The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Read online

  I hope to steal away long enough to spend at least a little time with you, love, but don’t count on it. There’s nothing going on overtly, but the whole thing feels very touchy to me, like the moments before the storm hits. If I feel the situation has calmed down enough, I’ll come. Be well. Love, Liss.

  That was by far and away the easiest letter to answer he’d had in a long time. He scrawled a quick reply of affection, including the fact that he missed her badly, sealed the note, and laid it with the other.

  There were two or three other letters, all nothing more than invitations to various entertainments; hunting parties, mostly, at noble estates, parties meant to last a week or more. Despite the fact that he never attended these things—wouldn’t have even if he’d had the time—the invitations never stopped coming. He wrote brief, polite notes, and sat back again, staring at the packs in the corner. He knew he had to sort things out of his traveling kit for his trip home—and he just couldn’t muster the energy. It was so much easier just to sit and let all the kinks in his muscles respond to the soft—motionless!—chair.

  A rap at the door interrupted his lethargy; it was the page sent by Tantras, with the promised uniforms. And one more thing; a note—and Vanyel recognized Randale’s handwriting on the outside.

  Oh, gods—no, no! For a moment he tensed, fearing another call to duty on the eve of his promised chance to rest. Then he saw that it wasn’t sealed, not even by Randale’s personal seal.

  He relaxed. No seal meant it wasn’t official. He took it from the wide-eyed page and motioned to the youngster to stay for a reply.

  Vanyel; come by after Court and say good-bye—don’t come before then; if I’m not being official, I don’t have to find something for you to do. Or rather, I don’t have to assign you to one of the hundred messes that needs dealing with. I’m sorry you aren’t staying, but I understand, and if you weren’t planning on leaving, I’d probably tie you to Yfandes and drive you off before I work you to death. But do come by; Jisa wants to see her “Uncle Van” before he vanishes again. Randale.

  :If you don’t make the time to see her, I’ll bite you when you try to saddle me.:

  Vanyel had to smother a laugh. :Woke up again, did you? Why is it anything about Jisa snags your attention like nothing else does?:

  :Because she’s adorable—as most six-year-old humans are not. Besides, she’s your daughter.:

  :I’m just grateful she doesn’t look anything like me,: he replied, sobering. :If she’d gotten these silver eyes of mine, for instance—or black hair when both Randale and Shavri are light brown. Don’t you dare let that slip to anyone!:

  :Not even another Companion,: she reassured him. :I’m not sure I understand what the problem could be, though. Shavri won’t let Randale marry her, so should it matter who Jisa’s father is?:

  :It would disturb some folk, because they’re lifebonded. Besides, we don’t want anyone to know that Randale’s sterile. If he has to make an alliance marriage—that could ruin it. And there are damn few people even inside the Heralds who would understand someone wanting a child badly enough to go to bed with someone other than her lifebonded.:

  Yfandes’ mind-voice was hesitant. :Truth, Chosen—it seems to bother you.:

  Vanyel leaned farther back into the chair, scrawling replies to the invitations with half his attention. It did bother him, and in a way that made him reluctant to even think about Shavri, sometimes. :It’s not that,: he temporized. :It’s just that I’m worried about them.:

  But the uneasy feeling continued, an uncomfortable unhappiness that he couldn’t define. So he continued hastily, :Poor Shavri; you can’t know how much she wanted that child. That was the only reason we did it.:

  :You like her.:

  :Of course I like her!: he answered—again, just a shade too quickly. :She and Randale—they’re friends; how could I have told them no?: He shied away from examining his feelings too closely. :Besides, it was never anything more than a—physical exercise for either of us. No more involved for me, certainly, than dancing. Shavri being a Healer, she could make sure she “caught” the first time. Neither of us were emotionally involved, or ever likely to be.:

  :I suppose that could have been a problem,: she replied.

  :Exactly. That’s why Shavri and Randale asked me to help in the first place: I was perfect; a Herald, already a friend, physically able, and not going to get romantically entangled.:

  :Don’t you . . . want the child, sometimes?: Yfandes sounded wistful. Vanyel was a bit surprised.

