The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Tylendel turned and took both Vanyel’s hands in his; he looked searchingly into Vanyel’s eyes for a long moment. “Van, I’m going to have to force that link between us wide open for this to work. I may hurt you. I’ll try not to, but I can’t promise. Are you still willing to help me?”

  Vanyel nodded, thinking, I’ve come this far; it would be stupid to back out at this point. Besides—he needs this. How can I not give it to him?

  Tylendel closed his eyes; his face froze into as impassive a mask as Vanyel had ever worn. Vanyel waited, trembling a little, for something to happen.

  For a long while, nothing did. Then—

  Rage flamed up in him, a consuming, obsessive anger that left very little room for anything else. One thing mattered: Staven was dead. One goal drove him: deal the same painful death to Staven’s murderers. There was still a tiny corner of his mind that could think for itself and wonder at the overwhelming power of Tylendel’s fury, but that corner had been locked out of any position of control.

  The truism ran “Pain shared is pain halved”—but this pain was doubled on being shared.

  He turned to face the ancient doorway without any conscious decision to do so, Tylendel turning even as he did. He saw Tylendel raise his arms and cast a double handful of something powderlike on the ground before the door, heard him begin a chant in some strange tongue and hold his now-empty hands, palm outward, to face that similarly empty gap.

  He felt something draining out of him, like blood draining from a wound, and felt that it was taking his strength with it.

  The edges of the ruined doorway were beginning to glow, the same sullen red as the mage-light over Tylendel’s head, like the muted red of embers, as if the edge of the doorway smoldered. As more and more of Vanyel’s energy and strength drained from him, the ragged border brightened, and tiny threads of angry scarlet wavered from them into the space where the door had stood. More and more of these threads spun out, waving like water-weeds in a current, until two of the ends connected across the gap.

  There was a surge of force out of him, a surge that nearly caused his knees to collapse, as the entire gap filled with a flare of blood-red light—

  Then the light vanished, and the gap framed, not a shadowed blackness, but a garden—a formal garden decorated for a festival, and filled with people, light, and movement.

  He had hardly a chance to see this before Tylendel grabbed his arm and pulled him, stumbling, across the threshold. There was a moment of total disorientation, as though the world had dropped from beneath his feet, then—

  Sound: laughter, music, shouting. He stood, with Tylendel, facing that garden he had seen through the ruined doorway, and beyond the garden, a strange keep. Lanterns bobbed gaily in the branches of a row of trees that stood between them and the gathered people, and trestle tables, spread with food and lanterns, were visible on the farther side. Near the trees was a lighted platform on which a band of motley musicians stood, playing with a vigor that partially made up for their lack of skill. Before the platform a crowd of people was dancing in a ring, laughing and singing along with the music.

  Vanyel’s knees would not hold him; as soon as Tylendel let go of his arm, his legs gave way, and he found himself half-kneeling on the ground, dizzy, weak, and nauseated. Tylendel didn’t notice; his attention was on the people dancing.

  “They’re celebrating,” Tylendel whispered, and the anger Vanyel was inadvertently sharing surged along the link between them. “Staven’s dead, and they’re celebrating!”

  That small, rational corner still left to Vanyel whispered that this was only a Harvestfest like any other, that the Leshara weren’t particularly gloating over an enemy’s death. But that logical voice was too faint to be heard over the thunder of Tylendel’s outrage. A wave of dizziness clouded his sight with a red mist, and he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.

  When he could see again, Tylendel had stepped away from him, and was standing between him and the line of trees with his hands high over his head. From Tylendel’s upraised hands came twin bolts of the same vermilion lightning that had lashed the pine grove a moon ago. Only this lightning was controlled and directed, and it cracked across the garden and destroyed the trees standing between him and the gathered Leshara-kin in less time than it took to blink.

  In the wake of the thunderbolt came startled screams; the music ended in a jangle of snapped strings and the squawk of horns. The dancers froze, and clutched at each other in clumps of two to five. Tylendel’s mage-light was blazing like a tiny, scarlet sun above his head; his face was hate-filled and twisted with frenzy. Tears streaked his face; his voice cracked as he screamed at them.

