The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Read online

  “Right,” Savil replied with a brisk nod. “Only don’t think in terms of ‘interruption,’ lad. Think in terms of ‘attack.’ Like now.”

  She flung a levinbolt at his barrier without giving him any more warning than that, and had the satisfaction, not only of Seeing it deflected harmlessly upward to be absorbed by the Work Room shields, but Seeing that he shifted his defenses to meet it with no chance to prepare at all.

  “Now that was good, my lad,” she approved, and Tylendel’s brown eyes warmed in response to the compliment. “So—”

  Someone knocked on the door of the Work Room, and Savil bit off what she was going to tell him with a muffled curse of annoyance. “Now what?” she muttered, shoving back her tall stool and edging around Tylendel’s mage-barrier to answer the door.

  The Work Room was a permanently shielded, circular chamber within the Palace complex that the Herald-Mages used when training their proteges in the Mage-aspects of their Gifts. The shielding on this room was incredibly ancient and powerful. It was so powerful that the shielding actually muffled physical sound; you couldn’t even hear the Death Bell toll inside this room. One of the duties of every Herald-Mage in the Circle was to augment the protections here whenever they had the time and energy to spare. This shielding had to be strong; strong enough to contain magical “accidents” that would reduce the sparse furniture within the room to splinters. Those “accidents” were the reason why the walls were stone, the furniture limited to a couple of cheap stools and an equally cheap table, and why every Herald-Mage put full personal shields on himself and his pupil immediately on entering the door of this room.

  Those accidents were also the reason why anyone who disturbed the practice sessions going on in the Work Room had better have a damned good reason for doing so.

  Savil yanked the door open, and glared at the fair-haired, blue-uniformed Palace Guard who stood there, at rigid and proper attention. “Well?” she said, letting a bit of ice creep into her voice.

  “Your pardon, Herald-Mage,” he replied, his expression as stiff as his spine, “but you left orders to be notified as soon as your nephew arrived.” He handed her a folded and sealed letter. “His escort wished you to have this.”

  She took it and stuffed it in a pocket of her breeches without looking at it. “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered. “So I did.”

  She sighed, and became a bit more civil. “Thank you, Guard. Send him and whatever damned escort he brought with him to my quarters; I’ll get with them as soon as I can.”

  The Guard saluted and turned sharply on his heel; Savil shut the door before he finished his pivot, and turned back to her pupil.

  “All right, lad, how long have we been at this?”

  Tylendel draped an arm over his curly head and grinned. “Long enough for my stomach to start growling. I’m sorry, Savil, but I’m hungry. That’s probably why my concentration’s going.”

  She shook her finger at him. “Tchah, younglings and their stomachs! And just what do you plan to do if you get hungry in the middle of an arcane duel? Hmm?”

  “Eat,” he replied impishly. She threw up her hands in mock despair.

  “All right, off with you—ah, ah,” she warned, wagging her finger at him as he made ready to dispel the barrier the quick and dirty way; by pulling the energies into the ground. “Properly, my lad—”

  He bowed to her in the finest courtly manner. She snorted. “Get on with it, lad, if you’re in such a hurry to stuff your face.”

  She Watched him carefully as he took down the barrier—properly—with quite a meticulous attention to little details, like releasing the barrier-energy back into the same flow he’d taken it from. She nodded approvingly when he stepped across the place where the border had been and presented himself to have the shields she’d put on him taken off.

  “You’re getting better, Tylendel,” she said, touching the middle of his forehead with her index finger, and absorbing the shield back into herself. Her skin tingled for a moment as she neutralized the overflow. “You’re coming along much faster than I guessed you would. Another year—no, less, I think—and you’ll be ready to try your hand at a Border stint with me. And not much longer than that, and I’ll shove you into Whites.”

  “It’s my teacher,” he replied impishly, seizing her hand and kissing it, his long hair falling over her wrist and tickling it. “How can I help but succeed in such attractive surroundings?”

