The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 53

  Oh‚ yes, cousin, Vanyel thought quietly. If you are seeing the hint of trouble, stolid as you are, I will surely keep an eye on him.

  • • •

  :Things in your bed again?: Yfandes asked sweetly.

  Vanyel snarled, hung the lantern he was carrying on a hook, climbed up on the railings of the box, and hauled his bedroll down from the rafters above her stall. “This is not my idea of a good time,” he replied. “I didn’t come home with the intention of sleeping in the stable!” The bedroll landed on the floor‚ and he jumped down off the top rail to land beside it. “Here I thought I’d get past her by getting dinner with the babies and sneaking up to my room at sunset, and there she is waiting for me, bold as a bad penny. Not nude this time, but in my bed. ’Fandes, this is the third night in a row! Has the woman no shame? And I locked the damned door!”

  :Why didn’t you just put her out the door?:

  He glared at her, and heaved the bedding into the stall. “I do not,” he said between clenched teeth, “feel like engaging in a wrestling match with the woman. Dammit, there’s going to be frost on the ground in the morning. It’s getting chilly at night.”

  :Poor abused baby. I know somebody who’ll gladly keep you warm.:

  He glared at her again, poised halfway over the railings of the box-stall, one foot on either side. “’Fandes, you’re pushing my patience.”

  :Me.:

  “Oh, ’Fandes. . . .” His tone cooled a little, and he swung his leg over the top rail of the stall, and hopped down beside her to hug her neck. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take the fact that I’m ready to kill her out on you.”

  She rubbed her cheek against his, her smooth coat softer than any satin, and nibbled at his hair. Her breath puffed warm against his ear, sweet, and hay-scented. Farther down in the stable, beyond the light of Vanyel’s lantern, one of the horses whickered sleepily, and another stamped.

  :I’m rather selfishly glad to have you with me,: she said, watching him heap up straw and spread his sleeping roll on it. :I like having you here with no danger to keep us wakeful, a quiet night, nothing to really disturb us. Remember how you used to spend nights out in the Vale with me, watching the stars?:

  “And waiting for Starwind to take a header out of his treehouse!” Vanyel laughed, with her rich chuckle bubbling in his mind. “You’re right; that was a good time, even if I did spend the first few months of it in various states of hurting. Gods of Light, ’Fandes, I miss them. It’s been far too long since I last saw them. Brightstar must be—what—nearly ten? I wish we had time to go back there.”

  They don’t shake me to my shoes the way Shavri and Randi do. Is it only because I don’t see them too often, or—

  Yfandes’ interrupted his thought.

  :You’d have to Gate, or else spend months on the road,: she replied sadly. :We daren’t take the time, and I won’t let you Gate yet, not unless it’s an emergency. You’re still drained.:

  Her tone cheered him a little. “Yes, little mother,” Vanyel chuckled, climbing into his crude bed, good humor fully restored. And to prove that he wasn’t quite so drained as Yfandes seemed to think, he snuffed the lamp with a thought.

  :Show-off,: she teased, settling down carefully next to him so that he could curl up beside her, for all the world like a strange sort of gangly foal. He wriggled himself and blankets in against her warm, silken side, and slipped one hand out to rest on her foreleg.

  He yawned. With his anger gone, his energy seemed to be gone too. “’Night, dearheart,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.

  She nuzzled his cheek. :Goodnight‚ beloved.:

  • • •

  They howled around him‚ trying to crawl inside his mind. Horrible‚ vile, they made him retch to look at them, but he couldn’t look away from their distorted faces and maimed bodies. They drove fear before them and raised terror about them, making a whirlwind with himself in the center; they had knives for teeth and scythes for claws, red eyes full of madness and an insatiable hunger he could feel beating at his frail shell of protection in waves of heat. They were shadows, deadly, killing shadows, and they couldn’t get at him, but they could and would find other prey. They howled off and away on the wind, and he screamed (or tried to) and hid his head and made himself as small as he could while the killing and dying began. And he wept with terror and shrieked—

  Vanyel shook off the grip of the nightmare and came up out of it with a rush, choking against the black bile of fear in his throat. He clawed his way out of his blankets, and lay panting and unthinking against Yfandes’ side in the aftermath of all-consuming horror, while his heart pounded in his ears.

