The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Read online

  And they would talk if one of them got a glimpse of Vanyel in tears. It would be all over the keep in a candlemark.

  He lit his candle at the lantern, and made another stately progress back to his room. Only when he had securely bolted the door behind him did he let go of the harpstring-taut control he’d maintained outside. He began shaking so hard that the candle flame danced madly, and spilled drops of hot wax on his hands.

  He lit the others in their sconces by the door and over the bed as quickly as he could, and placed the one he was clutching in the holder on his table before he could burn himself with it.

  He sat down heavily on the rucked-up blankets, sucking the side of his thumb where hot wax had scorched him, and staring at his belongings, trying to decide what his father was likely to let him take with him.

  He didn’t even bother to consider his instruments. They were far safer where they were. Maybe someday—if he survived this—he could come back and get them. But there was no chance, none at all, that he could sneak them out in his belongings. And if his father found them packed up—

  He’d smash them. He’d smash them, and laugh, and wait for me to say or do something about it.

  He finally got up and knelt on the chill stone beside the chest that held his clothing. He raised the heavy, carved lid, and stared down at the top layer for a long moment before lifting it out.

  Tunics, shirts, breeches, hose—all in the deep, jewel-tones of sapphire and aquamarine and emerald that he knew looked so good on him, or his favorite black, silvery or smoky gray. All clothing he wore because it was one tiny way to defy his father—because his father could wear the same three outfits all year, all of them identical, and never notice, never care. Because his father didn’t give a damn about what he or anyone else wore—and it angered him that Vanyel did.

  Vanyel pondered the clothing, stroking the soft raime of a shirt without much thinking about what he was doing. He won’t dare keep me from taking the clothes, though I bet he’d like to. I’ll have to look presentable when I get there, or I’ll shame him—and the stuff Mekeal and the rest scruff around in is not presentable.

  He began rolling the clothing carefully, and stowing it into the traveling packs kept in the bottom of the chest. Though he didn’t dare take an instrument, he managed to secrete some folded music, some of his favorite pieces, between the pages of the books he packed. Bards are thick as birds in a cherry grove at Haven, he thought with a lump in his throat. Maybe I can get one to trade an old gittern for a cloak-brooch or something. It won’t be the same as my lovely Woodlark, but it’ll be better than nothing. Provided I can keep Aunt Unsavory from taking it away from me.

  It was all too quickly done. He found himself on the floor beside the filled packs with nothing more to do. He looked around his room; there was nothing left to pack that he would miss—except for those few things that he wanted to take but didn’t dare.

  Pretty fine life I’ve led, when all of it fits in four packs.

  He got slowly to his feet, feeling utterly exhausted, yet almost too weary to sleep. He blew out all the candles except the one at his bedside, slipped out of his robe, tucked it into the top of the last pack, and climbed back into bed.

  Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to blow out the last candle. While there was light in the room he could keep the tears back. But darkness would set them free.

  He lay rigid, staring silently at the candlelight wavering on the slanted ceiling, until his eyes burned.

  • • •

  All the brothers and fosterlings shared rooms; Mekeal had shared his with Vanyel until his older brother’s broken arm had sent Mekeal down here a year early. And when Vanyel hadn’t made the move down—Mekeal hadn’t been particularly unhappy.

  So for a while he had this one to himself, at which point he found that he really hadn’t liked being alone after all. He liked company. Now, though—at least since late spring—he’d shared with Joserlin.

  That had been fine with him. Jos was the next thing to an adult; Mekeal had been excited to have him move in, pleased with his company, and proud that Jos had treated him like an equal. And Jos talked to him; he didn’t talk much, but when he did it was worth listening to. But he’d already said his say earlier tonight—so Mekeal had thought.

  So he was kind of surprised when Jos’ deep voice broke the silence right after they’d blown the candles out.

  “Mekeal, why are you younglings so hard on your brother?”

  Mekeal didn’t have to ask which brother, it was pretty plain who Jos meant. But—“hard on him?” How could you be hard on somebody who didn’t give a damn about anything but himself?

