep him in that mood, maybe he could keep
them all safe a little longer. He began to feel a tiny stirring of hope.
"What a truly pleasant surprise. My would-be enemy is a
beautiful young man. What is
your name, lovely one?"
Vanyel saw no reason not to answer him. If nothing else—if
Yfandes had heard him, he'd be buying time for help to arrive. He allowed
himself a moment to hope a little more, then replied, "Vanyel Ashkevron."
"Vanyel—I do not believe this—Vanyel
Ashkevron?" The wizard laughed, throwing back his head. "What a joke!
What a magnificent jest! I come a-hunting you,
and you walk unarmed into my
very hand!"
Vanyel shook his head, bewildered.
The wizard grinned. "Dear, lovely boy. You have
enemies, you know, enemies with no appreciation of beauty and a great deal of
coin to spend. Wester Leshara holds you to blame for the death of his cousin
Evan, didn't you know that? He sent me an additional commission to deal with
you as I had with young Staven Frelennye. I had thought to attend
to my own pursuits a while here, then deal with you at my leisure, allowing
matters to cool first. But—now I don't know that I am going to oblige him by
killing you. Not when you turn out to be so very beautiful. Come closer, would
you?"
Vanyel felt no magical coercion, which rather surprised him. "If you don't mind," he said
carefully, "I'd really rather not."
This time Krebain's smile held a hint of real humor.
"Then I shall have to come to you, beautiful Vanyel."
He paced gracefully across the pounded dirt of the village
square, taking each step as though he walked on a carpet of petals strewn
especially for his benefit. The mage-light continued to follow him faithfully.
He strolled around Vanyel as he had walked around Gallen, but his expression
this time was less cruelly cheerful and more acquisitive. His path was an
inward-turning spiral, with Vanyel as the center, so that he completed his
circuit facing Vanyel and less than a handspan away. He reached out with one
crimson-gloved hand, ignoring the presence of everyone in the square as if he
and Vanyel were alone together, and laid it along Vanyel's cheek. Vanyel looked
steadily into his blue-black eyes within the shadowed eyeholes of the helm-mask
and did not flinch away. Those eyes were the first indication he had seen that
the wizard was something other than human. Those dark and frightening eyes were
slitted like a cat's—and under the velvet of the glove, Vanyel could feel
something very sharp and talonlike resting on his cheek.
"My goodness," Krebain breathed, "Silver
eyes. Rare and beautiful, Vanyel Ashkevron. How wonderful, and how strange,
that you should be here, at this moment. And I wonder, now—given what I know of
Tylendel Frelennye—were you only the friend of Tylendel, or were
you something more than friend?"
Still ignoring everyone else, he leaned forward and kissed
Vanyel passionately and deeply.
Vanyel trembled with an unexpected reaction comprised of
both revulsion and desire.
Half of him wanted to pull away and strike at this creature
who could casually force a man to stab his own wife, who could regard the
villagers about them so lightly as to totally ignore them at this moment.
The other half of him wanted to melt into the wizard's arms.
He fought the temptation to yield. This—dammit, it's nothing but sex, that's
all it is. I know what real
love feels like—and
this—isn't—close.
He closed his eyes, as his knees went to water.
A dream-flash—
"Surrender to me, Herald-Mage Vanyel," Leareth
said. "Take my darkness to you."
Had that dream been, not Foresight, but a warning?
He fought to think clearly, battling silently, but daring to
give no outward sign of his struggle. It was at that moment that he realized
that whatever other powers this wizard had, he did not share Vanyel's Mind-Gifts.
Like—Thought-sensing, for instance. The shield over the village was spellcast,
not mindcast. Which meant that Vanyel should be able to read the wizard,
without Krebain knowing he was being read.
Krebain finally brought an end to the kiss, pulling away
slowly and reluctantly, taking his hand from Vanyel's cheek with a tender
caress of his velvet-clad fingers.
"Oh," he whispered, his eyes half-shut, the slits
in them narrowed to near-invisibility. "Oh, beautiful and rare, lovely Vanyel. Come with me. Come with me, be my
love. I can teach you more than you have ever dreamed. I could carve you a
kingdom, give you power, pleasure—anything you desired. Name it, and it would
be yours."
The temptation was incredible. And the thought—I could
guide him. I could bring him to compassion. He doesn't have to be this way. I could make him into
something better. Couldn't I? Even if I don't love him—wouldn't that be worthwhile? Wouldn't
that be a worthy goal? And I don't love him—but
I could care for him, I think. There's a mutual need—isn't that enough?