  The night about him was quiet, peaceful, undisturbed.

  On the surface. But—

  Beneath the surface?

  Automatically he reached out with his Othersenses, to touch the energy currents that lay beneath the material night.

  No, it hadn’t been a nightmare; his Othersenses showed him the new, churning eddies in the currents of power all about him. Something had happened tonight. Somewhere out there something had used Power, used it freely, and to a terrible end. His nightmare had only been the far-off echo of something much, much worse. There was evil on the Otherwinds—and the world beneath shivered to feel it.

  If I’d been in my room, I’d never have felt this, he realized, coming fully awake. My room is shielded and so is Savil’s. But I never shield when I’m with Yfandes. That means Savil hasn’t felt this. I’m the only one who knows there’s something wrong.

  “’Fandes?” He reached out for her shoulder; the muscles were bunched with tension, and her head was up, sniffing the crisp breeze.

  :Hush. Listen.:

  Faint, and far off—a Mind-cry for help? Or just a mind crying in despair? It wavered maddeningly in and out of his sensing-range.

  :That’s because he’s bonded. It’s a Companion, a young one. He’s Chosen, and his Chosen is emperiled. I can hardly hear him.: She stretched her neck out, as if simply trying harder could make what she sensed clearer. :That’s—he’s caught in his Chosen’s fear, and he’s nearly hysterical.:

  “Which, Companion or Chosen?” Vanyel scrambled completely out of his bedroll, and flared the lamp to life with a blink of thought. We’d better deal with this. We may be the only ones close enough to hear them.

  :Both—the Companion, at least.: She lurched to her feet, her eyes black with distress. Moonlight poured in through the open upper half of the door to the paddock, silvering her. :Vanyel‚ please—we must go to them!:

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?” he demanded, throwing her blanket over her, then pulling down the saddle itself. “I’ll have you saddled in half a moment. Where is this?”

  :Lineas. Highjorune.:

  “The Linean throne-seat.” He made a quick check of his mental maps. “That’s relatively near our Border. Can we be there by dawn?”

  :Before.: All her attention was back on the West.

  “Good, because I have the feeling what we’re about to do isn’t legal, at least by Linean standards, and I’d rather not break laws while people are awake to catch me. Kellan!”

  A stamp and a whicker told him that Savil’s Companion had heard him.

  “Get Savil awake and tell her what we know and where we’re going. And why.”

  Snort of agreement.

  “’Fandes, wait a minute, I’d better change.” He began stripping his clothing off, cursing the laces that wouldn’t come undone, and snapping them when he realized how much time this was taking.

  She swung her head around to stare at him frantically. :We can’t afford the time!:

  “We can’t afford not to take the time,” he said reasonably. “Think about it, love. I had damn well better be in uniform. Even the Lineans will think twice about stopping a Valdemar Herald, but a man on a white horse won�
�t rate that second thought. I am something less than fond of being a target, even a moving one.” He rummaged in the saddlebags, coming up with a slightly crumpled set of Whites. “Thought I left those here. Thank the gods for battle-line habits.” He shrugged on the breeches and tunic and belted them tight; pulled on the boots he’d pulled off when he’d wormed into his blankets. “Good thing I’ve only got the one pair of boots. Damn, I wish I’d thought to leave a sword here.”

  :Meke left one in the tack bin by the stud.:

  “Bless you—”

  He vaulted the railings to fetch it; it was not a good blade, but it was serviceable. He strapped it and his long dagger on, inserted the short ones into their pockets in his boots.

  His cloak—he looked for it quickly; he’d need it out there. There it was, half tangled with the blankets. He pulled it out of the tangle, shook it out, flung it over his shoulders, fastened the throat-latch, and returned to the task of harnessing Yfandes. He swung the saddle onto her back, gave a quick pull of the cinch, got chest- and rump-bands buckled and snugged in—she was ready.

