The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Finally, with a sigh of relief, he completed the web. He replaced what he had spent, then cut off his connection to the mother-stream.

  His arms hurt, but he had the feeling that more was going to hurt than his arms before this was over.

  :Go!: he told Yfandes, who leaped off into the dark, heading for the open city gates ahead of them.

  He grabbed for the reins and pommel as she shot forward, a white arrow speeding toward a target only she knew.

  :’Fandes! Where are we going?:

  :The palace!:

  • • •

  The streets wound crazily round about, with no sense and no pattern; some were illuminated by torches and lanterns, some only by the moon. They sped from dark to light to dark again, Yfandes’ hooves sliding on the slippery cobbles. They splashed through puddles of water and less pleasant liquids. He could hear her hooves, oddly muffled‚ beneath him, and both intriguing scents and noisome, foul stenches met his nose only to be snatched away before he could recognize them. There were people about; street cleaners, beggars, whores, drunks, others he couldn’t identify. The spell held; the eyes of the townsfolk they passed slid past the two of them with no interest whatsoever.

  :The first Companion, the young one—I can’t even reach him now, he’s too crazed, Van, he’s so frightened!: Yfandes was not particularly coherent herself; stress was distorting her mind-voice into a wash of emotion through which it was hard to pick up words. :The second one—she’s—her Chosen—she can’t bear what he’s doing, she’s shutting everything out.:

  Vanyel clung to the pommel and balanced out sideways a bit as Yfandes rounded a corner, hindquarters skewing as her hooves slipped a little. This “second one”—she was probably the Companion with Randale’s envoy. But what could a Herald be doing that would stress his Companion to the point of breakdown?

  Vanyel didn’t have long to wait to discover the answer; they entered a zone of wider streets and enormous residences, homes of the noble and rich. The streets were near daylight-bright with cressets and lanterns of scentless oils. The palace can’t be far, he thought, and just as he finished the thought, they pounded around a corner and into a huge square, then down a broad avenue. At the end of that processional avenue was a huge structure, half fortress, half fantasy, looming above the city, a black eagle mantling above her nest against the setting moon. And at the eagle’s feet, an egg of light—the main courtyard, brightly lit. Vanyel banished the spell of unsight as they thundered in the gilded gates.

  The dark-charcoal palace walls cupped the courtyard on three sides, the wall they’d just passed beneath forming the fourth. There must have been a hundred lanterns burning.

  He only got a glimpse of confusion; to his right, half a dozen armed and armored men, and a Companion down and moaning on the black cobbles. To his left—a younger Companion, blood streaked shockingly red on his white coat, teeth bared and screaming with rage and battlefury; a blond boy clinging dazedly to his back, and—

  It was like something out of his worst nightmares. A Herald, with a heavy carter’s whip, beating the stallion until his skin came away in strips and blood striped bright on the snowy hide, trying to separate him from the boy.

  Yfandes literally rode the Herald down, swerving at the last moment to shoulder him aside instead of trampling him. Vanyel leaped from her saddle as he had so many times before in Border-fights, hit the cobbles and tumbled to kill his momentum, and sprang to his feet with sword drawn.

  He didn’t give the other Herald a breath to react. Whatever insanity was going on here had to be stopped. Without thinking, Van reversed the grip on the sword in his hand.

  And lashed up to catch the stranger squarely on the chin with a handful of metal.

  The other Herald went flying backward, and landed in an untidy heap.

  Damn, he’s still moving.

  Vanyel put himself in fighting stance between the young stallion and his abuser. He touched the young ones’ minds just long enough to try and get some sense out of either the boy or the stallion—but from the first picked up only shock, and from the second, fear that drowned everything else out.

  Vanyel pulled on the power within him, feeling it leap, wild and undisciplined, as the other Herald staggered to his feet, bleeding from a split lip, and prepared to lash out with the whip again. Flinging out his left hand, Van sent a lash of his own, a lash of lightning from his outstretched finger to the whipstock. The spark arced across the space between them with a crackle and the pungent smell of burning leather, and the dark, sallow-faced Herald dropped the whip with an exclamation of pain. Behind him, Yfandes was holding off the armsmen with squeals, lashing hooves and bared teeth; faced with her anger, they were not inclined to come to the Herald’s rescue.

