The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 25

  :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, pooling 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.:

  • • •

  “Gone?” Savil’s voice broke. “What the hell do you mean, gone?”

  “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 hind-quarters 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 thumb’s-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 ar
row 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, her 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’ll 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 thumblength by thumblength; 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 slackly 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.

  CHAPTER 10

  YEARS LATER—or so it seemed—Savil finally crawled into some clothing. She wanted, 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, sometime 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—�
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  “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?”