  He snatched her hackamore off its peg and tossed it over her head; he mounted while she shook it into place as the bells on it jangled madly. She booted the bottom of the door into the paddock open with her nose while he grabbed for the reins and brought them over her neck, and then with a leap a wild deer would envy she was off into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 7

  GODS‚ IT’S LIKE another Border-alert. Though Yfandes was frantic with the call in her mind, Vanyel kept his wits about him and reached out with a finger of power to snuff the lantern as they cleared the stable-door.

  Yfandes raced across the black velvet of the paddock, hooves pounding dully on the turf, uncannily surefooted in all the moon-cast, dancing shadows. He’d forgotten for a moment that their path out was going to be blocked. He glanced ahead barely in time to see the fence at the far end coming at them and set himself instinctively when he felt her gather under him. They flew over the bars and landed with a jar that drove his teeth together and threw him against the pommel of the saddle. He fought himself back into balance and felt her begin to hesitate in midstride.

  :Van?:

  He clenched his teeth and wrenched himself into place. :Just go—I’m fine.:

  She stretched out flat to the ground and ran with all the heart that was in her. Vanyel pulled himself down as close to the level of her outstretched neck as he could, kept his silhouette low and clean, and balanced his weight just behind her shoulders where she could carry it easiest. And fed her with his power.

  No one except another Herald could know how exhausting “just riding” could be, especially on a ride like this. He was constantly moving, altering his balance to help her without thinking about it. It was work, and involved tiny muscle adjustments to complement her exertions.

  He kept his cloak tucked in all around, but it didn’t help much; the wind cut right through it, and chilled him terribly. His hands and face were like ice before a candlemark had passed. The wind whipped his hair into snarls and numbed his ears, and there was nothing he could do except endure it all, and keep his Othersenses alert for trouble.

  I’ll have to do something about the Border Guards when we get there. Something that isn’t intrusive.

  The Border—friendly in name only, neutral in truth—was guarded by sentries and watchtowers. They reached it at just about midnight, and Vanyel blinked in amazement when the first of those towers loomed up above the trees on the horizon, a black column against moon-whitened clouds. He’d had no way to judge Yfandes’ speed in the dark, only the wind in his face and the thin, steady pull of power from him, power that he in turn drew from the nodes and power-streams they passed as they came into sensing range. Her speed wasn’t natural, and required magic to sustain over any distance.

  :The watchtowers—: That was the first time she’d Mindspoken him since they’d leapt the paddock fence, and her mind-voice, though preoccupied, was dark with apprehension. :The Border Guards—:

  :I’ve got it figured,: he told her; got a wash of relief, and then felt her turn her attention back to the race and her footing, secure in the belief that he would handle the rest.

  He closed his eyes against distractions, and Looked out ahead. He found and identified each mind that could possibly see them passing—those who were awake and those who were not—he left nothing to chance anymore. Not after he’d once been detected on a crawl through the enemy camp by a cook who happened to head for the privy-trench at just the wrong time. So, calling on more of that node-energy he’d garnered on the run, he built a Seeming that touched all those minds.

  There is nothing on the road, his mind whispered to theirs. Only shadows under the moon, the drumming of a partridge, the hooves of startled deer. You see nothing, you hear only sounds you have heard before. There is nothing on the road.

  There were plenty of circumstances that could break this Seeming. It was too delicate to hold against a counterspell and it would certainly break if they had the misfortune to run into someone physically. But anyone touched by the spell would see only shadows, hear only sounds that could easily be explained away.

  More importantly, they would feel a subtle aversion to investigating those sounds, a bored lassitude that would keep them in the shelter of their posts.

