“Quite remarkably, according to Breda.” Vanyel coughed. “I gather she caught something in the wind about the Lake District lot, and sent him over specially. I understand he’s to concentrate on something soothing.”
Randale actually chuckled. “Breda is a very wise woman. Remind me to thank her.”
At that moment, the delegation from the Lake District arrived, a knot of brightly-clad figures beside the door, who waited impatiently for the Seneschal to announce them. Vanyel stepped back to his place behind the throne and to Randale’s left, while Shavri stepped forward to her position as King’s Own at his right.
Please, he sent up a silent plea, just let him get through this audience.
Shavri nodded to the young Journeyman Bard, and Stefen began to play as the delegation formed themselves into a line and approached the throne.
• • •
Stefen fought down the urge to stare at the King, and concentrated on his tuning instead. Each brief glance at Randale that he stole appalled him more than the one before it. Only the thin gold band holding his lank hair back, and the deference everyone gave this man, convinced him that the man on—or rather, in—the throne was Valdemar’s King. There were two other Heralds on the dais, one on either side of the throne; a dusky woman, and a man Stefen couldn’t see because the woman was in his line-of-sight. Either one of them was a more kingly figure than Randale.
He’d known that Randale was sick, of course—that was no secret, and hadn’t been for as long as Stefen had been in Haven. But he hadn’t known just how sick Randale was; after all, apprentice and Journeymen Bards hardly were of sufficient rank to join the Court, especially not bastards like Medren and gutter rats like himself. The Bards didn’t gossip about the King, at least not where their students could hear them. And Stef had never believed more than a quarter of what the townsfolk and nobly-born students would tell the presumptive Bards. He’d imagined that Randale would look ill; thin and pale, perhaps, since his illness was obviously serious. He’d never thought that the King could actually be dying.
Randale looked like a ghost; from colorless hair to skeletal features to corpse-pale complexion, if Stef had come upon this man in a darkened hallway, he’d have believed all the tales of spirits haunting the Palace. That the King wore Heraldic Whites didn’t help matters; they only emphasized his pallor.
Stefen was stunned. He couldn’t have imagined that the King was in that bad a state. It didn’t seem possible; Kings weren’t supposed to die in the ways ordinary mortals did. When Kings were ill, the Healers were supposed to take heroic measures, and cure them. Kings weren’t supposed to have pain so much a part of their lives that every movement was hesitant, tremulous.
Kings were supposed to be able to command miracles.
Except this one can’t. This one can’t even command his own body to leave him in peace. . . .
There was something so heroic about this man, this King—sitting there despite the fact that he obviously belonged in bed, doing his job in spite of the fact that he was suffering—Stefen wanted to do something for him, to protect him. For the first time in his life, Stefen found himself wanting to help someone for no reason other than that the person needed the help.
And for a moment he was confused.
But I am getting something out of this, he reminded himself. Notice at Court. Maybe even the King’s favor, if I really do well. Come on, Stef, you know what’s at stake here; settle down and do your work. If he needs your help, that’s all the more reason that he’ll be grateful when he gets it.
There was a stir among the group of people beside the door, and they began to sort themselves out and move toward the throne. Stefen looked back to the three on the dais for instructions, and the dark-haired woman with the sorrowful eyes nodded at him purposefully.
Taking that as a signal, he began to play, dividing his power as he’d been instructed. The greater part went to King Randale. Once that was established, the remainder went toward the approaching delegates, soothing their fears, their suspicions—and they were suspicious, he could read that in their attitudes, just as he’d been taught. Bards weren’t Thoughtsensers, but the kind of instruction they had in reading movement and expression sometimes made it seem that they were. It was plain to Stef that this lot thought Randale had been playing some kind of political game with them, calculatedly insulting them by making them wait for their audience.
Look, you fools, he thought at them, surprising himself with his anger at their attitude. See what he’s going through? He wasn’t putting you off, the man’s in agony; every moment he spends with you he’s paying for in pain.
He tried to put some of that behind his music, and it worked. He saw the mistrust in their hard, closed faces fade; watched the expressions turn to shock and bewilderment, then faint shame.
He allowed himself a moment of triumph before turning his attention back to the King.
He hadn’t quite known what to expect from Randale in the way of an indication that he was doing some good. He had known he would manage something in the way of relief for the King; he had been completely confident of that. But how much—and whether there would be any outward sign—
It was the woman’s reaction that surprised him the most. She clutched at the other Herald’s arm, her expression astonished and incredulous. Randale simply looked—well, better. He sat up straighter, there was a bit more alertness in the set of his head and shoulders, and he moved with more freedom than he had before.
But then Stefen caught a glimpse of his face.
Breda had been transfigured when his Gift had taken away the pain of her dazzle-headache; Medren had revived when it had eased the misery of the fever—but those reactions compared to the relief Randale showed now—well, there simply was no comparison.
