The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Jervis narrowed his eyes. “You look in good enough shape to me. There’s nothing you can do, young Vanyel, that I can’t handle. Unless you’re really no better than, say, young Medren, no matter what all those songs say about you.”

  The reminder of the treatment Medren was receiving at Jervis’ hands was the spark to the tinder. Vanyel’s temper finally snapped. “On your head be it,” he growled. “I take no responsibility. You want to spar so badly, all right, let’s get it over with.”

  He stalked off toward the armory, a sturdy wooden building between the stables and the keep, with Jervis at his heels. He had a set of practice gear here, made up soon after he returned from k’Treva, gear put together at Withen’s insistence and unused until now. It was gear unlike any other set at Forst Reach: light, padded leather gambeson; arm, thigh, and shin guards; main-gauche and heavy rapier; and a very light helm, all suited to his light frame and strike-and-run style.

  The armory was not dark; there were clerestory windows glazed with bubbly, thick third-rate glass; stuff that wouldn’t admit a view, just light. Vanyel found the storage chest with his name on it. He pulled his gear out and stripped off yesterday’s tunic, pulling on the soft, thick linen practice tunic, strapping on the gambeson and guards, and gathering up his helm and weighted wooden practice blades.

  This armory was new; built since Vanyel had left home. There was enough room for sparring inside; most of the interior had been set up as a salle. Vanyel was just as pleased to see that. The older building had been so small that all practices had to be held outside. So far as Vanyel was concerned, the fewer eyes there were to witness the confrontation, the better he’d like it.

  He was shaking and sick inside; he was going to give Jervis a lesson the old man would never forget, and the very idea made his gut knot. He was not proud of what he was going to do.

  But the old man asked for it. He wouldn’t take “no,” and he wouldn’t back down. Dammit, it’s going to be his fault, not mine!

  Van dwelled on that while he armed up; a sullen anger making him feel justified, and burning the knots out of his gut with self-righteousness and a growing elation that he was finally going to pay Jervis back for every bruise and broken bone.

  Until he realized where that train of thought was leading him.

  I’m rationalizing the fact that I want to beat him bloody. That I want revenge on him. Oh, gods.

  The realization made him sick again.

  He went to the center of the practice area, crossing the unvarnished wooden floor with no more noise than a cat. Jervis looked around after donning his own gear—much heavier than Vanyel’s—as if he had actually expected Van to have slipped out while he was arming. He seemed surprised to see Vanyel standing on the challenger’s side, waiting for him.

  I’ll let him make the first move, Van thought, keeping himself under tight control. He’s probably going to give me a full rush, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Damned bully. But I will not lose my temper. I can’t stop my reflexes, but I can keep my temper. I will not let him do that to me.

  But Jervis astonished him by simply walking up to his side of the line, giving a curt salute that Vanyel returned, and waiting in a deceptively lazy guard position.

  Dust tickled Vanyel’s nose, and somewhere in the building a cricket was chirping. Well, do something, damn you! he thought in frustration, as the moments continued to pass and Jervis did nothing but stand in the guard position. Finally the waiting was too much for his nerves. He rushed Jervis, but he pulled up short at the last second, so that the armsmaster was tricked into overextending. There was a brief flurry of blows, and with a neat twist of his wrists, Vanyel bound Jervis’s blade and sent it flying out of his hands to land with a noisy clatter on the floor to Vanyel’s left.

  Now it comes. Vanyel braced himself for an explosion of temper.

  But it didn’t. No growl of rage, no snatching off of helm and spitting of curses. Jervis just stood, shield balanced easily on left arm, glaring. Vanyel could feel his eyes scorching him from within the dark slit of his helm for several heartbeats, while Vanyel’s uneasiness grew and his blood pounded in his ears with the effort of holding himself in check. Finally the armsmaster moved—only to fetch the blade, return to his former position, and wait for Vanyel to make another attack.

  Vanyel circled to Jervis’ right, bouncing a little on his toes, waiting for a moment when he could get past that shield, or around it. Sweat began running down his back and sides, and only the scarf around his head under his helm kept it out of his eyes. He licked his lips, and tasted salt. His concentration narrowed until all he was aware of was the sound of his own breathing, and the opponent in front of him.