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Vanyel thundered, letting the other feel his outrage, a wave of red anger. The older man backed up an involuntary pace. “What in the name of the gods themselves is going on here?”

  Vanyel sheathed his sword then. The other Herald drew himself up, nursing his injured hand against his chest, rubbing the blood off his bruised chin with the other. “Who are you to interfere—” he began, his face a caricature of thwarted authority.

  Vanyel tried to Mindspeak, but the other’s channel was weak, and he was blocking it besides. And the personality was not one for much hope of compromise. Stolid and methodical—and affronted by the stranger’s intervention in his jurisdiction. The young stranger, too young, surely, to have any authority.

  Gods bless—I’m going to have to pull rank on this thickheaded idiot. And he’s never going to forgive me for that.

  And the only reason I didn’t put him out is because he’s so damn thick-headed!

  “Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron,” Vanyel cut him off. “Called Demonsbane, called Shadowstalker, First Herald-Mage in Valdemar. I outrank you, Herald, and your damn fool actions tonight called me out of my bed and across the Border. You’ve exceeded your authority, and I’m ordering you to let this boy be. Who in hell are you?”

  Vanyel could feel the older man’s resentment and smoldering anger, heavy and hot, a ponderous weight of molten emotional metal. “Herald Lores,” he said sullenly, rubbing his hand. “King Randale’s envoy to the court of Lineas.”

  Over his shoulder, Vanyel watched Yfandes backing away from the armsmen. She cautiously nudged the downed Companion’s shoulder—still keeping one eye on them. After a couple of false tries, the other mare managed to get back to her feet, but stood with her head down and her legs splayed and shaking.

  :’Fandes?:

  :She’s Hearing again, and Speaking, a little; when you got her Chosen to stop, it resolved the conflict inside her—but she is not well. She is still in turmoil‚ and her heart bleeds.:

  :Take care of her.: He turned his attention back to Lores. “Tell me—slowly—just what you thought you were doing, taking a whip to a Companion, trying to drive him away from his Chosen.”

  Lores snarled. “That boy is a bloody-handed murderer, and that thing you call a Companion is his demon shape-changed! He called it up and was trying to escape on it.”

  “What?” Vanyel backed up a step, inadvertently bumping into the young stallion, who snorted in alarm but stood rock-steady, ready to protect his Chosen against anything, be it man, beast, or creature of magic. Vanyel reached out, still keeping his eyes on Lores, and laid his hand along the stallion’s neck. If anyone in the wide world would know what a demon “felt” like, he did, after having them close enough to score his chest with their claws‚ and after turning them back against Karse! He extended his mind toward the young stallion’s, and touched again, gently. No demonic aura met his mind, only the pure, bright, blue-white pulsing that was the signature of a Companion, an aura that only a Companion, of all the creatures he had ever Mindtouched, possessed.

  Anger rose in him, as his hand came away bloody, and t
he young stallion shivered in fear and pain. He clenched his fist and stared at the older Herald. “You—” He groped for words. “If I didn’t know Randale, and know that neither he nor Shavri would send anyone at all unbalanced out here as an envoy, I’d say you were insane.” The man gaped at him, taken completely aback. “As it is, I’m forced to say I’ve never encountered anyone so incredibly stupid in my life!” He relaxed his clenched fist and patted the stallion’s neck without looking around, then advanced on Lores with such anger filling him that he was having trouble keeping his voice controlled. “What in hell makes you think this youngster is a demon?”

  “You could be fooled, spell-touched—”

  “Not bloody likely! And a demon could never fool my Companion, nor yours. Gods, man, if they wouldn’t know a real Companion, who would? Look, you fool—look!” He reached Lores—withstood the desire to strangle the older man—and spun him around so that he could see his own Companion, legs bowed and shivering from nose to tail with shock, head nearly touching the cobbles. His right hand left a bloody smudge on Lores’ shoulder. “Look what you’ve done to her! Didn’t you feel it? You came quite close to driving her catatonic. She couldn’t obey you, and she couldn’t stop you! Look at her!”

