The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 44

  Randale managed a grin, and followed the servant back into the private rooms of the suite. Vanyel spent a moment with his eyes closed in unvoiced prayer for him, then took himself back to his own room and his longed-for reunion with his bed.

  CHAPTER 3

  MORNING. VANYEL WOKE slowly, surrounded by unfamiliar warmth and softness, and put bits of memory together as they drifted within reach.

  He vaguely remembered getting to his room, surrounded by fatigue that increasingly fogged everything; recalled noting a brief message from Tran, and getting partially undressed. He did not remember lying down at all; he didn’t even remember sitting on the bed.

  By the amount of light leaking around the bedcurtains it was probably midmorning, and what had wakened him was hunger.

  His soft bed—clean sheets, a real featherbed, and those wonderful dark curtains to block out the light—felt so good. Good enough to ignore the demands of his stomach and give preference to the demands of his weary body. He’d had a fair amount of practice in shutting off inconvenient things like hunger and thirst; there’d been plenty of times lately when he’d had no other choice.

  He almost did just exactly that, almost went back to sleep, but his conscience told him that if he didn’t get up, he’d probably sleep for another day. And he couldn’t afford that.

  Clothing, clothing, good gods, what am I going to do about clothing?

  There was no way his uniforms would be cleaned and mended, and he was going to need to take a few with him even if he didn’t plan to wear them. And he had to have uniforms to travel in, anyway; technically a Herald traveling was on duty.

  Wait a moment; wasn’t there something in that note from Tran about uniforms?

  He pushed off the blankets with a pang of regret, pulled the bed curtains aside, winced away from the daylight flooding his room, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for leftovers from half-recollected dreams to clear out of his brain. His shoulders hurt.

  Have to do something about that muscle strain before I start favoring that arm . . . remember to put liniment on it, and do some of those exercises.

  Birds chirped news at one another right outside his window. It had been a very long time since he’d paid any attention to birdcalls—except as signals of the presence or absence of danger.

  The musical chatter was quite wonderful, precisely because it was so sanely ordinary. Ordinary. Peaceful. Gods, I am so tempted just to fall back onto the mattress and to hell with starting for Forst Reach today.

  But a promise was a promise. And if he delayed going one day, it would be easy to rationalize another delay, and another, all of which would only lead to Randale’s recruiting him. Which was what the trip was supposed to prevent.

  He pulled himself up out of bed with the aid of the bedpost and reached for one of Tantras’ uniforms. Clean, Lord and Lady, clean and smelling of nothing worse than soap and fresh air. Once he managed to get himself started, habit took over.

  He reached with one hand for one of yesterday’s leftover apples in their bowl on the table, and Tantras’ note with the other.

  Go ahead and take my stuff with you. I don’t need these; they’re spares that were made before I put on all that muscle across the shoulders. A bit tight on me, they should be just a little big on you. Tell me what you want done and get out of here; I don’t mind taking care of some of your paperwork for you. I’ll see that your new uniforms are ready by the time you get back; Supply told me there’s no chance of salvaging your old ones. Tran.

  More than a little big, Vanyel thought wryly, standing up and surveying himself in the rather expensive glass mirror (a present from Savil) on the back of the door. He’d had to tie the breeches with an improvised drawstring just so they’d stay up, and the tunic bagged untidily over his belt. He looked—except for the silver in his hair—rather like an adolescent given clothing “to grow into.” They’d have been all right a year ago, but—oh, well. Nobody’s going to see me except the family. I certainly don’t have anyone to impress!

  But Tran’s volunteering gave him a notion about some other things he needed. He rummaged out the pen and paper he’d used yesterday; by now he reckoned those notes were well on the way to the Border and Forst Reach.

  Another reason to hail out of here. If I don’t arrive soon after the letter, they’ll worry. His letters should beat him to the holding by a few days, at least.

  He wrote swiftly, but neatly; “neat as a clerk,” Tran was wont to tease. Order me new cloaks, would you? And new boots. I need them badly; I’d be ashamed to stand duty the way they are now.