  :Frankly, no. I’m not very paternal. It takes more than seed to make a father, love. Great good gods, can you see me as a parent? I’d be awful. Randale has what I lack in that department.: His thoughts darkened, as he recalled what had been bothering him since he scanned the palace when they rode in. :’Fandes, I’m worried about them. When Lancir died—truth, I almost expected Taver to Choose me King’s Own. Instead—instead he chose Shavri, and I’m desperately afraid it wasn’t because she was Randale’s lifebonded. I’m afraid it was because she’s a Healer.:

  There was a long silence on Yfandes’ part. Then, :Why haven’t you said something before this?:

  :Because—I wasn’t sure. I’ve been wrong about things so many times—and I didn’t really want to think about it. Shavri told me once that she was afraid that Randale’s sterility was a symptom of something worse. I didn’t know what to say, so I told her not to worry about it. But now—you know how sensitive I am; follow my line to Randale—:

  Vanyel could “feel” every Herald and Herald-Mage in Haven, all tied to him by a kind of tenuous network of lines of life-energy, with every identity as plain to him as if he could see the faces. Most Herald-Mages could follow the line to anyone who had shared magic with them; Vanyel could follow the line of anyone who had “shared magic” just by virtue of being a Herald. He had the line that led to Randale without even thinking about it, and “felt” Yfandes follow it down with him, Seeing what he Saw.

  :There’s—something not right,: she said, after a moment’s study. :Something out of balance. Physically, not mentally or emotionally. But I can’t tell what it is.:

  :Exactly,: he agreed. :I felt it as soon as we came in; he wasn’t like that when we left. I wish I was a Healer-Adept like Moondance k’Treva or even little Brightstar. They’re much better at understanding imbalances than I am.: He rubbed his forehead, his headache starting again.

  :I don’t think I will ever forget the look on Shavri’s face when you told her this wasn’t the first time you’d done someone the favor of—uh—stud service.: Yfandes’ mind-voice colored yellow with laughter, and he was just as pleased to change the subject.

  :Moondance and Starwind wanted a child to raise, and neither of them can function with a female,: he reminded her, :and Snowlight was willing to have twins, one for her, one for them.:

  :You certainly produce lovely children.:

  :Brightstar is a good lad,: he said, shyly. :They’re rightly proud of him—and that’s their doing, not mine. But I’m beginning to think I ought to rent myself out. Do you think I could command the same fees as a Shin’a’in stud?:

  :Oh, at least,: she giggled, as he reached for pen and paper. :Double if your Gift and beautiful silver eyes breed true!:

  He smothered a chuckle, and turned all his attention to the reply the page was waiting for. Dearest friends; of course I’m coming by. Don’t you realize that you’re my last taste of sanity before I spend the fall with my lunatic family?

  He sealed this last note and handed them all to the page to take away. He stood and hauled the packs over to his bed, resisting the temptation to throw himself there instead of his belongings, and began sorting out the items he’d need for his visit home.

  There was an awful lot of money in there—money he didn’t remember getting, but it all seemed to be in those silly little sealed “stipend” bags, most of them s
till unopened. At least a half-dozen. Then again—he hadn’t had much to spend it on, going from post to post like a madman, never getting regular meals, seldom sleeping in a real bed. He combined all the bags into one, and tossed the empties onto the table for the servants to collect. Then had second thoughts, and added some coins to the pile of empty bags. No harm in leaving a little something for the ones who kept things picked up for him; they did a good job. They could have just sealed the room up until he returned, but they kept it open and aired, even though that meant extra work. He’d acquired a much greater appreciation for good servants since he’d become a Herald.

  He returned to his packs; there were a lot of small, valuable trinkets he just barely remembered being gifted with in there.

