The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Read online

  Vanyel chuckled. Whoever Withen had roped into being his scribe on this letter had reproduced his father’s tones perfectly. He could feel the indignation rising from the page.

  And as for that so-called “Shin’a’in warsteed” he bought—and a more ill-tempered, ill-favored beast I never saw—the less said, the better! All these years I spent in building up the Forst Reach line—and he’ll undo it all with one unmanageable stud! I feel sure he’ll listen to you; you’re a Herald—the King himself trusts your judgment. The boy has me ready to throw him down the blamed well!

  Vanyel shifted a little and reached for a wedge of cheese. This letter was proving to be a lot more enlightening than he’d had any reason to expect.

  This is no time for Meke to be mucking about; not when there may be trouble across the Border. Maybe you remember that alliance marriage between Deveran Remoerdis of Lineas and Ylyna Mavelan of Baires? The one that brought a halt to the Linean-Baires war, and that brought that minstrel through here that you were so taken with as a boy? It doesn’t seem to be working out. There’ve been rumors for years that the oldest child was a bastard—now Deveran seems to have given substance to those rumors; he’s disinherited the boy in favor of the next in line. In some ways I can’t blame him too much; even if the lad didn’t look so much like his uncle—I’ve seen both the boy and the man, and the resemblance is uncanny—the rumors alone would have been enough to make his inheritance shaky. I wouldn’t trust that entire Mavelan family, frankly. A pack of wizardly snakes, the lot of them, the only time they stop striking at each other is when they take on an outsider. I only thank the gods that they’ve stayed at each other’s throats all this time. But there’ve been some nasty noises out of them about Tashir’s disinheritance and if it gets to be more than noises, we may have trouble across the Border. Your brother is all fired up for a war, by the way. Gods, that is the last thing we need. I just thank the Lady that Randale had the good sense to send a plain Herald into Lineas as envoy, and not a Herald-Mage. A good solid Herald might be able to keep this from growing into another feud like the one the marriage was supposed to stop in the first place. The Lineans will certainly be far more inclined to listen to a plain Herald; they don’t trust anything that smacks of wizardry, and given what the Mavelans did to them, who can blame them?

  Vanyel bit his lip, the half-eaten scrap of cheese dangling forgotten from his fingers. Withen was showing a great deal more political astuteness than he’d ever given his father credit for. But this business in Lineas—

  Please, he sent up a silent prayer. Not now—

  It’s evidently worrisome enough that Randale sent your sister Lissa and her Guard Company to keep a cross-Border eye on the Mavelans. You’d know what that would mean better than your old father, I think. If we’re lucky and things stay calm, perhaps she can slip off for a few days’ visit herself. I know you’d both like that. By the way—I hope you aren’t planning on bringing any of your—friends—home with you, are you? You know it would upset your mother. You wouldn’t want to upset your mother. By the hand of Radevel Ashkevron and my seal, Lord Withen Ashkevron.

  Vanyel grimaced, dropped the letter back down on the table, and reached for the wine to take the bitter taste of those last words out of his mouth. He held the cool metal of the goblet to his forehead for a moment, an automatic reaction to a pain more emotional than physical.

  :He doesn’t mean to hurt, Chosen.: Yfandes’ mind-voice touched the bitterness, but could not soothe it.

  :Awake again, dearling? You should sleep—:

  :Too much noise,: she objected. :Equitation lessons, and I’m too tired to find a quiet corner of the Field. I’ll just stand here by the stable and let the sun bake my sore muscles and wait for the babies to go away. Your father truly does not mean to hurt you.:

  Vanyel sighed, and picked up a meat pie, nibbling the flaky crust listlessly. :I know that. It doesn’t stop it from hurting. If I weren’t so tired, it probably wouldn’t hurt as much. If I weren’t so tired, it might even be funny.: He swallowed another gulp of wine, painfully aware that even the simple act of chewing was becoming an effort. He put the pie down.