  Jervis returned his feints, his blows, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Vanyel scored on him far more often than vice versa. But every time he made a successful pass, Jervis would back out of reach for a moment. It was maddening and inexplicable; he’d just fall completely out of fighting stance, shuffle and glare, and mutter to himself, before returning to the line and mixing in again.

  This little series of performances began to wear on Vanyel’s nerves. It was far too like the stalking he used to get when Jervis wanted to beat him to a pulp and didn’t quite dare—and at the same time, it was totally unlike anything in the old man’s usual pattern.

  What’s he doing? What’s he waiting for? Those aren’t any love-taps he’s been giving me, but it isn’t what I know he’s capable of, either.

  Finally, when he was completely unnerved, Jervis made the move he’d been expecting all along—an all-out rush, at full-strength and full-force, the kind that had bowled him over time after time as a youngster—the kind that had ended with his broken arm.

  Blade a blur beside Jervis’ shield and the shield itself coming at him with the speed of a charging bull, the horrible crack as his shield split—the pain as the arm beneath it snapped like a green branch.

  But he wasn’t an adolescent; he was a battle-seasoned veteran.

  His boot-soles scuffed on the sanded wood as he bounced himself out of range and back in again; he engaged and used the speed of Jervis’ second rush to spin himself out of the way, and delivered a good hard stab to Jervis’ side with the main-gauche as the man passed him—

  —or meant to deliver it. For all his bulk, Jervis could move as quickly as a striking snake. He somehow got his shield around in time to deflect the blow and then continued into a strike with the shield-edge at Vanyel’s face.

  Vanyel spun out of the way, and let the movement carry him out of sword range. But now his temper was gone, completely shattered.

  “Damn you, you bullying bastard! Preach about honor and then turn a shield-bash on me, will you!” His voice cracked with nerves. “Come on! Try again! Try and take me! I’m not a child, armsmaster Jervis. I’m not as easy to knock down and beat up anymore! You can’t make a fool and a target of me the way you do with Medren! I know what I’m doing, damn you, and my style is a match for yours on any damned field!”

  Jervis pulled off his battered helm with his shield hand, and sweat-darkened tendrils of gray-blond hair fell into his eyes. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’ve seen what I wanted t’ see. Seems those songs got a grain of truth in ’em.”

  Vanyel choked his temper down. “I trust you won’t require any more sparring sessions, armsmaster?”

  Jervis gave him another long, measuring look. “I didn’t say that. I’ll be wantin’ t’ practice with you again, master Vanyel.”

  And he turned on his heel and left Vanyel standing in the middle of the salle, entirely uncertain of who had won what.

  Have we got a truce? Have we? Or is this another kind of war?

  • • •

  “My Shadow-Lover, bear me into light,” Vanyel sang softly, as the odd, minor chords blended one into another, each leaving a ghost of itself hanging in the air for
the next to build from. This new gittern did things to this particular song that carried it beyond the poignant into the unearthly. He paused a moment, brushed the last chording in a slow arpeggio, and finally opened his eyes.

  Medren sat on the edge of the bed, his mouth open in a soundless “O.”

  Vanyel shook off the melancholy of the song with an effort. “How long have you been there?” he asked, racking the gittern on its stand, and uncoiling from his window seat.

  “Most of the song,” Medren shivered. “That’s the weirdest love song I ever heard! How come I never heard it before?”

  “Because Treesa doesn’t like it,” Vanyel replied wryly, stretching his fingers carefully. “It reminds her that she’s mortal.” He saw the incomprehension on Medren’s face, and elaborated. “The lover in the song is Death, Medren.”

  “Death? As—” The boy gulped. “—a lover?”

  The stricken look on the boy’s face recalled him to the present, and he chuckled. “Oh, don’t look that way, lad. I’m in no danger of throwing myself off a cliff. I have too much to do to go courting the Shadow-Lover.”