  She snatched her hand back, and cuffed his ear lightly. “Get on with you! Even if I wasn’t old enough to be your grandmother, we both know I’m the wrong sex for you to find me attractive!”

  He ducked the blow, grinning, and pulled the door open for her. “Oh, Savil, don’t you know that the real truth is that I’d lost my heart to my teacher, knew I had no hope, and couldn’t accept a lesser woman than—”

  “Out!” she sputtered, laughing so hard she nearly choked. “Liar! Before I do you damage!”

  He ran off down the wood-paneled hallway, his own laughter echoing behind him.

  She closed the Work Room door behind her and leaned against the wall, still laughing, holding her aching side. The imp. More charm than any five younglings, and all the mischief of a young cat! I haven’t laughed like this in years—not the way I have since I acquired Tylendel as a protege. That boy is such a treasure—if I can just wean him out of that stupid feud his family is involved in, he’ll make a fine Herald-Mage. If I don’t kill him first!

  She gulped down several long breaths of air, and composed herself. I’m going to have to deal with that spoiled brat of a nephew in a few minutes, she told herself sternly, using the thought to sober herself. And I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to do with him. Other than have him strangled—no, that’s not such a good notion, it would please Withen too much. Great good gods, the man has turned into such a pompous ass in the last few years! I hardly recognized him. That ridiculous letter a week ago could have come from our father.

  She smoothed her hair with her hands (checking to see that the knot of it at the base of her neck had not come undone), tugged on the hem of her tunic, and made sure that the door of the Work Room was closed and mage-locked before heading up the hall toward her personal quarters. The heels of her boots clicked briskly against the stone of the hallway, and she nodded at courtiers and other Heralds as they passed her.

  If only Treesa hadn’t spoiled the lad so outrageously, there might be something there worth salvaging. Now, I don’t know. I certainly don’t have the time to find out for myself. Huh. I wonder—if I put the boy into lessons with the other Herald-trainees, then leave him to his own devices the rest of the time, that just might tell me something. If he doesn’t turn to gambling and hunting and wild parties—if he becomes bored with the flitter-heads in the Court—

  She pushed open one half of the double doors to the new Heralds’ quarters, and strode through. Her own suite was just at the far end and on the left side of the hall.

  Changes, changes. Five years ago we were crammed in four to a room, and not enough space to throw a tantrum in. Now we rattle around in this shiny-new barracks like a handful of peas in a bucket. And me with a suite and not getting forlorn looks from Jays or Tantras because one of the rooms is vacant. I can’t see how we’ll ever get enough bodies to fill this place . . .

  The door stood slightly ajar; she shoved it out of the way, and paused a few steps into her outer room, crossing her arms and surveying the trio on the couch beneath her collection of Hawkbrother featherwork masks at the end of the room.

  Only one of them was actually on the couch; Vanyel. Beside him, only too obviously playing his jailers, stood a pair of Withen’s armsmen. On Vanyel’s right, a short, stocky man—axeman, if Savil was any judge. On his left, one about a head taller and very swarthy; a common swordsman. And Vanyel, sitting very stiffly on the edge of the couch.

  Savil heaved a strictly internal
sigh. Lad, a year obviously hasn’t improved you except in looks—and that’s no advantage. You’re too damned handsome, and you know it.

  Since she’d last seen him, Vanyel’s face and body had refined. It was a face that could (and probably did) break hearts—broad brow, high cheekbones, pointed chin, sensuous lips—fine-arched black brows, and incredible silver eyes; all of it crowned with thick, straight, blue-black hair most women would kill to possess. The body of an acrobat; nicely muscled, if not over-tall.

  And the posture was arrogant, the mouth set in sullen silence; the eyes sulky, and at the same time, challenging her.

  Lord and Lady. Do I believe my fool brother, or do I take the chance that a good portion of what’s wrong with the boy is due to Withen trying to mold him into his own image?

  While she tried to make up her mind, she nodded at the two armsmen. “Thank you, good sirs,” she said, crisply. “You have performed your duty admirably. You may go.”