Only at that moment did Stefen realize how the King must have been living with this pain as a constant companion, day and night, with no hope of surcease.
He couldn’t bear to bring that relief to an end, not after seeing that. So even when the audience concluded, he played on, allowing himself to drift into a trance-state in which there was nothing but the music and the flowing of the power through him—all of it directed to Randale now. A cynical little voice in the back of his mind wondered at that; wondered why he was so affected by this man and why he was giving so much of himself with no promise of reward.
He ignored that thought; though he might have heeded it an hour ago, now it seemed petty and ugly, not sensible and realistic.
Besides, it really wasn’t important anymore. All that was important was the music, and the places it was reaching.
There was only the flow of melody, no real thought at all. This was the world he really lived for once he’d discovered it, the little universe woven entirely of music. This was where he belonged, and nothing could touch him here; not hunger, not pain, not loneliness.
He closed his eyes, and let the music take him deeper into that world than he had ever gone before.
• • •
Something brushed against Stefen’s wandering thoughts; a presence, where no one had ever intruded until now. What? he thought, and his fingers faltered for a moment.
That slight hesitation broke the spell he had woven about himself, and suddenly he was in pain, real pain, and not some echo from Randale. His fingers ached with weariness, threatening cramps—the tips burned in a way that told him he’d played for much longer than he should have. . . .
In fact, when he opened his eyes, slowly, then pulled fingers that felt flayed off the strings and looked at his chording hand, the reddened and slightly swollen skin told him of blisters beneath the callus.
Blisters that are really going to hurt in a moment.
But that wasn’t what had broken his trance; there was someone standing near enough to him to have intruded on his trance, but not so near as to loom over him.
He
felt himself flushing; why, he wasn’t quite sure. It wasn’t quite embarrassment, it was more confusion than anything else. He glanced up from his mangled hand at whoever it was that was standing beside him.
The Audience Chamber had been nearly empty when he’d lost himself in his music—now it was filled to overflowing. But it wasn’t the crowd that had broken his entrancement; it was that single person.
The other Herald, the one he hadn’t been able to see clearly because the woman had been in the way. And now Stefen knew him, knew exactly who he was. Long, silvered black hair, the face every woman in the Court sighed over, silver eyes that seemed to look straight into the heart—there was no mistaking this Herald for any other. This was Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron. Demonsbane, they called him sometimes, or Firelord, or Shadowstalker.
There were a hundred names for him, and twice as many tales about him, ballads about him; he was probably the most sung-about Herald alive.
Stefen knew every song, and he knew things about Vanyel that were not in the ballads. For one thing, he knew that Vanyel’s reputation of being a lone wolf was well-founded; he’d held himself aloof from non-Heralds for years, and even those he called “friend” were scarcely more than casual acquaintances.
He had no lovers—not even the rumor of a lover for as long as Stef had been at the Collegium. So the ladies set their wits to catch him, each one hoping she’ll be the one to capture his fancy, to break through that shell of ice.
Stef would have felt sorry for them if the situation hadn’t been so ridiculous. The ladies were doomed to sigh in vain over Vanyel; their hopes could never bear fruit. He knew what they didn’t—thanks to the fact that Vanyel might just as well have taken a vow of celibacy, and that the few older Heralds who knew him from his younger days were not inclined to gossip. Because of Medren, Stef was well aware that Vanyel, like Stef himself, was shaych. And that his current state of solitude was not due to a lack of capability or desire.
It was due to fear, according to Medren. Fear that being close to Vanyel would put prospective partners in danger. Fear that others he cared for could be used against him.
The past seemed to have proved Vanyel right, in some ways. Certainly the Herald had not had a great deal of good luck in his emotional life. . . .
Especially with Tylendel.
Stef knew all about Tylendel, the Herald-trainee no one talked about—at least not willingly. They’d talk about his Companion, but they’d avoid mentioning his name, if they could. “Gala repudiated her Chosen,” they’d say—
As if by mentioning Tylendel’s name, his mistake would rub off on them.
There were no songs and few people were willing to discuss the deceased young trainee, even though that repudiation had led to Vanyel’s coming into his powers in the first place.
People knew that Herald Vanyel had been Tylendel’s closest friend—and some even remembered that they’d been lovers—but it sometimes seemed to Stefen that despite that, they wanted to forget that Tylendel had ever existed.
That struck him as unfair, somehow. The whole tragic mess had been directly responsible for Vanyel becoming the most respected and powerful Herald-Mage in the Circle—and from what Stefen had learned, Tylendel hadn’t been sane when he’d pursued revenge at the cost of all else. The Companions knew that; they’d rung the Death Bell for him. That was why he’d been buried with full honors, despite the repudiation, which told Stef that someone thought he’d have been worth his Whites if he hadn’t gone over the edge.