  And since you’re being so kind as to keep track of this, ask Supply to work me up a set of spare uniforms to leave here, and have them keep a set here at all times. Next time there might not be anyone my size with extras for me to borrow! Thanks, Van.

  He packed quickly, without having to think about what he was doing, now that he’d finally gotten his momentum. After the last four years, he could pack fatigue-drunk, pain-fogged, drugged to his eyebrows, or asleep—and he had, at one time or another.

  He swung his cloak—it was more gray than white, and a little shabby, but there was nothing to be done about that—over his shoulder, picked up his packs, plucked his lute off the chair, and headed out. In the dark and echoing hall on his way to Companion’s Field and the stable, he intercepted a page, gave the child the note for Tantras, and asked for some kind of breakfast to be brought to him while he saddled Yfandes.

  She was already waiting calmly for him at the entrance to the tackshed. :They’ve cleaned all my tack,: she told him, :but the saddle needs mending and the rest isn’t what it should be. I wouldn’t trust the chestband to take any strain at all, frankly.:

  :Swordcuts and burns aren’t fixed with saddlesoap,: he reminded her. :We’ll just have to—wait a moment—what about your formal gear? That’s next thing to brand new. Gods know we’ve used it what—once? Twice?:

  Her ears went up—her sapphire eyes fixed on him—

  And he had that curious and disorienting doubled image of her that he’d gotten sometimes in the past, the image of a dark, wise-eyed woman, weary, but smiling with newly-kindled anticipation, flickering in and out with the graceful white horse.

  Gods, if I needed a sign of how dragged-out I am, that’s it. Hallucinating again. Dreaming awake. Got to be because I never really think of her as a “horse” even when I’m riding her.

  He blinked his eyes and forced himself to focus properly as she replied, as excited as a girl being told she could wear her holiday best—:Chosen, could we use it? Please?:

  He chuckled. :You like being dressed up and belled like a gypsy, don’t you?:

  She tossed her head, and arched her neck. :Don’t you? I’ve heard you preening at yourself in the mirror of a morning, especially when there was someone to impress!:

  “You fight dirty,” he said aloud, and went in search of her formal tack, grinning.

  • • •

  One of the kitchen wenches, a bright-eyed little brunette, barely adolescent, brought him hot bread and butter, cider, and more apples about the time he managed to find where Yfandes’ formal panoply had been stored. The saddle was considerably lighter than the field saddle, and fancier; it was tooled and worked with silver and dyed a deep blue. The chest and rump bands had silver bells on them, as did the reins of what was essentially an elaborate hackamore. The reins were there more for his benefit than his Companion’s, and more for show than either. There was light barding that went along with the outfit, but after regarding it wistfully for a moment, Yfandes agreed that the barding would be far more trouble than it was worth and Vanyel bundled it away.

  He paused a moment and bit into the bread; it was dripping with melted butter, and he closed his eyes at the unexpected pleasure the flavor gave him.

  Oh, gods—fresh bread!

  The taste was better than the
manna that the priests said gods ate. “Bread” for the past year had meant rock-hard journey-bread at best, moldy crusts at worst, and anything in between—and it was never fresh, much less hot from the oven. There had been butter—sometimes—rancid in summer, as rock-hard as the journey-bread in winter.

  It’s the little things we miss the most—I swear it is! Ordinary things, things that spell “peace” and “prosperity.” He thought briefly of the sword-comrades he’d left on the Border, and sent up a brief prayer. Brightest gods, grant both, but especially peace. Soon, before more blood is shed.

  After that he alternated between bites of food and adjusting of harness. The kitchen wench lingered to watch him saddle Yfandes, draped over the open half-door of the stable, squinting into the sunlight. There was something between hero-worship and starry-eyed romance in her gaze; finally Vanyel couldn’t stand it any longer and gently shooed her back to her duties.

  He noted out of the corner of his eye—with more than a little alarm—that she was clutching the mug he’d drunk from to her budding bosom as though it had been transformed into a holy chalice.

  :Looks like you’ve got another one, Chosen,: Yfandes commented sardonically as he fastened his packs behind her saddle.