His heart raced. I have to know—what is Krebain truly made of? If there's
something there to work with—something
I can influence—
Krebain smiled. "I could even," he whispered,
"grant you the finest revenge upon Wester Leshara the world has ever
witnessed. A revenge so complete that it would even satisfy Tylendel's lover."
The wizard's mind was open to Vanyel's at that crucial
instant; completely open and unguarded.
Vanyel saw how Krebain had gotten his
power; how—and from what—he had learned it. And the uses he had put it to. And
how he had enjoyed what he had done.
There was nothing there that was human or humane.
Gods! Never—never
would I give myself to that!
Utter revulsion killed all trace of desire—and now Vanyel flinched away, his nausea plain
for anyone to read.
Krebain stepped back an involuntary pace, his face flushed.
He frowned with anger, and his expression hardened. "I will have you,
Vanyel Ashkevron—with or without a mind."
Vanyel had that much warning to get a shield up; had that
much warning to scream "Run—"
at the villagers.
At least, he thought he screamed that
warning at them. They certainly scattered as quickly as if he had, scrambling
up and over the barricades that they had built to keep the menace out, leaving
him alone with the wizard.
Who called the lightnings down on him.
Vanyel's body screamed with pain, despite the shielding; his
hair stood on end, and fire ran along his nerves. He went to his knees beneath
the onslaught; reinforced his shielding and felt it weakening—and then
remembered what Moondance had said about the power-nodes.
He reached, desperately; found them, tapped into them, and
felt their power flowing into him, giving him a heady surge of strength,
driving out the pain and renewing the will to fight this monster in human guise.
He staggered to his feet, backed up a pace, and deflected
Krebain's own lightnings back into his face.
The fires arced across the square and the wizard retreated,
getting his own shields up just in time. Vanyel did not give him a chance to
recover from his surprise, but launched an attack of his own; not lightnings
this time, but a vise of power, a glowing shroud that he closed around the
wizard and began tightening.
But Krebain broke it after a moment's struggle, and
countered with a circle of flame that roared up about him and began eating its
way inward. Vanyel could smell his boot-soles scorching, and his skin tightened
and hurt.
Vanyel in his turn, sweating with the heat, and his fear and
effort, called upon the dust of the square to rise and snuff the flames.
This time Krebain gave him no chance to invoke a
counterattack, but summoned a mage-storm like the one in Vanyel's dream. It
howled down out of the night sky and surrounded him in a cloud of wind and
energy, crackling with it, screaming with it.
And like the one in Vanyel's dream, this one ate away at his
shields as fast as he could bring them up.
The whirlwind howled and raged, obscuring sight—he couldn't
see—couldn't see anything anymore, just the flickering storm of power shrieking
around him, coming closer by the moment.
One by one the nodes went drained and dead; now there was
only his own strength left.
He went to his knees, holding the last of his shields up
with little more than desperation left to sustain him—
—and a final hammer-blow blew the storm away and smashed him to the earth.
Vanyel lay stunned in the sudden silence of the square,
broken and bleeding.
He was sprawled half on his back, and the silence howled in
his ears as the storm had. The square was deserted now, but for the silent
scarlet figure of the wizard.
Vanyel was utterly spent, and everything hurt so much he
could hardly think. He coughed, and tasted blood, and when he tried to breathe,
he felt stabbing pains in his chest and back.
He was oddly conscious of little things, of a pebble digging
into his cheek, of his ankle bending the wrong way, of a strand of hair
tickling his nose, of blood running into his eyes—of a single flake of snow
spiraling down into the mage-light.
His vision began to darken as Krebain strode toward him from
across the square; he seemed to be seeing things through a shadowy mist.
The wizard stood over him.
And strangely, he felt like laughing. Gods. All that being afraid of that
dream, for nothing. He saw the wizard's expression, and sobered. So. This is what it comes to. This is how
it ends. At least—he looks a little tired. At least I put up some kind of a
fight.
He thought he heard someone, something, whimper. Please, gods—let those people have gotten away. Don't
let this have been for nothing. Let the others come in time to save them.
"I told you, Vanyel Ashkevron, that I would have you
with or without a mind," Krebain said softly. "But I would rather you
were mine wholly, and of your own will. You see? I can be merciful. I can be
kind to those I love. I give you another chance, beautiful Vanyel. Surrender to
me, and I will heal your hurts, and give you all that I promised you. Will you
come with me now?"
No. Not ever. Not at the cost of my life. He looked up at those
inhuman, chillingly cold eyes. And
it
will be at the cost of
my life. But—gods—I can't let it cost more lives than my own!
He reached, as far as he could, hoping for a tiny bit of
energy left in the power-nodes—hoping to find another node, undrained—
—and touched the valley-node instead.
