The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 43

  Her unshed tears knotted both their throats. :Eight months. It’s something I can’t Heal; the gods know I’ve tried!:

  He felt chill creep over him. :Forgive me, Shavri, but I have to ask this. Given worst case—if it is something life-threatening, and it keeps getting worse, how long do you think he has?:

  :If he keeps weakening at the same rate? Fifteen years—maybe less, certainly not more. Gods, Van, he won’t even see fifty—he won’t even see his grandchildren! Elspeth was seventy-six when she was Called!:

  There was another thought, unspoken—but Vanyel felt it, since it touched so nearly on his own private loneliness.

  I’ll have to go on alone—

  He held her close to his chest, with her face pressed into his shoulder as she struggled not to cry, and clamped down a tight shield to prevent any stray thought from reaching her and frightening her. Savil supported you. You support Shavri the same way, he told himself, below the threshold of her ability to Mindhear. Let her know she won’t be alone. Gods, gods, they’re both so young, not even twenty-five . . . and so sheltered all their lives. Oh, Shavri—your pain hurts me—

  “Easy, love,” he murmured into her hair. :Does he know?:

  :No. Not yet. Healer’s Collegium does; they’re working on it. We don’t want him to know until it’s certain. Now you know why I won’t marry him. Van, I couldn’t, I’m not strong enough, I can’t rule! Not alone! And when he dies—and I won’t have Jisa forced onto the throne too young, either.: Her mind-voice strengthened with stubbornness. :So long as we’re unwedded, it can’t be forced on me nor on Jisa until all the collateral lines are exhausted. I—:

  He felt the surge of terror and grief, and tried to project strength to her, not allowing her to see how fragile that strength was at the moment. With grim certainty he knew that she would not be able to cope if the worst came—unless someone she trusted was there to help. And the only one she trusted to that extent—the only one Randi trusted—was him. Gods. They really think I can do anything—and I’m no more ready for this than she is.

  He pushed the thought away, concentrated on trying to ease some of that fear. :Gently, sweet. Don’t borrow trouble. Don’t assume anything. You may cure him yet; this may turn out to be something ridiculous—and you both may get run over by a beer-wagon tomorrow!:

  That startled a weak chuckle out of her, and she blinked up at him through tears she was doing her best not to release.

  :Worry about tomorrow when it comes; enjoy now. Now, what’s all this with Jisa “feeling people in her head?”:

  Footsteps made both of them look up. “Are you seducing my lady, Herald Vanyel?” asked Randale, King of Valdemar, holding out his arms to embrace both of them.

  “I’d rather seduce you, you charmer,” Vanyel replied coyly, batting his eyelashes at the King. But there was an edge of bitterness there in his banter, and despite his best intentions it must have crept into his voice. He saw a hint of startlement, then of worry, creep into both their expressions.

  Lighten up, dammit, he told himself angrily. They’ve got their own problems—they don’t need yours.

  He grinned and winked, and both of them relaxed again.

  Randale laughed heartily, and hugged him hard, taking Shavri away from Vanyel as he did so. And Vanyel felt a strange twinge, another flash of uneasiness.

  Gods, what’s wrong with me?

  He didn’t stop to think about it. The hug wasn’t as hard as it had been a year ago—and there was a transparency about Randale that made Vanyel’s heart lurch. Randale had grown a neat brown beard—was it to hide the fact that his cheeks were a little hollower? Was that tidy-to-a-fault brown hair a little lackluster? There were shadows under his dark eyes; were they there from lack of sleep, or some more sinister reason? Within a few breaths Vanyel had noted a dozen small signs of “something wrong”—all of them little things, things that someone who saw him day-in, day-out might not have noticed. But Vanyel had been away for a year, and the things he saw shook him. Gods, gods—my King, my friend—Shavri is right. You’re ill, at the very least—

  Randale was not a Herald-Mage; his Gift was Farsight, and his Mindspeech was not as sure a thing as Vanyel’s and Shavri’s. For once Vanyel was grateful for that lack. He changed the subject before Randale could note his unease.

