The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “You know,” Vanyel said slowly, “he’ll be taught blade right along with music; Bards end up finding themselves in some fairly unpleasant places from time to time. They’re in Valdemar’s service no less than Heralds are, so being handy with a sword surely can’t hurt. Hellfire, you should have seen Bard Chadran in his prime; he’d have been a match for both of us together!”

  Jervis looked up with interest. “Chadran—that the one that was s’pposed t’ have got picked up by bandits, got ’em t’ trust ’im, then fought himself an’ a handful of prisoners loose?”

  “That’s the one, only he went in on Elspeth’s request.”

  When he finished that story, Jervis managed to coax the Shadow Stalker tale out of him, after half the bottle was gone. Most people never heard the real story. It took half a bottle before he was ready to face those memories.

  Before that tale was over and the bottle was empty, Vanyel had decided he had an ally he could count on. He was certain of it after Jervis’ final words when Vanyel got up to leave.

  “Never understood Heralds before,” the armsmaster admitted. “Never could figure out what all the fuss and feathers was about. Didn’t really have any notion of what you people did, until them stories about you started up. Never paid much attention t’ who the hero was before, then I started noticin’ that in the Valdemar songs most of the heroes turn out t’ be Heralds. Somethin’ else I started noticin’—most of the Heralds ended up comin’ down with a serious case of dead in them stories. You come pretty close to it, a time or two, eh?”

  Vanyel nodded ruefully, stretching sore muscles. “Stupidity, mostly.”

  Jervis snorted. “My ass. Wasn’t stupidity so much’s puttin’ yourself in harm’s way. Right, so tell me this—a merc like me, he puts himself on the line for money. Knows what he bought himself into, knows what he’ll get out of it if he lives. An’ he only gives so much; what he was paid for, but not past it. But—you—you Heralds? What’s in it for you? I mean, look at you right now—you’ve about wore yourself down to a thread, somethin’ no merc would do. And you showed up here in th’ same state. What for?”

  Vanyel shook his head. “It’s hard to tell you; it’s a feeling, more than anything. Something like a priestly vocation, I would guess.” He looked inside himself for the answer, an answer he hadn’t really looked for since he first realized what it was that had made Tylendel need to be a Herald. “I do it because I have to. Because I’m needed. There isn’t anybody—I’m not boasting, Jervis, you can ask Savil—there isn’t anybody else in the whole Kingdom that can do what I can do. I can’t give up, I can’t just shrug things off and tell myself somebody else will take up the slack, because there isn’t anybody else. There are too many people out there who need my protection; because I’m this powerful, I have an obligation to use that power. I’m the lone Guard at the Gate—I daren’t give up, because there’s nobody behind me to take up what I lay down.”

  Jervis’ face went absolutely still. Vanyel wished he knew what the old man was thinking. “Nobody?” he asked.

  Vanyel shook his hair out of his eyes. “Nobody,” he echoed, staring into space. “I have no choice; it’s that, or know my inaction dooms others. Sometimes lots of others. Too many times, others I know and care for.”

  Jervis’s eyes grew deep and thoughtful, and Vanyel could feel them on his back as he left, headed for the bathhouse.

  • • •

  There was a light tap at Vanyel’s door that woke him from the nap he was trying to take—in part to make up for the sleep he had been losing to Melenna. It hadn’t been a very successful attempt. He was still too on edge; his mind was too active. He yawned, and then grinned, identifying Medren by a stray thought-wisp. So we’ve recovered from the measles, hmm? And about to have a little moment of truth with Uncle Vanyel. Or rather, though he doesn’t know it, Herald Vanyel.

  “Come,” he said, sitting up and stretching, then swinging his legs off the bed.

  “Vanyel?” Medren plodded into the room and sagged down into the window seat. “Can I hide up here? I just found out from young Meke that old Jervis is gonna have some ‘special demonstration’ this afternoon, and you know what that means.” The boy shuddered. “Good old Medren for pells.”