  :You have nothing left,: she stated. :No reserves at all.:

  :That’s ridiculous, love. It’s just that last push we made. And if I haven’t anything left, then neither have you—:

  :Not true. I may be spent physically, but you are spent emotionally, magically, mentally. Chosen, beloved, you have not spared yourself since Elspeth Peacemaker died.:

  :That’s because nobody had a choice,: he reminded her, reaching for a piece of cheese, but holding it up and staring at it, not eating it, seeing other times and places. :Everybody else has been pushed just as hard. The moment poor Randale took the throne that fragile peace she had made for us fell to pieces. We had no warning it was going to come to that. Mardic and Donni—:

  The cold hand of grief choked his throat. The lifebonded couple who had been such steadfast friends and supporters to him had been two of the first victims of the Karsite attacks. He could feel the echo of his grief in the mourning of Yfandes’ mind-voice.

  :Poor children. Goddess hold them—:

  :’Fandes—at least they died together. I—could wish—: he cut off the thought before he could distress her. He contemplated the white wedge of cheese in his hand as if he had never seen anything like it, and then blinked, and began nibbling at it, trying to force the food around the knot of sorrow blocking his throat. He had to eat. He’d been surviving on handfuls of parched corn, dried fruit, and dried beef for too long. He had to get his strength back. It wouldn’t be long before Randale would need him again. Well, all he really needed was a couple of weeks of steady meals and sleep. . . .

  :You ask too much of yourself.:

  :Who, me? Strange thoughts from a Companion. Who was it who used to keep nagging me about duty?: He tried to put a measure of humorous teasing into his own mind-voice, but it felt flat.

  :But you cannot be twenty places at once, Chosen. You are no longer thinking clearly.:

  The cheese had finally migrated inside him, and most of the lump in his throat was gone. He sighed and reached for the meat pie again. With enough wine to help, he might be able to get that down, too.

  The trouble was, ’Fandes was right. For the past few months he’d been reduced to a level where he really wasn’t thinking much at all—just concentrating on each step as it came, and trying to survive it. It had been like climbing a mountain at the end of a long and grueling race; just worrying about one handhold at a time. Not thinking about the possibility of falling, and not able to think about what he’d do when he got to the top. If he got to the top. If there was a top.

  Stupid, Herald. Looking at the bark and never noticing the tree was about to fall on you.

  The sun coming in his window had crept down off the chair and onto the floor, making a bright square on the brown braided rug. He chewed and swallowed methodically, not really tasting what he was eating, and stared at the glowing square, his mind going blank and numb.

  :Randale uses you beyond your strength, because of the nodes,: Yfandes said accusingly, breaking into his near-trance. :You should say something. He’d stop if he realized what he was doing to you. If you were like other Heralds, unable to tap them—:

  :If I were like other Heralds, the Karsites would be halfway to Haven now, instead of only holding the disputed lands,: he replied mildly. :Dearest, there is no choice. I lost my chance at choices a long time ago. Besides, I’m not as badly off as you think. All I need is a bit of rest and I’ll be fine. We’re damned lucky I can use the nodes—and that I don’t need to rest to recharge.:

  :Except that you must use your power to focus and control—:

  He shook his head. :Beloved, I appreciate what you’re telling me, but this isn’t getting us anywhere. I have to do what I’m doing; I’m a Herald. It’s what any of the others would do
in my place. It’s what ’Lendel—:

  Grief—he fought it, clenching his hand hard on the arm of his chair as he willed his emotions into control. Control yourself, Herald. This is just because you’re tired, it’s maudlin, and it doesn’t do you or anyone else any good.

  :I could wish you were less alone.:

  :Don’t encourage me in self-pity, love. It’s funny, isn’t it?: he replied, his lips twitching involuntarily, though not with amusement. :Dear Father seems to think I’ve been seducing every susceptible young man from here to the Border, and I’ve been damned near celibate. The last was—when?: The weeks, the months, they all seemed to blur together into one long endurance trial. A brief moment of companionship, then a parting; inevitable, given his duties and Jonne’s.