  Lores took one step toward her—two—and the third step became a stumbling run that ended with him on his knees beside her, stroking her neck, whispering in her ear. Her trembling stopped; she began to relax. He got to his feet, and urged her a little more upright, until she finally stood naturally, with her head pressed against the front of his tunic.

  She was so anguished that Vanyel nearly wept. He finally had to block her out of his mind, or he knew he would lose control of his own small Gift of Empathy.

  :’Fandes,: he Mindsent softly, :what about the other? Can you calm him now?:

  :Yes.: She picked her way across the cobbles, hooves chiming on the hard black stone, until she was behind him and presumably dealing with the young stallion. Vanyel took a few steps closer to Lores. The armsmen began edging toward the gate and slipping out of the courtyard, and Vanyel was not inclined to stop them.

  Lores looked up, his face twisted and tear-streaked. “I—didn’t know. I couldn’t—I don’t feel anything from Jenna, not really, I—my Gift—it’s Fetching. I don’t Mindspeak even with her, much—I—told her what to do, but she didn’t do it, I thought the demon must have—” His eyes fell upon the boy, and his face hardened. “It doesn’t matter. That boy is still a murderer.”

  Vanyel lost his hold on his temper. “Dammit man, Companions don’t Choose murderers!”

  “Oh, no?” Lores spat back. “Gala did!”

  Lightning and rain; madness and grief.

  Present rage replaced past grief.

  “That,” he said angrily, “was after she Chose. And she repudiated him, cast him off. As you should know. After she Chose, and after—her Chosen—was pressed past all sanity. It has no bearing on what happened here. You would not listen to your own Companion try to tell you the truth.”

  He took a step toward the other, bloody finger pointed in accusation. “You blocked her out with your anger and your fear. You allowed your emotions to interfere with your ability to see the truth. You blocked her so you couldn’t hear what you didn’t want to hear.”

  Lores’ resentment smoldered in his eyes, but he could not deny Vanyel’s accusations.

  :Van—the boy—:

  Vanyel spun, just in time to see the young man losing his death grip on his Companion’s mane, sliding to the ground. He sprinted to the boy’s side, startling the young stallion so that he threw up his head and rolled his eyes, and caught the boy in mid-collapse, draping the boy’s arm over his own neck and shoulder, supporting him, and looked around for an open door—any door—

  :Your left,: Yfandes prompted; one of the double doors into the main entranceway was cracked open. He half-carried, half-dragged the boy there, with Lores following sullenly behind, and kicked the door open enough to squeeze through.

  • • •

  It was pitchy dark in the palace—which was damned odd for the throne-seat, even at a few hours till dawn. Even odder, all that commotion in the main courtyard had brought no one out to see what the ruckus was about. Van couldn’t see a thing past the little light coming in the doorway. The building might just as well have been deserted.

  First things first; they needed light. So—Be damned to local prejudice, he thought, and set a globe of blue mage-light to spinning above his head. Behind him, he heard a stifled gasp as Lores watched it appear out of nowhere.

  They were in a bare entryway; that was all he had time to notice in his brief glance. Someplace to put this boy—A seat was what he was looking for, and he spotted one: a highly-polished wooden bench, bare of cushions and bolted to the floor, over against the wall just clear of the door. Presumably it was for the use of low-rank servants waiting for something or someone at the main entrance. Whatever, it was a seat. He supported the boy over to it, and got him seated, shoved his head down between his legs, and worked the little Healing he knew to clear the shock out and get him conscious again.

  The boy was aware enough to interpret that as some kind of coercion or confinement; he tried to fight, and raised his head into the light.

  And Vanyel saw his face for the first time.

  It was Tylendel’s face, dazed with shock and vacant-eyed, that looked up at him in confusion beneath the blue mage-light.

  Vanyel choked, and the floor seemed to heave beneath him. Only one hand on the wall saved him. For a moment he thought that his heart had stopped, or that his mind had snapped.