  “Actually, no, not this time.” Vanyel grinned. “It means ‘good old Radevel for pells.’ I’ve been teaching Rad my style, and the pells plan on giving Jervis as good as he gets. Then you and Radevel will have at each other while I coach so Jervis can watch. He says he wants to know my style ‘because sooner or later he’s going to get another puny ’un.’ And some time this week, my young friend, you will have another sparring partner; once I recover, you and I are going to pair off. And I’ll run you around the field for a while. And meanwhile we’ll find out what Tashir is good for.”

  The boy’s mouth dropped open, and Vanyel continued mercilessly.

  “This is for your benefit. Bardic Collegium includes bladework for Bards right along with the music lessons, and I wanted you to have as much of a head start as possible. A Bard’s duty has been known to carry him into some dangerous places, and the Bardic Circle can’t spare Guards to tag along behind you to keep you out of trouble.”

  The boy’s mouth worked, but for a long moment, no sound emerged.

  “Oh—” he said weakly. “I—ah—”

  “Medren, I have a very serious question to ask you.” Vanyel let the smile drop from his mouth and eyes, and moved to stand over the boy. “When you were fishing for my sympathy, what else were you doing? And don’t tell me that you weren’t doing anything. We both know better than that.”

  “I . . .” the boy gulped, and dropped his eyes. “I was trying to make you feel sorry for me. That’s why I was kind of . . . playing while I was talking to you, singing but not singing, you know? Putting music behind what I was doing. I . . . it feels sort of like when I really get taken up by a song. Like I’m pushing something. Only with the inside of my head.”

  “Did you ever think about whether that was a good idea?” Vanyel asked, with no inflection in his voice.

  “No. Not really.” A long pause, then Medren hung his head. “It isn’t, is it?” he asked, in a very small, and very subdued voice. “I was doing something I shouldn’t have. I . . . I guess it’s something like being a bully because you’re bigger than somebody, isn’t it?”

  Vanyel nodded, relief relaxing his shoulders. Good. He knows, now. He saw it for himself. He’ll be all right. But he spoke sternly. “It is. And if you do it at Bardic, they’ll have the Heralds block your Gift, and they’ll turn you out. That is your Gift; this ability to make people feel what you want them to feel through music. And there are only three times it’s permissible for you to use that Gift; when you’re performing, when you’re helping someone who needs help, and at the King’s orders.”

  “Yessir,” Medren whispered, head sunk between his shoulders, where he’d pulled it when Vanyel spoke of having his Gift blocked and being turned out of the Collegium. “Nossir. I’ll remember.”

  “You’d better. On this, you get one chance. Now, come on, lad,” Vanyel said with a renewal of cheerfulness, urging Medren up out of his chair and propelling him out the door with a hand behind his shoulders. “Time for you to show those plowhorse cousins of yours how a real fighter does things.”

  CHAPTER 9

  THEY RETURNED TO his room after practice; Vanyel had thought to give Medren another music lesson, but even though he hadn’t done any fighting, he realized as he directed Medren’s movements that he was drained—and that was long before the practice was over.

  Medren was no fool; he could see how exhausted Vanyel was. He suggested that the lesson be put off; he even offered to have servants bring Vanyel’s dinner to his room.

  Vanyel accepted both offers; he bolted the food as soon as the servant brought it, and threw himself facedown on his bed again with a groan. The bed
had somehow been made up in his absence, despite all the hurly-burly in Treesa’s bower. Baby Heralds wrecking rooms, adult Heralds making magic Gates and then falling through them half-dead, a possible war on the Border, and still somehow the beds get made. What a world.

  He tried to think of what he would have done if Tashir hadn’t run berserk, and realized he hadn’t yet spoken with Yfandes. She probably knew what was going on, of course; since the moment he had first accepted the notion of becoming a Herald she had made a habit—which he encouraged—of eavesdropping on just about everything as a kind of silent observer in the back of his mind. He didn’t in the least mind her using his eyes and ears; it saved a lot of explaining, and if there was something he didn’t want her “present” for, he’d tell her. But it was very rude of him not to have said something, at least in greeting, before this. He rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.