  “He’s dead, you bastards! He’s dead, and you’re laughing, you’re singing! Damn you all, I’ll teach you to sing a different song! You want magic? Well, here’s magic for you—”

  Vanyel couldn’t move; he seemed tethered to the still-glowing Gate behind him. He could only watch, numbly, as Tylendel raised his hands again—and this time it was not lightning that crackled from his upraised hands. A glowing sphere appeared with a sound of thunder, suspended high above him. About the size of a melon, it hung in the air, rotating slowly, a smoky, sickly yellow. It grew as it turned, and drifted silently away from Tylendel and toward the huddled Leshara-folk, descending as it neared them, until it came to earth in the center of the blasted, blackened place where the trees had been a moment before.

  There it rested; still turning, still growing, until it had swelled to twice the height of a man.

  Then, between one heartbeat and the next, it burst.

  Another wave of disorientation washed over him; Vanyel blinked eyes that didn’t seem to be focusing properly. Where the globe had rested there seemed to be a twisting, twining mass of shadow-shapes, shapes as fluid as ink, as sinuous as snakes, shapes that were there and not there at one and the same time.

  Then they slid apart, those shapes, separating into five writhing mist-forms. They solidified—

  If some mad god had mated a viper and a coursing-hound, and grown the resulting offspring to the size of a calf, the result might have looked something like the five creatures snarling and flowing lithely around one another in the gleaming of Tylendel’s mage-light. In color they were a smoky black, with skin that gave an impression of smooth scales rather than hair. They had long, long necks, too long by far, and arrowhead-shaped heads that were an uncanny mingling of snake and greyhound, with yellow, pupil-less eyes that glowed in the same way and with the same shifting color that the globe that had birthed them had glowed. The teeth in those narrow muzzles were needle-sharp, and as long as a man’s thumb. They had bodies like greyhounds as well, but the legs and tails seemed unhealthily stretched and unnaturally boneless.

  They regarded Tylendel with unwavering, saffron eyes; they seemed to be waiting for something.

  He quavered out a single word, his voice breaking on the final, high-pitched syllable—and they turned as one entity to face the cowering folk of Leshara, mouths gaping in unholy parodies of a dog’s foolish grin.

  But before they had flowed a single step toward their victims, a shrill scream of equine defiance rang out from behind Vanyel.

  And Gala thundered through the Gate at his back, pounding past him, then past Tylendel, ignoring the trainee completely.

  She screamed again, more anger and courage in her cry than Vanyel had ever thought possible to hear in a horse’s voice, and skidded to a halt halfway between Tylendel and the things he had called up. She was glowing, just like she had during ’Lendel’s fit; a pure, blue-white radiance that attracted the eye in the same way that the yellow glow of the beasts’ eyes repelled. She continued to ignore Tylendel’s presence entirely, turning her back to him; rearing up to her full height and pawing the air with her forehooves, trumpeting a challenge to the five creatures before her.

  They reversed their positions in an instan
t as her hooves touched the ground again, facing her with silent snarls of anger. She pawed the earth, and bared her teeth at them, daring them to try to fight her.

  “Gala!” Tylendel cried in anguish, his voice breaking yet again. “Gala! Don’t—”

  She turned her head just enough to look him fully in the eyes—and Vanyel heard her mental reply as it rang through Tylendel’s mind and heart and splintered his soul.

  :I do not know you,: she said coldly, remotely. :You are not my Chosen.:

  And with those words, the bond that had been between them vanished. Vanyel could feel the emptiness where it had been—for he was still sharing everything Tylendel felt.

  Tylendel’s rage shattered on the cold of those words.

  And when the bond was broken, what took its place was utter desolation.

  Vanyel moaned in anguish, sharing Tylendel’s agony, and the torment and bereavement as he called after Gala with his mind and received not even the echo of a reply. Where there had been warmth and love and support there was now—nothing; not even a ghost of what had been.

  The link between them surged with loss, and Vanyel’s vision darkened.