  “’Cause he’s a—toad,” Mekeal said indignantly. “He’s got no more backbone than a mushroom! He’s a baby, a coward—an’ the only thing he cares about’s hisself! He’s just like Mama—she’s gone and made him into a mama-pet, a shirker.”

  “Hmm? Really? What makes you so sure of that last?”

  “Father says, and Jervis—”

  “Because he won’t let Jervis pound him like a set of pells.” Joserlin snorted with absolute contempt. “Can’t say as I much blame him, myself. If I was built like him, with Jervis on my back, reckon I’d find a hiding-hole, too. I sure’s Haven wouldn’t go givin’ Jervis more chances t’ hit on me.”

  Mekeal’s mouth fell open in shock, and he squirmed around in his bed to face where Joserlin was, a dark bulk to his right. “But—but—Jervis—he’s armsmaster!”

  “He’s a ham-handed lackwit,” came the flat reply. “You forget, Meke, I was fostered with Lord Kendrick; I learned under a real armsmaster; Master Orser, and he’s a good one. Jervis wouldn’t be anything but another armsman if he hadn’t been an old friend of your father’s. He don’t deserve to be armsmaster. Havens, Meke, he goes after the greenest of you like you was his age, his weight, and his experience! He don’t pull his blows half the time; and he don’t bother to show you how to take ’em, just lets you fumble it out for yourselves. An’ he don’t know but one bare style, an’ that one’s Holy Writ!”

  “But—”

  “But nothin’. He’s no great master, let me tell you; by my way of thinkin’ he’s no master at all. If I was Vanyel, I’d’a poisoned myself before I let the old goat take his spleen out on me again! I heard what happened this spring—about how he took after Van an’ beat him down a half dozen times, an’ then broke his arm.”

  “But—he was cheating!” Mekeal protested.

  “No such thing; Radevel told me what really happened. Before that bastard managed to convince you lot that you didn’t see Van getting beaten up ’cause he bested the old peabrain. That weren’t nothing but plain old bullying, an’ if my old armsmaster had treated one of his pupils that way, he’d have been kicked off the top of the tower by Lord Kendrick hisself!”

  Mekeal could hardly believe what he was hearing. “But—” he protested again. “But Father—”

  “Your father’s a damn fool,” Joserlin replied shortly. “An’ I won’t beg your pardon for sayin’ so. He’s a damn fool for keepin’ Jervis as Master, an’ he’s a damn fool for treatin’ young Vanyel the way he does. He’s beggin’ for trouble ev’ry time he pushes that boy. Half of what Vanyel does he made him do—to spite him. You mark my words; I seen this before, only the opposite. Place next to where I was fostered at your age, old Lady Cedrys at Briary Holding. Old Cedrys, she was big on scholarly stuff; nothin’ would do but for her oldest t’ be at the books night and day. ’Cept her oldest was like you, mad for the Guard. And the more Cedrys pushed books, the more Liaven ran for the armsmaster at our place, till one day he kept right on running and didn’t stop till he’d signed up with a common mercenary-company, an’ she never saw him again.”

  “But—Jos—you’ve seen him, the way he lords it over us like he was King of the Gods or something—keeping his nose in the air every time he looks
at us.”

  “Uh-huh,” Joserlin replied out of the dark, “And some of it’s ’cause he’s spoiled flat rotten by Lady Treesa. I won’t deny that; he’s one right arrogant little wart an’ he sure knows he’s the prettiest thing on the holding. Makes sure everybody else knows it, too. But I can’t help but wonder how much he sticks that nose in the air around you lot ’cause you seem so bent on rubbin’ it in the dirt. Hmm?”

  Mekeal could find nothing to say in reply.

  • • •

  I could run away, Vanyel thought, almost dizzy with weariness, but still finding sleep eluding him. I could run away—I think—

  He chewed his lip until it bled. If I did, what could I do? Go for sanctuary? Gods, no—there is no way I was meant to be a priest! I don’t write well enough to be a scribe, and besides, there isn’t a lord would hire me once they found out who I was. Father would see to that, I know he would. Oh, gods, why didn’t you make me a Bard?