  :’Fandes?: he called, tentatively. :I’m sorry—I got tangled—and then I fell on my nose for a while—and then I had a visit to make—and then I had a visitor myself.:

  She chuckled. :So I saw. You’re forgiven.:

  :Have you got anything for me? I’m sorry I made you run all the way home instead of taking the shortcut.:

  :You’re forgiven. And oddly enough,: she replied promptly, :I have got something for you. Brightest gods, let me tell you, it hasn’t been the easiest information to obtain. And I am not sorry I was apart from you for a bit; I am very glad you were far away by the time you completed the Gate. I felt your pain quite enough as it was.: The love in her mind-voice softened her words. :The Young One—I have taken to calling him “Ghost,” for he has been haunting this place like the veriest spirit, never coming near enough to touch and only rarely to be seen, and frightening the farmers no end. He is quite closely locked into his Chosen’s mind. I can speak with him, but only distantly; most of his attention and his concentration are with Tashir. But I can Mindtouch with him as you cannot his Chosen; Mindtouch does not frighten him. And so, because of the close bond between him and the youngling, I can sometimes pick up things as if I was in Mindtouch with Tashir.: Overtones of deep uneasiness. :The youngling is something less than steady; his mind is fragile and unbalanced. There are terrible things which haunt him, and which he fears to tell, and which he even blocks from his thoughts. Still. Ghost may yet balance him, if he can regain balance; the stallion is something of a Mindhealer.:

  Vanyel sat bolt upright. :A Mindhealer? A Companion? But—:

  :It happens from time to time,: she interrupted, the overtones of her mind-voice telling him clearly that she was very reluctant to speak of it. :It happens when it is needed. . . . Listen, I was in Mindtouch when the boy was making such a ruin of Treesa’s bower, and I remained in touch. I saw what you only glimpsed. Here.:

  It was a feeling she Sent, as well as an image. A feeling of profound trust, and the image of an older man, much like Jervis, in practice armor.

  :Looks like Jervis may be our key,: Vanyel mused, lying back down again, and putting his hands behind his head. :Could that man have been Deveran’s armsmaster?:

  :I cannot tell you; that is all I could obtain,: she replied. :Tashir is much too traumatized for any questioning, I would say. He—: she slipped out of the link for a moment, then slipped back in again. :—he is better, steadier, and Jervis is with him again. They are taking supper in the Great Hall, though with the servants, not the family. But I would not disturb him.:

  He winced at the thought. :Even if I wanted to, I’m not up to dealing with him, beloved,: he confessed, feeling every joint in his body ache. :I’m not entirely certain I could contain him again. I am about down to my last dregs. This is getting to be a habit I’d rather not have.:

  :Then rest. This won’t be solved in a day.:

  He grimaced silently. :I know. I told Savil that I have more questions than answers. Like—why are Highjorune and that palace built where they are? I can’t believe that it’s accident. Why are the people of Lineas so against magic—and yet have no laws forbidding its use? Where did Deveran want to send Tashir, and why did the prospect frighten him enough to defy his father in public? And why is the boy so afraid of women that a bowerful could send him skirting the edges of hysteria?: He made a mental shrug. :I know some of those questions seem trivial, yet it all ties together, somehow, but how—:

  :Rest,: Yfandes repeated. Then, mischievously, :There is at least one thing you will not need to beware of.:

  :Which is?:

  :Visitors in your bed. I do believe you have frightened Melenna enough that she is thinking about things you might choose to do with her.:

  :Such as?:

  :Flying her out the window in the nude.:

  He laughed aloud, and decided to stay in his room. Right now what he wanted was some quiet and solitude. . . .

  • • •

  Three days of unconsciousness seems to make for insomnia, he thought, after trying to fall asleep for what seemed like half the night. He gave up, finally, and moved to the window seat. He lit the candle beside it the ordinary way—from the coals in the fireplace—and found a book. It was a volume of history he would have found perfectly fascinating under normal circumstances, but he found himself rereading pages two and three times and still not getting the sense of them.

  He abandoned it in favor of the new gittern, letting his fingers wander across the strings as he tried to relax. It was earlier than he’d thought. This evening was very much like the one three nights ago; cool and crisp, with a light breeze. The moon was waning now into her last quarter, so there was less light, but the same kind of clouds raced across her face.

  Gods, how life can change in one night.