  :Why do people insist on giving me all this stuff?: he asked Yfandes, a little irritably. :It isn’t bribery; I’d have sensed that and given it back.:

  :I told you,: she replied. :They wanted something of the excitement of your life to rub off on them, so they give you things. That’s what it means to be Herald Vanyel, second only to King’s Own.:

  He made a sound of contempt, as he sorted through the things; jewelry mostly. :I bet they think I have everything I could want. I suppose on a lot of levels, I do. I’m ungrateful, I guess. I don’t know why I’m not happier.:

  :Vanyel Ashkevron, you are being an idiot,: she replied acidly. :Stop feeling guilty about feeling like you’re overworked and unhappy! You’re only human!:

  :Beloved, I think you know me better than I know myself.: He laughed to keep from wincing; she was cutting a bit too close to the truth. His hand fell on more jewelry, and he changed the subject. :Ah, now these I remember; I bought them honestly.: He selected the three trinkets that he had thought would please Randale, Shavri, and Jisa when he’d seen them; a cloak-clasp for Randale in the form of a vine of Heal-All twining around a beryl the green of a Healer’s robes—a pendant that matched for Shavri—and a wonderful little articulated carving of a Companion complete with formal panoply for Jisa. The rest went back into the pack; he would need presents for the mob at Forst Reach, and there was surely enough there to make a start. He paused with the last piece, a crystal mage-focus stone (rose-quartz, sadly, and not a stone he cared to work with) still in his hand.

  :Think Savil would like this?:

  :You know she would. Rose-quartz is her Prime Focus, and you don’t often see a crystal that big or that clear.:

  :Good.: He put it with the little gifts on his bedside table.

  The bed looked better than ever.

  :Courtesy calls,: Yfandes reminded him. :Then you can take a nap. Lazy.:

  He groaned. :Too true. Oh, well.: He picked up the crystal and slipped it into his pocket. :Savil first. She’ll put me in a good mood for the others.:

  There was a touch of smile in Yfandes’ mind-voice as he slipped out his door and down the hall—still barefoot. :You don’t really need to be put in a good mood for Jisa do you?:

  He grinned; although she couldn’t see it, she would feel the rise in his spirits. :No—but if Randi ends up giving me an assignment anyway, I won’t feel so bad about it!:

  CHAPTER 2

  VANYEL’S ROOM WAS in the “old Palace,” the original building dating back to King Valdemar, in the oldest section still used for Heralds’ quarters. Savil’s suite was in the new wing added some fourteen years ago. She no longer occupied the suite he’d had when he first was put in her custody by Lord Withen—she didn’t teach more than one pupil at a time these days, so having no use whatsoever for a suite with four bedrooms, she’d moved instead to another suite, still on the ground floor, though without an outside door to the gardens. Moving had been something of a relief to both of them; her former quarters held too many sad memories, memories of the painful weeks following Tylendel’s suicide.

  Vanyel had helped with that move, since it had coincided with their return—him in full Whites—from the Pelagir Hills and the Vale of the Tayledras k’Treva. The touchiest part had been moving the magic Work Room: a transfer of energies rather than physical furniture. Savil had left that to him; since they’d shared magic so intimately and so often he knew her “resonances,” and more importantly, her protections “recognized” him.

  The magical transfer had been a kind of graduation exercise for him—not to prove to Savil that he could do it, but to prove his ability—and his training—to the rest of the Herald-Mages. He could still remember Jaysen Kondre’s face, when he’d stood in the middle of the new Work Room and “called” the shields and protections—and they’d swarmed up and followed him like bees with a migrating queen, settling into place as solidly as if they’d been cast on the new room from the beginning. Jays had looked as if he’d just swallowed a live fish.

  Savil’s suite now was of four rooms only; her protege’s bedroom, and her bedroom, sitting room, and Work Room.

  :Van—: Yfandes said sleepily into his mind. :Ask Jays to get you a Work Room this time. You need a Work Room.:

  :I thought you were asleep. How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t need one before you’ll believe me?: he replied.

  :But—: Even after all these years, Yfandes still wasn’t used to the idea that Vanyel’s methods weren’t quite the same as the other Herald-Mages’.

  :I can use Savil’s if I’m working formal magic. When I’m in the field, I don’t have time to muck about with formalities.:

  :But—:

  He shook his head, glad that the only other people about were used to Heralds and the way they seemed to mutter at themselves. When he’d been in the field, he’d frequently gotten knowing looks and averted eyes. :Go back to sleep, ’Fandes.:

  She gave up. You ought to know by now that you can’t out-stubborn me, sweetling.