  His eyes cleared again, and he took a closer look, reached out to tip the boy’s face into the light, and almost Mindtouched—

  But he stopped himself, as he began to see the little differences. The boy couldn’t be more than sixteen, and looked it; ’Lendel had always looked older than he really was. The boy’s nose was snubbed, or more than ’Lendel’s had been; the eyes were farther apart and larger, the chin rounded and not squared, the hair wavy, not curly, and darker than the golden-brown of Tylendel’s. Subtle differences, but enough to let him shake off his ghosts, enough to tell him that this was not Tylendel.

  Whatever the boy in turn saw or sensed in his eyes, it reassured him enough that he stopped fighting, and obeyed Vanyel’s half-audible order to keep his head down.

  Not now, he told himself. Deal with your ghosts later, not now.

  For the first time since entering the gilded door, he looked around to see if there was finally anyone coming. He looked past the barren entryway—and froze at the sight of the wreckage in the mage-light.

  He’d seen less destruction after the sacking of a keep.

  No wonder no one came, he thought, dumbly. Nobody human could have survived this.

  • • •

  Vanyel stood at the edge of the staircase and stared. This entry was hardly more than twenty feet long, and made of the same black stone as the exterior, but polished to a reflective shine; it led to a short stone stair that in turn led down into the wood-paneled Great Hall. This Hall had been a reception area—lit by chandeliers and wall sconces, hung with tapestries, lined with dark wood tables and chairs polished to mirror-brightness. It was demolished.

  The chandeliers had been torn from the beams, tapestries ripped from the walls. The walls, the floor, the ceiling beams themselves were scored and gouged as though with the marks of terrible claws. The tapestries had been shredded, the furniture reduced to splinters, the wreckage scattered across the floor as though a whirlwind had played here.

  Vanyel remembered his dream, and felt his hair rise and a chill creep up his backbone.

  “What—” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “What happened?”

  Lores’ lip lifted a little, but he answered civilly enough. “That boy—that’s Tashir. You know who he is?”


  Vanyel nodded. “Tashir Remoerdis. Deveran of Lineas’ oldest child.”

  “You know Deveran figured him for a bastard, the worst kind, fathered on Ylyna by her own brother, so they say.”

  “Is that really germane?” Van looked back at the wreckage.

  “Damn right it’s germane.” Lores lifted his lip scornfully. “It’s why the brat did all this.”

  “Lores, you’d better tell me everything you know,” Vanyel requested simply, still trying to take in the implications of the wrecked palace.

  Lores snorted and rambled on. “Ylyna was no virgin, though in honesty the Mavelans never claimed she was. Still, fourteen’s a bit young to have been as—let’s say—experienced as she was. Tashir was born eight months after the wedding. That’s suspicious enough. Boy looks like his uncle Vedric and nothing like Ylyna or Deveran did. That’s the second reason; another is that he’s known to have Gifts; Fetching, for one—things have been flying around when he got upset ever since he was thirteen. No Gifts manifested in Ylyna, and there’s never been any in Deveran’s line. The locals called it wizardry and pressured Deveran to disinherit Tashir.”

  “I’d heard about the Gift,” Vanyel said, looking back at the boy to see if he’d overheard them. They were only twenty paces away, and Lores was making no effort to keep his voice down. Tashir was still sitting where they’d left him, head and hands dangling between his knees. “How did the boy take being disinherited?”

  “The boy?” For a moment Lores seemed puzzled. “That was the odd part; boy seemed relieved. It was Vedric Mavelan that made all the fuss. But tonight—something happened at dinner, and I’m not sure exactly what.” Lores wrapped his arms around his chest, and his expression turned introspective, and a little fearful.

  “Were you there?” Vanyel asked.

  Lores nodded. “Always, as the Valdemar envoy. Tonight . . .” He looked into the distance, frowning. “I remember I was chatting with Deveran’s armsmaster and the boy came up to the high table to say something to Deveran. Next thing I knew, they’re at it hammer and tongs, screaming at each other, the boy going white and Deveran going red. Then Deveran backhanded the boy, knocked him to the floor.”