  He heard Tylendel cry out Gala’s name in utter despair, and willed his eyes to clear.

  And to his horror he watched her fling herself at the five fiends, heedless of her own safety.

  They swarmed over and about her, their darkness extinguishing her light. He heard her shriek, but this time in pain, and saw the red splash of blood bloom vividly on her white coat.

  He tried to stagger to his feet, but had no strength; his ears roared, and he blacked out.

  He barely felt himself falling again, and only Tylendel’s scream of anguish and loss penetrated enough to make him fight his way back to consciousness.

  He found himself half-sprawled on the cold ground. He shoved himself partially erect despite his spinning head, and looked for Gala—

  But there was no Companion, no fight. Only a mutilated corpse, sprawling torn and ravaged, throat slashed to ribbons, the light gone from the sapphire eyes. Tylendel was on his knees beside her, stroking the ruined head, weeping hoarsely.

  Beside her lifeless body lay one of the five monstrosities, head a shapeless pulp. The others flowed around the Companion’s body, as if waiting for the corpse to rise again so that they could attack it. Two of the others limped on three legs—but two were still unharmed, and given what they had done to Gala in a few heartbeats, two would be more than enough to slaughter every man, woman, and child of the Leshara.

  Finally they left off their mindless, sharklike circling, and turned to face the terrified celebrants. They took no more notice of Tylendel than of the dead Companion.

  A man bolted from the crowd. With a start, Vanyel recognized him for Lord Evan. Whether he meant to attack the beasts, or simply to flee, Vanyel couldn’t tell. It really didn’t matter much; one of the beasts that was still unhurt flashed across the intervening space and caught him. He did not even have time to cry out as it disemboweled him.

  A woman screamed—and that seemed to signal the beasts to move again. They began to ooze in a body toward their victims—

  And a bolt of brilliantly white lightning cracked from behind Vanyel to scorch the earth before the leader.

  There was a pounding of hooves from the Gate. Vanyel was momentarily blinded by the light and by another surge of weakness that sent him sagging back to the ground.

  When his eyes cleared again, there were three white-clad Heralds and their three Companions closing on the fiends, lightnings crackling from their upraised hands. They were using the lightnings to herd the beasts into a tight little knot and barring their path to their prey.

  He barely had time to recognize two of the three as Savil and Jaysen before battle was joined.

  Once again he started to black out, feeling as if something was trying to pull his soul out of his body. He fought against unconsciousness, though he felt as if he had nothing left to fight with; both the rage and the despair were gone now, leaving only an empty place, a void that ached unbearably.

  He felt a tiny inflowing of strength; it wasn’t much, but it was enough to give him the means to fight the blackness away from his eyes, to fight off the vertigo, and to finally get a precarious hold on the world again.

  The first thing he saw was Tylendel; still on his knees, but no longer weeping. He was vacant-eyed, white as bleached linen, and staring at his own blood-smeared hands. Where the five creatures had been there was now nothing; only the mangled body of Gala and the burned and churned-up earth.

  Taking her hand away from his shoulder was Savil—her face an unreadable mask.

  • • •

  Savil pulled her attention away from Tylendel, who was slumped in a kind of trance of despair beside her, and back to what Vanyel was telling the other two Heralds.

  “. . . then she said, ‘I don’t know you, you aren’t my Chosen,’” the boy whispered, eyes dull and mirroring his exhaustion, voice colorless. “And she turned her back on him, just turned away, and charged those things.”

  “Buying time for us to get here,” Jaysen murmured, his voice betraying the pain he would not show. “Oh, gods, the poor, brave thing—if she hadn’t bought us those moments, we’d have come in on a bloodbath.”

  “She repudiated him,” said Lancir, the Queen’s Own, as if he did not believe it. “She repudiated him, and then—”

  “Suicided,” Savil supplied flatly, her own heart in turmoil; aching for Tylendel, for the loss of Gala, for all the things she should have seen and hadn’t. “Gods, she suicided. She knew, she had to know that no single Companion could face a pack of wyrsa and survive.”