  The taller one coughed uneasily, and gave her an uncomfortable look.

  “Well?” she asked, sensing something coming—something she wasn’t going to like. Something petty and small-minded—

  “The boy’s horse—”

  “Stays, of course,” she interrupted, seeing the flash of hurt in Vanyel’s eyes before he masked it, and reacting to it without needing to think about which way she was going to jump.

  “But, Herald, it’s a valuable animal!” the armsman protested, his mouth thinning unhappily. “Lord Withen—my lord—surely you’ve beasts enough here—”

  “What do you think this is?” she snapped, turning on him with unconcealed anger. Gods, if this was symptomatic of the boy’s trip here, no wonder he was sullen.

  Take the boy’s horse, will you? You bloody little— She took control of herself, and gave them irrefutable reasons to take back to their master. They were, after all, only following orders.

  “You think we run a damned breeding farm here? We haven’t horses to spare. The boy will be taking equitation lessons, of course, and he’s hardly going to be able to go over the jumping course on foot!”

  “But—” the armsman sputtered, not prepared to give up. “Surely the Companions—”

  “Bear their Chosen and no other.” She took a deep breath and forced her temper to cool. The man was making her more than annoyed with his obstinacy, he was making her quite thoroughly enraged, and if this was a measure of what Vanyel had been subjected to over the past few years, well, perhaps the boy wasn’t entirely to blame for his current behavior.

  “I said,” she told the men, glaring, “you may go.”

  “But—I have certain orders—certain things I am to tell you—”

  “I am countermanding those orders,” she answered swiftly, invoking all of her authority, not just as a Herald, but as one of the most powerful Herald-Mages in the Heraldic Circle, second only to Queen’s Own, Seneschal’s, and Lord-Marshal’s Herald. “This is my place, and my jurisdiction. And you may tell my brother Withen that I will make up my own mind what is to be done with the boy. If he wants to deposit young Vanyel in my care, then he’ll have to put up with my judgments. And you can tell him I said so. Good day, gentlemen.” She smiled with honeyed venom. “Or need I call a Guard to escort you?”

  They had no choice but to take themselves off, though they did so with extreme reluctance. Savil waited until they had gone, and were presumably out of hearing range, before taking the letter she’d been given out of her pocket. She held it up so that Vanyel could see that it had not been opened, then slowly, deliberately tore it in four pieces and dropped the pieces on the floor.

  Margret is going to have my hide, she thought wryly. If she’s told me once not to throw things on the floor, she’s told me a hundred times—

  “I don’t know what Withen had to say in that letter,” she told the strange and silent boy. Was that sullenness in the set of his mouth, or fear? Was that suspicion in the back of his eyes, or arrogance? “Frankly, I don’t care. This much I can tell you—young man, you are going to stand or fall with me by your own actions. I tell you now that I very much resent what Withen has done; I have three proteges to train, and no time to waste on cosseting a daydreamer.” Might as well let him know the truth about how I feel right out and right now; he’ll find out from the gossip sooner or later. I can’t afford to have him pulling something stupid in the hopes I’ll pull him out of it and give him some attention. “I have no intention of trying to make you into something you aren’t. But I also have no intention of allowing you to make a fool out of me, or inconvenience me.”

  There was a whisper of sound at the door.

  Without turning around, Savil knew from the brush of embarrassed Mindspeech behind her that Tylendel and her other two proteges, Mardic and Donni, had come in behind her, not expecting to find anyone except Savil here. They had stopped in the doorway—startled at finding their mentor dressing down a strange boy, and more than a bit embarrassed to have walked in at such a touchy moment.

  And of course, now it would be even more embarrassing for them to walk back out and try to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  “You’ll be taking lessons with some of the Herald-trainees and with some of the young courtiers as soon as I get a chance to make the arrangements,” Savil continued serenely, gesturing slightly with her right hand for her three “children” to come up beside her. “Now—Vanyel, this is Donni, this Mardic, and this Tylendel. As Herald-trainees, they outrank you; let’s get that straight right now.”