  The boy’s face aged thirty years for a moment. “But if He came courting you—”

  I’d take His kiss of peace only too readily, Vanyel thought. Sometimes I’m so damned tired. He thought that—but smiled and said, “He courts me every day I’m a Herald, nephew, but He hasn’t won me yet. What brings you here?”

  “Oh,” Medren looked down at his hands. “Jervis. Some of the other kids—they told me he’s got something special going today. For me.”

  Vanyel thought of the “sparring session” and went cold. And a seed of an idea finally sprouted and flowered. He stood, and walked slowly to the bed, to put his hand lightly on Medren’s shoulder. “Medren, would you rather deal with Jervis, or be sick?”

  “What?” The boy looked up at him with the same incomprehension in his eyes he’d shown when Vanyel had spoken of the Shadow-Lover.

  “I have just enough of the Healing-Gift that I can make you sick.” That wasn’t exactly what he would do, but it was close enough. “Then I can keep you sick; too sick to go to practice, anyway.” There was measles in the nursery; that would keep the boy down for a good long time.

  “Will I lose my voice?” The boy looked up at him with the same complete trust Jisa had, and that shook him.

  He grinned, to cover it. “No, you’ll just come out in spots, like Brendan. In fact, I want you to sneak into the nursery and spend a candlemark with Brendan when I’m done with you.” As much as I’m going to depress his body, if he isn’t fevered by nightfall I’ll eat my lute. “Make sure nobody sees you, and go straight to your mother after and tell her you have a headache.”

  “As long as I won’t lose my voice,” Medren said, grinning, “I think I can take spots and itching.”

  “It won’t be fun.”

  “It’s better than being beat on.”

  “All right.” Vanyel put his hand on Medren’s shoulders, and focused down and out—

  • • •

  “Funny about Medren,” Radevel said, “coming down with spots so sudden-like. I would’ve sworn he had ’em once already.”

  Vanyel just shrugged. He was in Radevel’s room following another “sparring session”—this time one in which he sparred with Rad under Jervis’ eye. It had been easier to deal with than the last one, but Jervis was still acting out of character. We have a truce of sorts. I don’t know why, but I won’t take the chance that it will extend to cover Medren. I daren’t.

  Radevel had invited him here afterward in a burst of hearty comradeship, and Vanyel had decided to take him up on it. Over the past hour he’d come to discover he liked this good-natured cousin more than he’d ever dreamed.

  “’Nother funny thing I can’t figure‚” Radevel continued, feet propped up on a battered old table, mug of watered wine in hand. “Old Leren. Saw him watching you an’ Jervis an’ me at practice this afternoon, an’ if looks were arrows, you’d be a damned pincushion. What in hell did you ever do to him?”

  Vanyel shrugged, took a long drink of the cool wine, and turned his attention back to repairing his torn leather gambeson with needle and fine, waxed thread in a neat, precise row of carefully placed stitches. The past four years had seen him out more often than not beyond the reach of the Haven-bred comforts and the servants that saw to the needs of Heralds. He’d gotten into the habit of repairing things himself, and around Radevel, that habit (which Radevel shared) made itself evident at the smallest excuse. “Don’t know,” he said shortly. “Never did. I would almost be willing to pledge to you that he’s hated me from the moment he came here. Mother swears it’s because I asked too many questions, but I thought priests were supposed to encourage questions. Our old priest did. I may have been only four when he died, but I remember that.”

  Radevel nodded agreement. “Aye, I remember that, too. Jervis always said that Osen was a good man. Made you feel like taking things to him, somehow. ‘The gods gave you a brain, boy,’ he’d say. ‘If you want to honor them, use it.’ Never made you feel like you were beneath him.” He brooded over his mug, his plain face quiet with thought. “This Leren, now—huh. I dunno, Van. You know, I stopped going to holydays here a long time ago—hike down into the village with Jervis when we feel like we need a dose of priest-talk. Tell you something else—young Father Heward down in the village don’t care much for Leren either. He did his best not to let on, but he was downright gleeful to see us come marching down to the village temple, an’ I know he don’t care much for fighters, being a peace-preacher. Figure that.”