  Tylendel sat where they had left him, unseeing, unspeaking—all of hell in his eyes. Mage-lights of their own creation bobbed overhead, pitilessly illuminating everything.

  Jaysen contemplated Savil’s trainee for a long moment, but said nothing, only shook his head slightly. Then he spared a glance for Vanyel, and frowned; Savil heard his thought. :The boy is still tied to the Gate, sister. He grows weaker by the moment. If you want him undamaged—:

  Unspoken, but not unfelt, was the vague thought that perhaps it would be no bad thing if Vanyel were to be “forgotten” until it was too late to save him from the aftereffects of the Gate-magic. That undercurrent of thought told Savil that Jaysen placed all of the blame for this squarely on Vanyel’s shoulders.

  :It wasn’t his fault, Jaysen,: she answered, heartsick and near to weeping, but unable to be anything other than honest. :He didn’t do anything worse than go along with what ’Lendel wanted without telling me. What happened was as much due to my negligence as anything he did.:

  Jaysen gave a curt nod, but a skeptical one. :In that case, we need to get that Gate closed down as soon as possible, or the boy will sicken—or worse.:

  No need to ask what that “worse” was; Vanyel was already looking drawn, almost transparent, as the Gate pulled more and more of his life-force from him. How Tylendel, half-trained, and Vanyel, unGifted, had managed that, Savil had no notion—but they dared not break the link until they didn’t need the Gate anymore.

  :Fine, but what are we going to do about all that mess?: Savil asked, nodding her head at the milling crowd, the mangled corpse of the single victim the wyrsa had killed, and the pathetic body of the Companion. :Somebody had better take them in hand, or no telling what they’ll get up to. Go in for a wholesale slaughtering-party on Tylendel’s people, make up some kind of tale about Heralds being in on this—: Even a hair away from breaking down into tears, she was still thinking; she couldn’t help it.

  :I’ll stay here,: Lancir volunteered. :Elspeth can do without me for a moon or so. I’ll take care of the Leshara and see to—: his thought faltered. :—Gala.:

  :And you’ll get home how?: Jaysen asked, concerned. :We’re going to shut the Gate from the ot
her side as soon as we’re through, and you aren’t up to Gating by yourself these days.:

  :Like ordinary mortals,: he replied, with a deathly seriousness. :On our feet.:

  :What—what are we going to do about—: Savil’s eyes flicked to Tylendel and back; the boy was still staring vacantly into space, his face pale and blank, his eyes so full of inward-turned torment that she could scarcely bear to look into them for fear she would break down and cry.

  :I don’t know,: Lancir replied bleakly. :I just don’t know. There’s no precedent. Get the boy home; worry about it when you’ve got time to think about it. Ask your Companions; it was one of their number that died. That’s all I can think of. But you’d better get on with it if you expect to leave the other boy with a mind.:

  “Jays, take Tylendel, will you?” Savil said aloud, reaching for Vanyel’s arm and pulling him to his feet. “Lance—”

  “Gods with you, heart-sibs,” said the Queen’s Own, pity and compassion momentarily transforming his homely face into something close to saintly, like that of a beautiful carved statue. “You’ll need their help. Taver?”

  His Companion sidled up to him and held rock-still for Jaysen to help him to mount; like the Queen, like Savil, Lancir was feeling his age these autumn days, and needed the boost into place that Jaysen gave him. But once in the saddle, he resumed the strength and dignity of a much younger Queen’s Own—the man he had been twenty years ago. Taver tossed his head, and walked with calm and quiet steps toward the shocked, confused mob of Leshara at the other end of the garden.

  Jaysen tugged on Tylendel’s arm; the boy rose, but with the automatic movements of someone spellbound, his attention still turned within himself. The Seneschal’s Herald led the way to the Gate, followed closely by his Companion, and guided the boy with a hand at his shoulder.

  He cast a look back at Savil. “I don’t fancy the notion of the ride we have ahead of us—too many things to go wrong on the way. You know more about this spell than I do—do you think you can reset this Gate to bring us out at the Palace?”