  “It seems your little shadow is developing precocious Gifts,” he said. “At least she said she ‘felt me coming in her mind.’” Jisa ran back in, and attached herself to Vanyel’s leg. “Didn’t you, imp?” He looked down at her, surprised by the surge of love he felt for the child.

  She nodded, very well pleased with herself.

  “We thought about taking her to Savil, but she’s been so busy,” Randale replied, shrugging. “I don’t suppose you’d test her, would you? That’s a major spell for anyone else but you and Savil.”

  “Now I see the reason for all the concern that I stop by!” Vanyel teased. “Not that you’ve missed me!”

  “Van—” Shavri said indignantly. “I never—”

  Randale chortled, and she hit his shoulder. “You can just stop that, you beast.”

  Jisa giggled, and Vanyel looked down at her. “Hold still for a minute, impling,” he said. “I’m about to make your head feel funny, like Mama did when you had the measles.”

  “All right,” Jisa said calmly, and Vanyel had the sudden unsettling feeling that she would permit her totally-trusted “Uncle Van” to chop off her hand if he wanted to.

  He rested his palm on the top of her brown curls, and focused out and down—

  —and came out again, blinking. “Well.”

  “Well, what?” Shavri and Randale demanded in the same breath.

  “She won’t be a Herald-Mage, not unless she gets blasted open the way I did—which I do not recommend,” he added lightly, trying to catch his breath. Even that little magic had been more of a strain than he had thought it would. “But she’s carrying the potential in a double dose; she’ll certainly pass it to her children. She will be a Mindhealer; she is an active Empath, and her Mindspeech center is opening early, too. With that combination, Randale, she’ll very likely be King’s Own after Shavri.”

  Gods, she is so like me. Right down to the Mage-potential. Jisa, sweetling, I swear I will do anything to keep you safe—

  Shavri trembled, and Randale’s arm tightened around her shoulder. “Is she likely to be Chosen anytime soon?”

  Vanyel did not answer immediately. :’Fandes?: he called, softly. :Are you awake?:

  :And following the conversation. Yes, provided it’s needful for her to get the training and she stays as sweet as she is. I’d say by age ten. Maybe sooner, two years from now.:

  “Yfandes guesses that if she needs the training, between age eight and ten. Remember, for the presumptive King’s Own, that won’t be a bonded Choosing—she won’t bond until—until she gets the office. Then she’ll bond with Taver.” Vanyel ignored both Shavri’s frightened face and Randale’s elation. “So, given that—there’s a little something she and I ought to do.”

  He focused himself down again, pulling on Yfandes’ strength to assist his own, and thanking the gods he could do so, because Jisa should not remain as open as she was now. This time he did not close his eyes, but locked them with the child’s, and showed her without words—for she did not yet have sufficient Mindspeech to use words—how to shield herself from unwanted thoughts and emotions, and unshield again at will. He was, he feared, the only person who could have taught her at this stage, Empathy not being a normal Heraldic Gift, and most Healers not using it in the way a Herald-Mage could.

  He showed her how to find her center—she knew with an instant of studying him how to ground. The fundamentals it had taken him so long and so painfully to learn came to her with the ease of breathing, perhaps because learning was as easy as breathing at her age, and perhaps because his learning
had come at the cost of so much loss and pain that had nothing to do with his Gifts.

  “—there. That should hold her until she’s got enough to be taught formally. Teach her yourself, Shavri. You won’t find anyone in the Heralds with Empathy as strong as hers. When she’s got it at full power, she’ll be able to control a mob in full cry.”

  Shavri had herself back under control again, and the smile she gave Vanyel was genuine. “Thank you, love.”

  He shrugged. “No thanks needed. Before I forget it—I brought you two some ‘pretties’ also.”

  Shavri took the pendant with an exclamation of genuine delight as he handed the matching cloak-brooch to Randale. “Van, you shouldn’t have—” she began.

  “Of course I should have,” he said. “Who else have I got to bring things to?” It came out bleaker than he intended.