  :Three years ago,: Yfandes supplied, immediately. :That rather sweet Guardsman.:

  Vanyel remembered the person, though not the time.

  “Hello. You’re The Herald-Mage, aren’t you?”

  Vanyel looked up from the map he was studying, and smiled. He couldn’t help it—the diffident, shy smile the Guardsman wore begged to be answered.

  “Yes—are you—”

  “Guardsman Jonne. Your guide. I was born not half a league from here.” The guileless expression, the tanned face and thatch of hair, the tiny net of humor lines about the thoughtful hazel eyes, all conspired to make Vanyel like this man immediately.

  “Then you, friend Jonne, are the direct answer to my prayers,” he said.

  Only later, when they were alone, did he learn what other prayers the Guardsman had an answer for—

  :Jonne. Odd for such a tough fighter to be so diffident, even gentle. Though why he should have been shy, when he was five years older and had twice my—uh—experience—:

  :Your reputation, beloved. A living legend came down off his pedestal and looked to him for company.: Yfandes sent him an image of a marble saint-statue hopping out of its niche and wriggling its eyebrows in a come-hither look. There was enough of a tired giggle in her mind-voice to get an equally tired chuckle out of him. But he sobered again almost immediately. :And that lasted how long? Two months? Three? Certainly not more.:

  :You were busy—you had duties—both of you. It was your duties that parted you.:

  :I was,: he replied bitterly, :a fool. More than duties would have parted us in time. I know exactly what I’m trying to do—when I admit it to myself. I’m trying to replace ’Lendel. I can’t, I can’t ever, so why do I even bother to try? A love like that happens once in a lifetime, and I’m not doing myself or my would-be partners any favor by trying to recreate it. I know it, and once the first glow wears off, they know it. And it isn’t fair to them.:

  Silence from Yfandes. There really wasn’t much she could say. He was left to contemplate the inside of his own thoughts, as faint sounds of distant people and a bit of birdsong drifted in his window.

  Damn it, I’m feeling sorry for myself again. Heralds are all lonely; it isn’t just me. We’re different, made different by our Gifts, made even more so by the Companions, then driven even further away from ordinary people by this fanatic devotion to duty of ours. Herald-Mages are one step lonelier than that. He couldn’t help himself; the next thought came automatically, despite his resolution not to fall into a morass of self-pity. Then there’s me. Between the level of my Gift and my sexual preferences—

  He buried his face in his free hand. Gods. I am a fool. I have ’Fandes. She loves me in a way no one else ever will or ever did, except ’Lendel. That ought to be enough. It really ought—if I wasn’t so damned selfish.

  She interrupted his thoughts. :Van, you almost need a friend more than a lover. A different kind of friend than me; one that can touch you. You need to be touched, you humans—: Her mind-voice trailed off, grew dim, in the way that meant she was losing her battle to fatigue and had fallen asleep again.

  “You humans.” That phrase said it all. That was the telling difference, he realized suddenly. The telling lack. Yfandes was not human—and she never felt exactly the way a human would. There was always the touch of the “other” about her, and the strange feeling he got, sometimes, that she was hiding something, some secret that she could only share with another Companion. It was not a comfortable feeling. He was just as glad she wasn’t awake to pick it up from him.

  He dragged himself up out of the depths of his chair to rummage paper and a pen and inkpot out of his desk. He slouched back down into the cushions and chewed thoughtfully on the end of the pen, trying to compose something that wouldn’t set Withen off.

  To Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach from Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron.

  So far, so good.

  Dear Father: I’m sorry I’ve had to put off spending any length of time at home—but duty must always come before anything else, and my duty as a Herald is to the orders of my King.

  He licked his lips, wondering if that was a bit excessively priggish. Probably not. And I don’t think I’ll say anything about how visits of less than a day keep Mother from having vapors at me. He reached for the goblet again, and another swallow of wine, before continuing.

