The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Read online

  “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—

  • • •

  Dear Withen; I think you would be very proud of your son today—

  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.

  MAGIC’S

  PROMISE

  Dedicated to:

  Elizabeth (Betsy) Wollheim

  Who said—“Go for it”

  CHAPTER 1

  THE BLUE LEATHER SADDLEBAGS and a canvas pack, all bulging with filthy clothing and miscellaneous gear, landed in the corner of Vanyel’s room with three dull thuds. The lute, still in its padded leather case, slithered over the back of one of the two overstuffed chairs and landed with a softer pumph, to rest in the cradle of the worn red seat cushion. Once safely there it sagged, leaning over sideways like a fat, drunken child. The dark leather lute case glowed dully in the mid-morning sun still coming in the single eastward-facing window. Two years of mistreatment had not marred the finish too much, although the case was scuffed here and there, and had been torn and re-mended with tiny, careful stitches along the belly.

  Vanyel grimaced at the all-too-visible tear. Torn? No; no tear would be that even. Say cut, or slashed and it would be nearer the truth. Pray nobody else notices that.

  Better the lute case than me . . . that came closer than I really want to think about. I hope Savil never gets a good look at it. She’d know what that meant, and she’d have a cat.

  Herald-Mage Vanyel took the other chair gracelessly, dropping all his weight at once into the embrace of comfortable upholstered arms.

  Home at last. Havens, I sound like the pack hitting the corner.

  “O-o-oh.” Vanyel leaned back, feeling every muscle in his body crying out with long-ignored aches and strains. His thoughts fumbled their way into his conscious mind through a fog of utter exhaustion. He wanted, more than anything, to close his gritty eyes. But he didn’t dare, because the moment he did, he’d fall asleep.

  Someday I’m going to remember I’m not sixteen anymore, and keep in mind that I can’t stay up till all hours, then rise with the dawn, and not pay for it.

  A few moments ago his Companion Yfandes had fallen asleep, standing up in the stable, while he was grooming her. They’d started out on this last leg of their journey long before dawn this morning, and had pushed their limits, eating up the last dregs of their strength just to get to the sanctuary of “home” the sooner.

  Gods. If only I would never have to see the Karsite Border again.

  No chance of that. Lord and Lady, if you love me, just give me enough time to get my wind back. That’s all I ask. Time enough to feel like a human again, and not a killing machine.

  The room smelled strongly of soap and the beeswax used to polish the furniture and wall paneling. He stretched, lis
tening to his joints crack, then blinked at his surroundings.

  Peculiar. Why doesn’t this feel like home? He pondered for a moment, for it seemed to him that his modest, goldenoak-paneled quarters had the anonymous, overly-neat look of a room without a current occupant. I suppose that’s only logical, he thought reluctantly. They haven’t been occupied, much. I’ve been living out of my packs for the last year, and before that I was only here for a couple of weeks at a time at most. Gods.

  It was a comfortable, warm—and quite average—room. Like any one of a dozen he’d tenanted lately, when he’d had the luxury of a guest room in some keep or other. Sparsely furnished with two chairs, a table, a desk and stool, a wardrobe, and a curtained, canopied bed in the corner. That bed was enormous—his one real indulgence: he tended to toss restlessly when—and if—he slept.

  He smiled wryly, thinking how more than one person had assumed he’d wanted that particular bed for another reason entirely. They’d never believe it if I told them Savil gets more erotic exercise than I do. Oh, well. Maybe it’s a good thing I don’t have a lover; he’d wake up black and blue. Always assuming I didn’t strangle him by accident during a nightmare.

  But other than that bed, the room was rather plain. Only one window, and that one without much of a view. It certainly wasn’t the suite he could have commanded—

  But what good is a suite when I hardly see Haven, much less my own room?