  “Yes, Aunt,” Vanyel said without changing his expression a hair.

  “Now what that actually means is not one damned thing, except I expect you to be polite.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “My servant Margret tends to us; breakfast and lunch are cold and left over on that table over there. Supper will be with the Court for you once I get you introduced. If you miss it, you can take your chances with us. Lessons, hmm. For now—oh—Donni, I want you to take him with you in the morning and turn him over to Kayla; Withen was rather insistent on his getting weapons work, and for once I agree with him.”

  “Yes, Savil,” the short, tousle-haired trainee said calmly. Savil blessed the girl’s soothing presence, and also blessed the fact that she was lifebound to Mardic. Nothing shook a lifebond except the death of one of the pair. Vanyel’s handsome face wasn’t going to turn her head.

  She rather dreaded the effect of that face on the rest of the younglings at the Court, though.

  “Mardic?”

  The imperturbable farmer’s son nodded his round head without speaking.

  “Take him to Bardic Collegium in the afternoon for me, and get them to put him into History, Literature, and—” She wrinkled her brow in thought as her three proteges arranged themselves around her.

  “How about Religions?” Tylendel suggested. He raised one dark-gold eyebrow and Mindspoke his teacher in Private-mode, his lips thinning a little. :He’s lovely, Savil. And he Feels like he’s either an arrogant little bastard, or somebody’s been hurting him inside for an awfully long time. Frankly, I couldn’t tell you which. Is he going to be as much trouble as I think?:

  :Don’t know, lad,: Savil Mindspoke soberly. :But don’t get wrapped up with him, not until we know. And don’t fall in love with him. I have no idea where his preferences lie, but even Withen didn’t hint he was shay’a’chern. I don’t want to have to patch your broken heart up. Again.:

  :Not a chance, Teacher,: Tylendel mind-grinned. :I’ve learned better.:

  :Huh. I should hope. Oh, Lord of Light—I did give all of you grabs at Dominick’s old room, didn’t I? I don’t want to start this off with hurt feelings—:

  :Yes, you did, and none of us wanted to move,: Tylendel mind-chuckled. :The garden door may be nice but it’s drafty as the Cave of the Winds. If I had someone to keep me warm—:

  :I could get you a do
g,: she suggested, and watched his lips twitch as he tried not to smile. :Well, that’s one worry out of the way.: Then said aloud, “All right, Vanyel, History, Literature and Religions it is, and weapons work with Kayla in the morning. She teaches the young highborns, and she’s very good—and if I find out you’ve been avoiding her lessons, I’ll take a strap to you.”

  Vanyel flushed at that, but said nothing.

  “Donni, Mardic, Tylendel, give Vanyel a hand with his things; we’ll put him in the garden chamber. I had Margret get it ready for him this morning.”

  As the three trainees scooped up a pack apiece, and Vanyel bent slowly to take the fourth, Savil added a last admonition.

  “Vanyel, what you do with your free time is your own business,” she said, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended. “But if you get yourself into trouble, and there’s plenty of it to get into around here, don’t expect me to pull you out. I can’t, and I won’t. You’re an imposition. It’s your job to see that you become less of one.”

  • • •

  Vanyel thanked the trainees for their help as they dropped his packs to one side of the door, speaking in a voice that sounded dull and exhausted even in his own ears.

  The blond one hesitated for a moment—just long enough to give him what looked like a genuine smile, before slipping out the door.

  But despite that smile, Vanyel was mortally glad when they didn’t linger. He closed the door behind them, then leaned up against it with his eyes shut. The entire day had been confusing and wearying, an emotional obstacle course that he was just happy to have survived.

  The worst of it had been the past couple of hours; first, being shuttled off to Savil’s quarters with Erek and Garth suddenly deciding to act like the jailers that they were, then the interminable wait—then the Interview.

  Her words had hurt; he willed them not to. He willed himself not to care.

  Then he moved to the middle of his new room and looked around himself, and blinked in surprise.