  He licked the corner of his mouth, struck with a kindred thought. I could try my hand at minstrelsy, couldn’t I? I couldn’t, I daren’t show my face at any large courts, but there’s a bit of coin to be had singing almost anywhere else.

  For a moment it seemed the way out. He need only slip across to the storeroom and get his instruments, then run off before dawn. He could be far away before anyone realized he was gone, and not just hiding again.

  But—no.

  My hand—my hand. Until it’s working right, I can’t do anything but the barest simple music. If I can’t play right, there’s no way I could look for a place in a household. And without the kind of noble patronage I can’t look for, I won’t be able to do much more than keep myself fed. I can’t live like that, I just can’t! I can’t sing for farmers in the taverns and the folks in the fairs, I can’t go begging like that, not to peasants. Not unless it looks like Savil is going to poison me, and I don’t bloody think that’s likely. She’s a Herald; Heralds don’t do that sort of thing even to please their brothers. He sighed, and the candle went out. No, it won’t work. There’s no way to escape.

  He waited, feeling the lump growing in his throat, threatening to undermine him again. The tears were going to come—going to weaken him still further, push him down into helplessness.

  The darkness closed around him like a fist, and he fought against crying with such single-mindedness that he never quite knew when he passed from a half-daze into troubled, dream-haunted sleep.

  • • •

  He was alone, completely alone. For once in his life there was no one pushing him, no one mocking him. Above him was only dull gray sky; around him a plain of ice and snow stretched glittering to the horizon.

  Everywhere he looked there was nothing but that barren, white plain. Completely empty, completely featureless. It was so cold he felt numb.

  Numb. Not aching inside. Not ready to weep at a single word. Just—cold.

  No pain. Just—nothing. He just stood, for several long moments, savoring the unfeeling, the lack of pain.

  Safe. He was safe here. No one could touch him. As long as he stayed in this isolation, this wilderness, no one could touch him.

  He opened his eyes wide in the dream, and breathed the words out. “If no one touches me—no one can hurt me. All I have to do is never care.”

  It was like a revelation, a gift from the hitherto-uncaring gods. This place, this wilderness of ice—if he could hold it inside him—if he could not-care enough—he could be safe. No matter what happened, who hated him, no one could ever hurt him again.

  Not ever again.

  CHAPTER 3

  IN THE MORNING all he had to do was think of his dream, and he was cold inside, ice filling the place within him where the hurt and loneliness had been. He could be as remote and isolated as a hermit on a frozen mountaintop, any time he chose.

  It was like taking a drug against pain. An antidote to loneliness.

  Indifference was a defense now, and not just a pose.

  Could this armor of indifference serve as an offensive weapon too? It was worth a try.

  After all, he had nothing to lose; the worst had already occurred.

  He dressed quickly; riding leathers that had originally been brown that he had ordered redyed to black—without his father’s knowledge. He was very glad that he’d done so, now. Black always made him look taller, older—and just a little bit sinister. It was a good choice for a confrontation. It was also the color of death; he wanted to remind his father of just how often the man had Vanyel—elsewhere.

  He had second thoughts about his instruments, at least the lute, which he had been permitted. He wouldn’t pack it, but it should be here, else Lord Withen might wonder where it was.

  Besides, if he could confront Withen with it, then force the issue by packing it in front of his eyes—

  It might gain him something. So he slipped quickly across to his hiding place and back before the sun actually rose, and when Withen came pounding on his door, he was ensconced below the window with the instrument in his hands, picking out a slow, but intricate little melody. One where his right hand was doing most of the work. He had staged the entire scene with the deliberate intent to make it seem as if he had been there for hours.

  Lord Withen had, no doubt, expected to find his oldest son still in his bed—had expected to rouse out a confused and profoundly unhappy boy into the thin, gray light of post-dawn. Had undoubtedly counted on finding Vanyel as vulnerable as he had been last night.

  That would have pleased you, wouldn’t it, Father—it would have given you such confirmation of my worthlessness. . . .