  “I can’t,” Vanyel replied.

  He “felt” Savil’s distinct “presence” coming up to the door of Radevel’s room, so he didn’t jump when she spoke. “Is this a ‘roosters only’ discussion, or can an old hen join?”

  Vanyel did not bother to turn around. Radevel grinned past Vanyel’s shoulder at Savil, and reached—without needing to look—into the cupboard over his head for another mug. “I dunno,” he mused. “Old hens, welcome, but old bats—?”

  “Give me that, you shameless reprobate,” she mock-snarled, snatching the clean mug out of his hand and pouring herself wine from the jug. She tasted it and made a face. “Gods! What’s that made of, old socks?”

  “Standard merc ration, milady Herald ma’am, an’ watered down, too. Grows on you, though. Got into liking it ’cause of Jervis.”

  “Huh. Grows on you like foot-rot.”

  Vanyel stuck the needle under a line of stitches and moved over to make room for her. She sat down beside him, careful to avoid unbalancing the bench. She sipped again. “You’re right. Second taste has merit—unless it’s just that the first swallow ate the skin off my tongue. What was all this about Leren?”

  “Radevel said he was watching me and Rad spar with Jervis this afternoon,” Vanyel supplied, frowning at his work. The leather was scraped thin here, and likely to tear again if he wasn’t careful where he placed his stitches.

  “To be precise, he was watching Herald Van, here. Like he was hoping me or Jervis would slip-up like and break his neck for him,” Radevel said. “I’ll tell you again, I do not like that man, priest or no priest. Makes my skin fair crawl with some of those looks he gives.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Savil said soberly. “I don’t like him either, and damned if I know why.”

  Radevel held up one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I spent more time around him than either of you, and I just can’t put a finger on it. Treesa doesn’t like him either; only reason she goes to holyday services is ’cause she reckons herself right pious, and facing him’s better’n not going. But if she had her druthers, he’d be away and gone. It’s about the one thing I agree with that featherhead on. Pardon, Van.”

  “Mother is a featherhead; I won’t argue there. But—Savil‚ did you realize that she’s very slightly s
ensitive? Not Thought-sensing, not Empathy, but like to it—something else, some kind of sensitivity we haven’t identified yet. The gods only know what it is; I haven’t got it nor have you. But it’s a sensitivity she shares with Yfandes.”

  “Treesa? Sensitive like a Companion?” Savil gave him a look of complete incredulity. “Be damned! I never thought to test her.”

  He nodded. “The channel’s in ’Fandes, wide open. The same channel Treesa has, only hers is to ’Fandes the way a melting icicle is to a waterfall. I don’t know what it is, but I’d say we shouldn’t discount feelings of unease just because Treesa shares them. She could very truly be feeling something.”

  “Huh,” Radevel said, after a moment. Then he grinned. “I got a homely plain man’s notion. That mare of yours ever dropped a foal?”

  “Why, yes, now that you mention it. Two, a colt and a filly—both before she Chose me. Dancer and Megwyn. Why?”

  “Just that about every mother I ever saw, human to hound, knew damned well when somebody had bad feelings toward her children, no matter how much that somebody tried to make out like it wasn’t true. Even Milady Treesa.” He grinned as Vanyel’s jaw fell, and Savil’s expression mirrored his. “Now Savil, you never had children, and it’d take a miracle from the Twain themselves to make Van a momma. So, no—what you call—channel. Make sense?”

  “Damned good sense, cousin,” Vanyel managed to get out around his astonishment. “For somebody who has no magic of his own, you have an uncanny grasp of principles.”

  Savil nodded. “You know, this enmity could also be partially that the man was pushed into the priesthood by his family and hates it. A priest with no vocation is worse than no priest at all.”

  “Could be,” Radevel replied. “One thing for sure, it wasn’t this bad ’fore Van came home. It’s like something about Van brings out the worst in the old crow. Thought I’d say something.” He shrugged. “I don’t like him, Jervis don’t like him. Jervis’s got a feel for things like enemies sneakin’ up on your back. You might want to keep an eye on Leren.”