  This afternoon had been hard. Hard on emotions. Dealing with Jervis—purging that old hate. And before that, Tashir. Seeing Tashir in daylight, looking so much like Tylendel, only a younger, more vulnerable Tylendel, had reawakened all the old hurt and loss. He was trying to deal with the young man as himself, but it was not easy, not with his insides in knots every time Tashir turned those eloquent eyes on him . . . all he wanted to do was take the young man in his arms and . . . never mind.

  And is that because he looks like ’Lendel? Or is it because of me? He picked out the refrain of “Shadow-Lover,” as he tried to sort himself out. I don’t know what I am anymore. Shavri and Randi, they’re more to me than friends. And Shavri more than Randi. A lot more. I don’t know what that means. I just don’t. Now Tashir—hellfire. But the reason—is it because he’s attractive, or because he reminds me of ’Lendel? He tried to think if he’d ever been the least bit attracted to any other women but Shavri, and couldn’t think of any. But how much of that is because they kept throwing themselves at me? Gods, I hate being pursued. I especially hate being pursued in public. And the idea of going to bed with somebody I don’t care for— His stomach knotted. Gods, gods, where does friendship end and love start? How much of my being shaych was being shaych, and how much was just because of ’Lendel?

  His unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and he started. He’d already dealt with Medren. Melenna was not likely to show up, according to Yfandes. He wasn’t expecting anyone; not even Savil.

  He turned away from the window with the gittern cradled against his chest, and racked the instrument carefully. He walked soundlessly across the room and answered the door just as the would-be visitor made a second, more tentative knock.

  It was Tashir; pale as bleached linen, with the eyes of a lost soul. As Vanyel stood there stupidly, the young man slipped inside and closed the door behind him, putting his back to it, and facing Vanyel with a fear-filled and haunted expression, a strange expression Vanyel could not interpret.

  And in the dim light the young man looked even more like Tylendel. Vanyel’s heart seemed to be squeezed up into an area just below his throat, and his chest hurt. “I heard you playing,” the youngster said, hoarsely. “I w
ouldn’t have troubled you if you hadn’t been awake. Can I—bother you?”

  “Please, sit,” Vanyel managed, finding it very hard to get his breath. “Certainly, you’re welcome here, and it isn’t ‘bothering me.’ How can I help you?”

  The young man walked hesitantly toward the table, and paused, with his hands on the back of one of the chairs. He looked back over his shoulder at Vanyel. His face—thank the gods!—was in shadow. Vanyel succeeded in getting two full breaths in a row.

  “Jervis says you’re . . . shaych,” Tashir whispered. “Are you?”

  Vanyel moved over to the other chair and motioned him to sit; he did so, but on the very edge of the chair. Vanyel had a flash of image, a young stag at the edge of a bright meadow in the midst of hunting season. Which was also mating season. Wanting, needing, looking for something, not knowing what he needed, and full of fear and less definable emotions. “It’s no secret,” Vanyel replied cautiously, unable to predict what was coming. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Would you be my lover?” Tashir blurted desperately.

  Vanyel found he needed to sit down. He did, just before his legs refused to hold him. He stared at Tashir, quite unable to speak for a moment.

  Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me, lad? No, you can’t. Poor boy. Poor, confused child—

  He gathered his emotions and put a tight rein on them. The youngster did not have the feel of shay’a’chern, not in any way. This was the last question Vanyel would ever have expected from him. And his initial reaction was to tell him “no.”

  And yet—and yet—he looked so like Tylendel. And I’ve enough experience I could be certain he’d enjoy it— was the unbidden thought. I could convince him he was. It would be so easy. And I’m so lonely. Oh, gods. Oh, gods. The temptation—

  Instead of answering, he stood slowly and moved to stand before the boy, gently reaching out and placing the fingers of his right hand just beneath the line of Tashir’s jaw. Ostensibly, this was to make the youngster look up into his eyes—but Vanyel wanted to know something of what was going on in the young man’s mind, and if he could not Mindtouch, well, physical contact made his Empathy much sharper. As the dark eyes met his silver, he could feel the youngster’s pulse racing beneath the tip of his middle finger. And the feel he received was of fear and unhappiness, not attraction. Not in the slightest. That was both relief and disappointment.