  “Oh, Van—” Her eyes softened, and Randale cleared his throat and blinked. They reached out in the same moment and each took one of his hands. He closed his eyes, and for an instant allowed himself to feel a part of their closeness.

  But it was their closeness, not his.

  And I have no right.

  “Mama, I have lessons,” said a small voice, still at Vanyel’s knee.

  “Bright Havens, so you do!” Shavri exclaimed. “Van—”

  “Go,” he said, wrinkling his nose at her. “I’ll be back in a few weeks, and maybe this tyrant of a King will let me stick around for a while this time.”

  She shooed Jisa out and followed her with the light step of a young girl. Randale’s gaze followed both of them.

  “You sire wonderful children, Van,” he said softly.

  “You raise better ones,” Vanyel replied, uneasily. “You are Jisa’s papa, don’t you ever forget it. I was nothing more than the convenient means to a rather attractive little end.”

  The King relaxed visibly. “I keep thinking you’re going to want her back—especially now that she’s showing Gifts. She’s more like you than you know.”

  Vanyel laughed. “Whatever would I do with her? Great good gods, what kind of a parent would I make? I can’t even train the palace cats to stay off my pillow! No, Randi, she’s all yours, in everything that counts. I would rather be Uncle Van, who gets to spoil her.”

  Randale reached out without looking and snagged a chair with one hand. He swung it around and put it in front of Vanyel. “She’d make a good Queen.”

  “She’d make a very bad Queen,” Vanyel replied, draping himself over it as Randale took another. “The things that make a good Monarch’s Own are weakness in the Monarch.”

  “Like?”

  “Empathy. She’d be vulnerable to everyone with a petition and the passion to back it. She’d be tempted to use projective Empathy on her Council to make them vote her way. Mindhealers are drawn to the unbalanced; but a Monarch can’t waste time dealing with every Herald in trauma she encounters.” Vanyel shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. Jisa is going to be a lovely young woman and a good Monarch’s Own; be satisfied with that.”

  Randale gave him a wry look. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

  “Shouldn’t I be?” Vanyel folded his arms over the back of the chair and rested his chin on them. “Forgive me if I sound arrogant, but other than Savil, I am the expert in these things. Ask my aunt when I’m not around and I’ll bet money she’ll tell you the same thing.”

  Randale shrugged, and scratched the back of his head. “I guess you’re right. I was hoping you’d back me, though—”

  “Why?” Vanyel interrupted. “So you can have something else to pressure Shavri into marrying you?”

  Randale winced at his bluntness, and protested weakly, “But that’s—I mean—dammit, Van, I need her!”

  Gods, so young . . . so uncertain of himself, of her. So afraid that without bonds he won’t hold her. “You think she doesn’t need you? Randi, she’s your lifebonded, do you really need any further hold on her than that? She’d rather die than lose you!”

  Randale studied the back of his hand. “It’s just . . . I want something a little more—”

  “Ordinary?” Vanyel finished wryly. “Randi, Heralds are never ordinary. If you wanted ‘ordinary,’ you should have become a blacksmith.”

  Randale shook his head.

  Vanyel gritted his teeth and prepared to say to Randale what no one else could—or would. “Now you listen to me. You’re making her miserable with the pressure you’ve been putting on her. She’s doing exactly what she should; she’s putting Valdemar and Valdemar’s King ahead of her own wishes.”

  Mostly.

  “She knows the situation we have just as well as you do, but she’s willing to face it. Things went to pieces when your grandmother Elspeth died, and they’ve been getting worse since—steadily.”

  “I’m not blind, Van,” Randale interrupted. “I—”

  “Quiet, Randi. I’m making a speech, and I don’t, often. I want you to think. There’s a very real probability that you’ll have to buy us peace on one of our Borders with an alliance marriage—exactly how your grandmother bought us peace with Iftel. And why do you think she never married Bard Kyran after your grandfather died, hmm? She knew her duty, and so should you. You have to stay free for that.”