  Savil was still his master when it came to magic that required long, painstaking setups. Vanyel’s talents lay elsewhere. He had neither master nor even peer when a crisis called for instant decision and instant action. It was that ability to use his powers on a moment’s notice that made him second-rank to no one in power, and second only to Shavri in the Heraldic Circle; that, and the ability to use the lines and currents of power, and the nodes where they met, as the Ancients had done and the Tayledras could still do, though none of the other Herald-Mages except Savil could.

  He squinted against the light as he entered the new wing. The paneling of the new section had not had time to darken with age: the halls here seemed very bright, though they no longer smelled “new.”

  This section feels even emptier than the old quarters; I don’t think more than half the ground-floor rooms have claimants, there’s less than that on the second floor, and none at all on the third. I can’t see how we’ll ever fill it.

  The hall was so quiet he could hear the murmur of voices from one of the farther suites without straining his ears at all. A quick Look gave him identities; Savil and Jays. He paused for a moment and sent the tentative little mind-probe on ahead of him that was the Thought-sensing equivalent of a knock on the door, and got a wave of welcome from both minds before he had taken two steps.

  Now sure of his reception—and that he wasn’t interrupting anything—he crossed the remaining distance to Savil’s door and pushed it open.

  Savil, her silver hair braided like a coronet on the top of her head, was enthroned in her favorite chair, a huge, blue monstrosity as comfortable as it was ugly. Tall Jaysen (who always looked bleached, somehow) was half-sprawled on her couch, but he rose at Vanyel’s entrance—then did a double take, and staggered back a step, hand theatrically clutched to his chest.

  “My heart!” he choked. “Savil, look at your nephew! Barefoot, shaggy-headed, and shabby! Where in Havens has our peacock gone?”

  “He got lost somewhere south of Horn,” Vanyel replied. “I last saw him in a tavern singing trios with my mind and my wits. I haven’t seen either of them in a while, either.”
r />   “Well, you surely couldn’t tell it from the reports we got back,” Jaysen answered, coming quickly forward and clasping his forearms with no sign of the uneasiness he’d once had around the younger Herald. “There’s three new songs about you out of your year down south, in case you didn’t know. Very accurate, too, amazingly enough.”

  Vanyel sighed. “Gods. Bards.”

  Jaysen cocked his graying head to the side. “You should be used to it by now. You keep doing things that make wonderful songs, so how can they resist?” He grinned. “Maybe you should stop. Become a bricklayer, for instance.”

  Vanyel shook his head and groaned. “It’s not my fault!”

  Jaysen laughed. “I’d best be off before that trio wrecks my workroom. Did Savil tell you? I’ve been given the proteges you’d have gotten if you hadn’t been in a combat zone. Count your blessings—one’s a farmgirl who had much rather be a fighter than a Herald-Mage, thank you; one’s a very bewildered young man who can’t for a moment imagine why he was Chosen and as a result has no confidence whatsoever; and the third is an overly confident sharpster who’s actually a convicted lawbreaker!”

  “Convicted of what?” Vanyel asked, amused at the woebegone expression on Jaysen’s face.

  “Chicanery and fraud. The old shell-and-pea game at Midsummer Fair; he was actually Chosen on the way to his sentencing, if you can believe it.”

  “I can believe it. It’s keeping you busy, anyway.”

  “It is that. It’s good to see you, Van.” Jaysen hesitated a moment, and then put one hand on his shoulder. “Vanyel—” He locked his pale, near-colorless blue eyes with Vanyel’s, and Van saw disturbance there that made him uneasy. “Take care of yourself, would you? We need you. I don’t think you realize how much.”

  He slipped out the door before Vanyel could respond. Van stared after him with his mouth starting to fall open.

  “What in the name of sanity was that about?” he asked, perplexed, turning back to his aunt, who had not left the comfortable confines of her chair. She looked up at him measuringly.