  They passed the Border-Guard station, vaulting the twin gates that barred the road, Valdemar and Lineas sides, as lightly as leaves on the wind. The Linean Guard was actually leaning on the gatepost, lounging beneath a lantern, his face a startlingly pale blur above his dark uniform. He looked directly at them, and Vanyel felt him yawn as they leaped the gate. Then he was lost in the dark behind as they raced on. Vanyel did not look back, but set the spell to break the moment they were out of sight. He would cloak his own passing; he would not leave the Border to spell-mazed guardians.

  He spent no more magical energies in such spells; he didn’t particularly care if the common folk of Lineas saw them. They were familiar enough with the uniform of the Heralds. If any Lineans saw him, they would assume, reasonably enough, that he’d been properly dealt with at the Border and belonged here.

  Yfandes raced on, through pocket-sized villages in tiny, sheltered river-hollows, even through a larger town or two. All were as dark as places long abandoned. Finally, in the dead hours of the night, the time when death and birth lie closest, they came to Highjorune.

  • • •

  Most of the city was as dead and dark as the villages, but not all; no city slept the night through. More and stronger magic would be required to get them to their goal—whatever it was—without being stopped. Vanyel reached, seeking node-energy to use to pass the city gates as they had the Border, and recoiled a little in surprise.

  For a place so adamantly against mages and their Gifts, Highjorune was crawling with mage-energy. It lay on the intersection of three—five—seven lines of force, none of them trivial, all flowing to meet at a node beneath it, liquid rainbows humming the random songs of power, strong enough for even new-made Adepts to use, provided they had the sensitivity to detect them—though the node where they met would be too wild, too strong for any but an experienced Adept.

  :Yfandes‚ stop a bit.:

  Yfandes obeyed. He raised his hands, preparing to spin out a true spell of illusion and sound-dampening, taking the power directly from the closest stream, bracing himself for the shock as his mind met the flow of energy.

  The city gate was too well-guarded and well-lit, and the city itself too crowded with people to chance the kind of spell he’d worked on the Border Guards. He wanted to hurry the spell, but knew he didn’t dare. Careful—he told himself. This is Savil’s area of expertise, not yours. Rush it, and you could lose it.

  Yfandes fidgeted, her bridle-bells chiming, her hooves making a deeper ringing on the hard paving of the road. :Hurry,: she urged, her own Mindvoice dense with fear. :Please
. He’ll die, they’ll die—there’s another Companion, she’s nearly gone mad, she can’t speak—:

  :’Fandes‚ don’t interrupt. I’m working as fast as I can, but if I don’t pull power now, I won’t have anything when we need it.: The raw power was beginning to fill him, fill all the echoing emptiness. Natural, slow recovery had not been able to do this! He was going to have to wait until the achingly empty reservoirs of power within him were full again before he could spin a shield this complicated, though at this rate it wasn’t going to take long. Besides, he was all too likely to need power. If everything went to hell and he had to Gate out of here—

  Gods. It’s like—eating sunlight, breathing rainbows, drinking wind— Force poured into him, wild and untamed, and for the first time in months he felt complete and revived. There was nothing this strong anywhere near Forst Reach.

  No mystery now why the Mavelans wanted Lineas, not with this kind of power running through Highjorune going untapped and unused. He could almost pity the magelords. It must be like living next to people who mined up precious gems with their copper, and threw the gems out with the tailings, but wouldn’t let you in to glean them. Got to hurry this. We’re running out of time.

  Cautiously he pulled at the power, until it responded, flowing faster into him.

  That’s it. Now I make it mine.

  He tapped into the wild power he’d taken, learned it, tamed it to his hand.

  He was sweating now, both with effort and impatience. Gods, this takes too much time, but I can’t afford any surprises.

  Slowly, carefully, he began to spin the energy out into threads, visible only to his Othersight, making a cocoon of the threads that would absorb sound within it, and send the eyes that lit upon it to looking elsewhere. Layer on layer, thread on delicate thread, this was a spell that required absolute concentration and attention, for the slightest defect would mean a place where the eye could catch and hold, where sound could leak out. Yfandes stood like a statue of ice in the moonlight, no longer fidgeting.