  :Thank you for that startling information. That’s just what I needed to hear.:

  :It’s not my fault you have a face that breaks hearts.:

  :But why—oh, never mind.: He gave the girth a last tug and swung up into the saddle. :Let’s get out of here before someone else decides she’s fallen in love with me.:

  • • •

  They got through the city as quickly as they could, and out onto the open road where it was possible to breathe without choking on the thick cloud of dust and other odors of the crowded city. It was a little strange to ride with the soft chime of the bells marking every pace Yfandes took; it made him nervous for the first few leagues, until he managed to convince his gut that they were in friendly territory, and in no danger of alerting enemy scouts with the sound. After that, the sound began to soothe him. Like muted, rhythmic windchimes—

  I’ve always adored windchimes. And I never get to meditate to them anymore.

  He slowly began to relax. Yfandes was in no great hurry, although her “traveling” pace would have run a real horse into the ground after half a day. This had been a gentle summer, turning into a warm and even gentler fall, with just enough frost to ensure that the harvests ripened, not enough yet to turn the leaves. Once out of Haven, Exile’s Road wound lazily through rustling, golden grainfields, and fields of sweetly ripening hay. The morning air was slightly cool, but the sun was warm enough that Vanyel soon rolled his cloak and bundled it behind his saddle.

  It was very hard to stay awake, in fact. His muscles relaxed into the familiar configurations of riding.

  Memory flicker—the k’Treva Vale. Savil, schooling him on Yfandes. “You think you’re a rider now, lad. When I’m done with you, you’ll be able to do anything ahorse that you can do on the ground.”

  Himself, slyly. “Anything?”

  She threw a saddlebag at him.

  From here to the Border the land was the next thing to flat; long, rolling hills covered with cultivated fields, interrupted by fragrant oak groves that occasionally amounted to small forests.

  :You really could sleep, you know,: Yfandes chided him. :I’m not going to let you fall off. It won’t be the first time you’ve taken a nap that way.:

  “I’m hardly going to be company for you like that.”

  She shook her head, and the bells on her halter laughed for her. :Your presence is company enough, Chosen. I ran lone for ten years before you bonded to me. Just having you with me, whole and healthy, is pleasure; you needn’t think I need entertaining when we aren’t working.:

  With a brief flash of pain and pleasure he remembered how he had never needed anything but Tylendel’s presence either. . . .

  :Yes,: she agreed, following the thought. :Exactly.:

  So he hooked his leg around the saddle pommel, crossed his arms and tucked the ends of his fingers into his belt, then sagged into a comfortable slouch, chin on chest. It didn’t take long.

  • • •

  He came awake all at once, his hand reaching automatically for the sword he wasn’t wearing. There was an instant of panic before he remembered where he was going, and why he was going there.

  “Why did you stop?” he asked Yfandes, who had come to an unmoving halt—which was what had waked him—in the middle of the completely deserted road. There was nothing but open meadow on either side of him, dotted with sheep, though there was no sign of the shepherd. Crows cawed overhead, and the sheep bleated in their pastures; otherwise silence prevailed. The sun was low enough ahead of them to force him to squint. It must be late afternoon, early evening.

  :There’s an inn just beyond the next curve, sleepy one,: Yfandes said, a hint of amusement tingeing her thought. :It’s later than lunch and earlier than dinner, but I’m tired and I’d really like to stop before I go any farther.:

  “Havens, love, you should have—”

  :No, I shouldn’t have. This is the first time you’ve really relaxed in I don’t know how long. Have you thought about the way we resonate?:

  He saw instantly what she meant. “So—you were relaxing with me.”

  :In very deed, and reveling in it. First journey I’ve been able to enjoy in a while. But I would like to stop now.:

  “Then so would I.” He unwrapped his leg from the pommel and stretched it; she waited until his foot was back in the stirrup, then resumed her easy amble, not quite a walk, not quite a canter. “Is this a temporary halt, or are we stopping for the night?”

  :The night?: she asked, wistfully. There was a hint of something more there than she was sending.