  As for Meke, I’ll do my best with him, Father. You must remember though, that although I am a Herald I am also his brother—he may be no more inclined to listen to me than he does to you. With regard to your news about Baires and Lineas—may the gods help us—I have seen far too much of conflict of late. I was praying for some peace, and now you tell me we may have a Situation on our very doorstep. Unless Randale asks me to intervene, there isn’t much I can do. Let us hope it doesn’t come to that. I promise I will try to put some sense into Meke’s head about that as well; perhaps when he has heard some of what I have seen, a war will no longer seem quite so attractive. Perhaps when he sees some of what war has done to me—no, Father, I was not badly hurt, but I picked up an injury or two that left scars. It may be that will impress him.

  He closed his eyes and carefully picked out the least loaded words he could think of for the next sentence. When he thought he had it, he concentrated on setting it carefully down on the paper so that there could be no mistake.

  With regard to my—friends; I promised you ten years ago that I would never indulge in anything that you did not approve of or that made you uncomfortable under your roof. Do you still find it so difficult to believe that I would keep my word?

  He nobly refrained from adding—“Odd, no one else seems to have that problem.” That would not serve any purpose, and would only make his father guilty, and then angry.

  I do have a request to make of you, and a reminder of a promise you made to me at the same time. You pledged to keep Mother from flinging young women at me—under other conditions I would not feel that I needed to remind you of this promise, but I truly cannot handle that particular situation this time, Father. I’m exhausted; you can’t know how exhausted. All I really want is some peace, some quiet time to rest and catch up with the family matters. Please do me this one small favor; I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Yours, Vanyel.

  He folded the letter and sealed it quickly, before he had a chance to add a postscript to that temptingly empty space at the bottom. All I want from you and Mother is to be left alone. I need that rest. Before I fall on my face.

  He picked up the second letter, and heaved a sigh of relief. Liss. Oh, bless you, big sister. My antidote to Father.

  To Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron from Guard-Captain Lissa Ashkevron: Dearest Van—if half of what I’ve been hearing about you is true, I’m tempted to abandon my command and kidnap you and hide you someplace until you’ve had some rest! Thank the gods somebody saw enough reason to give you a leave! And before you bleat to me about “duty,” just you remember that if you kill yourself with overwork you won’t be around to do that duty!

  Vanyel smiled, biting his lip to keep from chuckling. Good old Liss!

  I should tell you what�
��s going on out here, since you may be riding right into another hotbed of trouble. Deveran of Lineas has disinherited his eldest. The boy supposedly has mage-power, which, since his mother does not, is being read that he is probably a bastard. The Lineans in any case are not likely to allow anyone with Mage-Gifts to rule over them—but this Tashir is altogether too like his Uncle Vedric for comfort. And Vedric is protesting the tacit slur on his “good name”—not that he has one—and is being backed by the entire Mavelan Clan. I suppose it is a bit much to imply that your brother-in-law was fornicating with his own sister before your marriage to her. Havens bless—talk about soiled goods!

  At any rate, I suspect there’s far more to it than that; what, I don’t know, but the Mavelans seldom unite for anything and they’re uniting on this one. I much doubt it’s over concern for Vedric’s reputation or tender feelings for Tashir. My guess is there’s another attempt at acquiring Lineas in the offing—but since they’re both clients-by-alliance to Valdemar, the Mavelans can’t just begin flinging mage-fire over there. Randale would definitely take exception to that.

  So here we are, camped on the Border, and watching for one false note. What really worries me is that it’s Vedric who’s fronting this; they’re all snakes, but he’s a viper. The only reason he’s not Lord Mavelan is because his brother’s been very lucky—or smart enough to buy some really good spies and bodyguards. Vedric is definitely the most ambitious of the lot; my guess is he’s been promised Lineas if he can get it quietly. Through Tashir, perhaps.

  Vanyel found his eyebrows rising with every sentence. Lissa had come a long way from the naive swordswoman who had accepted that commission in the Guard. She was a lot more politically astute than Van would have dreamed—which gave him the second surprise of the day. First Father, then Liss—no bad thing, either. No one living in the days of King Randale could afford to be politically naive.