Gods—it
isn't possible!
For a moment he thought he saw a way out, not only for the
villagers, but for himself. But when he assessed his own capabilities, he saw
that to use the raw, elemental force of the vale would surely kill him. He no longer had the
strength to control it. The effect would be like what he had done to himself in
practice with Starwind—only a hundred times worse.
He could die painlessly, letting the wizard destroy his mind
and soul—or he could die in agony, saving the people of Covia.
I was willing to die before, for
'Lendel—why would I be afraid of pain and dying now? he thought, with a
catch in his throat. I surely owe a price for not stopping
'Lendel. All right. Gods, let this be my expiation. Give me this last strength
to stop him.
"No," he breathed. "Never."
The wizard's face twisted with anger, and he stepped back to
deliver the final blow. Vanyel closed his eyes and reached—
In this last moment, peace came to him. A strange and heart-tight
inner stillness, born of total acceptance that what he was about to do would
kill him without Moondance near to heal what he would do to himself. With a
feeling oddly like the lifting of his heart, he opened himself to the
valley-node—and focused—
And the raw power poured through him and blasted from his
eyes.
He screamed in agony, but his own cry was lost in the shriek
Krebain made as the bolt of power caught him unshielded, in the face.
Then Vanyel fell, into true peace, and darkness.
"Oh, 'Lendel, wherever you are, I'm coming. Please,
please be there—
A faint sound from the fern-canopied bed beside her made
Savil set down her pen and paper beside her chair, unwrap herself from her
cloak, rise, and draw the silky hangings aside.
Vanyel—bandaged, splinted and bruised, and looking very pale
against the dark green of Moondance's bedding—moved his head again on the
pillow, and opened dazed eyes.
Savil swallowed hard; he looked so battered, so bewildered.
Oh, my little love, we so nearly lost you this time—so
close, so close. I half expect you to ask me to let you stay here, sheltered
and safe. And the gods know, you've earned it.
He blinked, as if he didn't quite believe what he saw.
"Aunt—Savil?" he said faintly. "Are you—real?"
She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and touched his
cheek, giving him a faint smile. "That real enough for you?"
He nodded, and blinked again. "The people—the
villagers—Gallen and Reva—are they all right?"
"They're fine, ke'chara," she replied, her heart filling with pride and love at the
question. His first
thought—for others. There's no doubt; Starwind was right. There is no doubt of
him.
"We
got there just in time for Moondance to keep you from getting away from us.
Gods—it's a good thing that bastard wasn't still alive. I don't think I've ever
seen him so angry in my life, and Yfandes was white-hot with rage. There wasn't
much left for us to do. Basically all I did was make a Gate to
get us all back to k'Treva so Moondance could put you back together again."
"Then everyone's all right?" he asked insistently,
as if he didn't quite dare to believe her. "Are they protected now? Are
you and Starwind and Moondance all right, too? That wizard—he was the one Leshara hired—he told me so.
He told me—"
"Later," she soothed. "Tell me all that
later. We're all fine. K'Treva sent out some of the Journeyman Tayledras to help get Covia back
on its collective feet and give the region a little more in the way of
protections. You're the only one who
sustained any damage, love." She glanced up at the skylight to gauge the
time. "I expect Moondance will be along any moment to give you another
Healing."
He sighed, and made a tiny choking sound. She looked down,
and saw to her confusion that he was crying.
"Vanyel," she asked, bewildered by the tears, and
the strange, lost look in his eyes, "Van, what's wrong?"
"I—" he choked hopelessly. "I—after
'Lendel—they won't want me. The Heralds—they won't want me—"
"Oh, Van—" She closed her eyes against a surge of
tears of her own, but these were born of joy. Child—oh, child, you rise above my
expectations. That was the very last thing I ever thought I'd hear from your
lips right now. "Van—ke'chara—the Heralds will want you. How can they not want you? You are a Herald already."
"I—am? I am?" He stared at her, bewildered,
clearly unable to believe her.
She reached over to the chair and pulled her white cloak
from it, draping it carefully over him. He clutched it, his eyes wide, his face
reflecting all of his changing emotions, as he moved from hopelessness through
surprise, to a joy that equaled her own.
"—there. There's your Whites to prove it. You have a
bit more to learn; we'll be staying here for a few moons yet while Starwind
teaches you—but Vanyel, what makes a Herald is the heart. A caring heart, that cares for others
before itself. And you are a
Herald."
He smiled then, a smile so sweet and so happy that it stopped her breath, and closed
his eyes in absolute contentment, falling asleep with one hand still clutching
the cloak to him.
—yes, Withen. You would
be very proud. I know I am.