  Randale was flushing; Vanyel didn’t need Empathy to know he was getting angry. “So what business is it of yours?” he burst out. “I thought you were a friend—”

  “I am. But I’m a Herald first. And my first duty is to Valdemar, not to you.” Vanyel sat straight up and let his face grow very cold; knowing what he was doing and hating himself for it. Randi wanted his friend, and at some levels, needed his friend. He was going to get Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron. “You, Herald-King Randale, cannot permit your personal feelings to interfere with the well-being of this kingdom. You are as much Herald as I. If you cannot reconcile yourself to that—give up the Crown.”

  Randale slumped, defeated. No one knew better than he that there was no Heir or even Heir-presumptive yet. The Crown was his, like it or not. “I . . . I wish I . . . there’s no one else, Van. No one old enough.”

  “Then you can’t resign your Crown, can you.” Vanyel made it a statement rather than a question.

  “No. Damn. Van—you know I never wanted this—”

  Memory.

  Balmy spring breezes played over the lawn. Randi laughing at something, some joke he had just made—Shavri playing with the baby in a patch of sun. Bucolic, pastoral scene—

  Shattered by the arrival on a lathered horse of a Queen’s Messenger. In black.

  Randi jumped to his feet, his face going white. The man handed Randale a sealed package wrapped in silk, but Randi didn’t open it.

  “Herald Randale—your grandmother the Queen sends me to tell you that your father—”

  The package fell from Randale’s fingers. The blue silk wrappings unwound from the contents.

  The silver coronet of the Heir.

  An accident. A stupid accident—a misstep on a slippery staircase in full view of everyone—and the Heir, Herald-Mage Darvi, was dead of a broken neck. And Randale was Heir.

  Vanyel’s heart ached for him. And he dared not show it. Pity would be wrong at this moment, but he softened his voice and his expression.

  “I told you Jisa would make a bad Queen. I meant every word. Shavri knows all this, too, you can bet on it. And I’m telling you you’re tearing her in pieces, putting her between love for you, and what she knows is her duty.” Randale looked at him as if he wanted to interrupt. “No, hear me out—you’ve sympathized often enough with me and my matchmaking mother. How in Havens do you think Shavri feels with you putting that same kind of pressure on her?”

  “Not good,” Randale admitted, after a long moment.

  “Then stop it, before you put her under more pressure than she can take. Leave her alone. Let it lie f
or another ten years; if things haven’t come to a conclusion one way or another, then bring it up. All right?”

  “No,” Randale said slowly. “It’s not all right. But you’re absolutely correct about there being no choice. Not for any of us.”

  Vanyel rose, and swung the chair he’d been slouched over out of the way. Randale did the same.

  “Don’t spoil what you have with what you only think you want, Randale,” he said softly, taking his friend and King’s arm. “This is experience talking; the one thing about the brief time I shared with my love that I have never regretted is that I never consciously did anything to make him unhappy. Had our time been longer, maybe I would have; I can’t ever know. But at least I have no memories of quarrels or hard words to shadow the good memories.”

  Randale took his hand. “You’re right; I’m wrong. I’ll stop plaguing her.”

  “Good man.”

  Randi—oh, Randi— Close; Randale was coming too close. It was beginning to hurt—

  Then Randale’s servant entered behind him, the King’s formal uniform draped over one arm, the royal circlet in the other hand, and a harried expression on his face. Vanyel forced a laugh, and took the welcome opportunity to escape. “Now unless I haul myself out of here, I’m going to make your man there very unhappy.”

  “What?” Randale turned, startled. “Oh. Oh, hellfire. I have got that damned formal audience before dinner, don’t I?”

  “Yes, sire,” the servant replied, as expressionless as a stone.

  “Then I’d better get changed. Vanyel—”

  Vanyel put his arm around the younger man’s shoulders and gave him an affectionate embrace. “Just go do your duty, and make her happy. That’s what counts. I’m off; I’ll see you by Midwinter, certainly.”

  “Right. Van, be well.” Randale looked at him—really looked at him, for the first time. He started to reach for Vanyel’s arm with an expression of concern; Vanyel ducked his head to conceal the signs of weariness.

  “I’m never ill. Go, go, go—before your man kills me with a look!”