  “You’re not telling me everything,” he accused. “Why this inn?”

  :Well—you won’t be the only Herald there. Herald-Courier Sofya is there—:

  “Chosen by?” He had a shrewd hunch where this was leading.

  She curved her neck coquettishly, and looked up and sideways at him out of one huge blue eye. :Gavis.:

  He shook his head at her. “Ah, yes—the one that has been setting all the courier-records lately. Why this penchant for over-muscled courier-types, all legs and no brains—”

  :He is not over-muscled,: she replied indignantly, breaking into a teeth-rattling trot to punish him.

  “But brainless?” he taunted, feeling unusually mischievous.

  :He just doesn’t speak up unless he has something to say. Unlike certain Herald-Mages I know.: She kicked once, jarring every vertebra in his spine, before settling, all four feet braced in the dust of the road, and plainly going nowhere.

  He reached forward before she could stop him, and tweaked her ear. “Well, since you want to arrange a little assignation, don’t you think you’d better get the cooperation of your Chosen?”

  :I can’t imagine why,: she replied.

  “We could move out of the center of the road, and I could groom you so that you looked your usual lovely self when we rode into that inn yard, instead of being all covered with road dust. I could even braid your tail up with some of the blue and silver cord that was with the barding. If I felt like it.”

  :I—Vanyel—I—: she floundered.

  “And I do feel like it, you ridiculously vain creature,” he said, leaning down and putting both arms around her neck, resting his cheek on her crest. “And to think that they call me a peacock! Has it been so long since I teased you that you’ve forgotten what it sounds like?”

  :Oh, Vanyel—it has been a long time.:

  “Then we’ll have to remedy that.” He dismounted, still a bit stiff from his long doze, and opened the pack with the currycomb in it. Something else occurred to him as he wormed his hand down inside the pack. “Just—do me a very big
favor, sweetling—”

  :Hmm?: She turned her head and blinked back at him.

  He fished out the comb and the cords. “Please, please remember to shield me out of your trysting, all right? You forgot to, the last time. Here, let’s get out of the road.” He stifled a sigh, as they moved under the shade of tree beside the roadway. “I don’t grudge you any pleasure at all, but it’s been a very long time since I did any number of things—and teasing you is only one of them.”

  Yfandes twitched, the closest to blushing a Companion could come.

  • • •

  Vanyel allowed no hand to tend Yfandes but his own, no more than he would have permitted a stranger to see to the comfort of his sister, the cloistered priestess. ’Fandes frequently protested this wasn’t necessary, but this afternoon she wasn’t complaining. Especially not when young Gavis pranced up to the fence of the inn’s open wagon-field with a proud curve to his neck and a certain light of anticipation in his eye. Vanyel kept his amused thoughts to himself as Yfandes flirted coyly with the handsome Companion, and wished her nothing more risque than a “pleasant evening” when he opened the gate into the meadow for her.

  She gave him a long look over her shoulder. :Vanyel, you aren’t made of stone. I wish you would find a—comrade. You would be much happier.:

  He winced away from the idea. :I’ve been over this with Savil. And you. Until I can stop trying to replace ’Lendel, I’m not going to cheat myself and my would-be partner.:

  :I don’t see that. If you’re friends, it wouldn’t be cheating . . . never mind.:

  :Go, and enjoy yourself.:

  :Oh, I think I can manage that,: she said with deliberate innocence, gave him a slow wink, then frisked off with Gavis in close attendance.

  The tack he did entrust to the stableboy, though the lad’s wide-eyed awe in his presence left him feeling just a bit uneasy. “Awe” was not something he wanted aimed in his direction. It felt too close to “fear.”

  He stepped into the open door of the inn’s common room with his packs over one shoulder, and stood blinking in the sawdust-scented gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The lean and nervous innkeeper was at his elbow in a breath, long before Vanyel could see anything other than shadows, more shadows, and a dim white form in one corner that was probably Herald Sofya. It seemed as if he and the other Herald were the only guests this early in the afternoon, but this was harvest-season. The locals were undoubtedly making the maximum use of every moment of daylight.