  Instead, he flung the door open after a single knock—to find Vanyel awake, packed, and already dressed for travel, lute suddenly stilled by his entrance.

  Vanyel looked up, and regarded his father with what he hoped was a cool and distant arrogance, exactly the kind of expression one would turn upon a complete stranger who had suddenly intruded himself without invitation.

  His surprise and the faint touch of unease in his eyes gave Vanyel the first feelings of gratification he’d had in a long time.

  He placed his lute on the bed beside him, and stood up slowly, drawing himself up as pridefully erect as he could. “As you see, sir”—he lifted a single finger and nodded his head very slightly in the direction of his four packs—“I am prepared already.”

  Lord Withen was obviously taken further aback by his tone and abstracted manner. He coughed, and Vanyel realized with a sudden surge of vindictive joy that he, for once, had the advantage in a confrontation.

  Then Withen flushed as Vanyel stooped quickly and caught up the neck of his lute, detuning it with swift and practiced fingers and stuffing it quickly into its traveling bag.

  That was a challenge even Withen recognized. He glowered, and made as if to take the instrument from his son—

  And Vanyel drew himself up to his full height. He said nothing. He only gave back Withen a stare that told him—

  Push me. Do it. See what happens when you do. I have absolutely nothing to lose and I don’t care what happens to me.

  Withen actually backed up a pace at the look in his son’s eyes.

  “You may take your toy, but don’t think this means you can spend all your time lazing about with those worthless Bards,” Withen blustered, trying to regain the high ground he’d lost the moment he thrust the door open. “You’re going to Savil to learn something other than—”

  “I never imagined I would be able to for a moment—sir,” Vanyel interrupted, and produced a bitter not-smile. “I’m quite certain,” he continued with carefully measured venom, “that you have given my aunt very explicit instructions on the subject. And on my education. Sir.”

  Withen flushed again. Vanyel felt another rush of poisonous pleasure. You know and I know what this is really about, don’t we, Father? But you want me to pretend it’s someth
ing else, at least in public. Too bad. I don’t intend to make this at all easy on you, and I don’t intend to be graceful in public. I have the high ground, Father. I don’t give a damn anymore, and that gives me a weapon you don’t have.

  Withen made an abrupt gesture, and a pair of servants entered Vanyel’s room from the corridor beyond, each picking up two packs and scurrying out of the door as quickly as they could. Vanyel pulled the shoulder strap of the lute over his own head, arranging the instrument on his back, as a clear sign that he did not intend anyone else to be handling it.

  “You needn’t see me off, sir,” he said, when Withen made no move to follow the servants with their burdens. “I’m sure you have—more important things to attend to.”

  Withen winced, visibly. Vanyel strolled silently past him, then turned to deliver a parting shot, carefully calculated to hurt as much as only a truth that should not be spoken could.

  “After all, sir,” he cast calmly over his shoulder, “it isn’t as if I mattered. You have four other potential—and far worthier—heirs. I am sorry you saw fit not to inform my mother of my hour of departure; it would have been pleasant to say farewell to someone who will miss my presence.”

  Withen actually flinched.

  Vanyel raised one eyebrow. “Don’t bother to wish me well, sir. I know what Father Leren preaches about the importance of truth, and I would not want you to perjure yourself.”

  The stricken look on Withen’s face made a cold flame of embittered satisfaction spring up in Vanyel’s ice-shrouded soul. He turned on his heel and strode firmly down the corridor after the scuttling servants, not giving his father the chance to reply, nor to issue orders to the servants.

  He passed the two servants with his packs in the dim, gray-lit hallway, and gestured peremptorily that they should follow him. Again, he felt that blackly bitter satisfaction; obviously Lord Withen had intended that his son should have scampered along in the servants’ wake. But the sudden reversal of roles had confused Withen and left the servants without clear instructions. Vanyel seized the unlooked-for opportunity and held to it with all his might. For once, just this once, Vanyel had gotten the upper hand in a situation, and he did not intend to relinquish it until he was forced to.