Someone besides Vanyel. Stefen was one of the few outside of the Heraldic Circle who knew that doomed Tylendel had been Vanyel’s very first lover—and according to Medren, his lifebonded, and only love.
And Medren should know, seeing that Vanyel is his uncle, Stefen thought, staring stupidly into those incredible silver eyes. This was the closest by far he’d ever been to the famous Herald-Mage, though he’d secretly worshiped Vanyel and daydreamed about him for—well, years.
Medren had offered an introduction, but Stef just couldn’t scrape up the courage. Certainly Medren was Stef’s friend, and certainly Medren was Vanyel’s favorite nephew—but the Herald himself was as far from Stef’s reach as a beggar child from a star.
Still, he could dream.
In all those daydreams, Stefen imagined himself doing something wonderful—writing a ballad that would bring tears to the eyes of everyone who heard it, perhaps, or performing some vague but important service for the Crown. He had pictured himself being presented to the Court, then being formally introduced to Herald Vanyel. He’d invented a hundred witty things to say, something to make the Herald laugh, or simply to entertain him. And from there the daydreams had always led to Vanyel’s seeking out his company—and finally courting him. Because, thanks to Medren’s gossip, Stefen was very well aware that before the Herald-Mage had gotten so bound up in assuming most of the duties rightfully belonging to the King’s Own—and before he’d decided that his attentions could prove dangerous to those around him—Vanyel hadn’t been at all celibate.
Now the moment was here; Herald-Mage Vanyel was within arm’s reach, and looking at him with both gratitude and concern. Now was the time to say or do something clever—
The music limped to a faltering conclusion as Stefen stared back at his idol, unable to think of a single word, clever, or otherwise.
Vanyel pivoted and strode back over to the dais, while Stefen’s ears burned with chagrin.
I had my chance. I had it. I should have said something, anything, dammit! Why couldn’t I say anything? Oh, ye mothering gods, how can I be such a gap-faced idiot?
The King was talking with someone in Healer’s Greens; this looked like more of an interview than an audience—though judging by the way they were leaning toward each other and the intensity of their concentration, there was no doubt that it was an important exchange. While Stefen sat dumbly, berating himself for being such a dolt, the Herald-Mage interrupted the earnest colloquy with a whispered comment.
Both Randale and the Healer turned their heads in his direction, and Stefen suddenly found himself the focus of every eye in the Audience Chamber.
He felt his face growing hot, a sure sign that he was blushing. He wanted to look away, to hide his embarrassment, but he didn’t dare. He knew that if he did, he’d look like a child, and a bigger fool than he already was. Instead he raised his chin a little, and politely ignored the scrutiny of everyone in the room, and kept his eyes fixed on the King.
Randale smiled; it was an unexpected smile, and Stefen smiled hesitantly back. It was easy enough to be cocky among his own peers, but between Vanyel’s attentions, and then the King’s, Stef was getting very flustered.
He struggled to keep himself from dropping his eyes—the King’s smile spread a little wider, then he turned away. He said something to Vanyel, something too quiet to overhear.
Then people were suddenly clearing out of the chamber—
Stefen blinked. I guess the audience must be over. In the bustle over getting the King out of his throne and on his feet, everyone seemed to have forgotten that Stef existed. He took a deep breath, and began to pack up his things. In one way he was relieved that he was no longer the center of attention, but in another, he was a little annoyed. After all, he’d just played his hands bloody for Randale’s benefit—he’d be a week recovering, at least. If it hadn’t been for him, there wouldn’t have been a session of Court this afternoon.
Thank you, Stefen. You’re very welcome, your Majesty. Think nothing of it. All in a day’s—
Movement at the edge of his vision made him look up. Herald Vanyel was walking back toward him.
He looked back down at his gittern, and at the leather traveling case. His hands were shaking, which didn’t make it any easier to get it into the tight leather case—and didn’t make him look any more confident, either. He hastily fumbled the buckles into place, his hear
t pounding somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. I’m jumping to conclusions, he thought, stacking his music and putting it back into the carrier. He’s not coming toward me. He doesn’t know me, he has more important people to worry about. He’s really going to talk to somebody behind me before they leave. He’s—
“Here,” said a soft, deep voice, as his music carrier vanished from his hand. “Let me help you with that.”
Stefen looked up into the clouded silver of Vanyel’s eyes, and forgot to breathe.
He couldn’t break the eye contact; it was Vanyel who looked away, glancing down at Stefen’s chording hand. The Herald’s mouth tightened, and he made an odd little sound of something that sounded suspiciously like a reaction to pain.
Stefen reminded himself that blue was not his best color, and got his lungs to work again.
Then his lungs stopped working for a second time, as the Herald took his elbow as if he were a friend, and urged him onto his feet.
Vanyel looked back over his shoulder at the milling crowd, now clustered about the departing monarch, and his lips curled in a half smile. “No one is going to miss either of us,” the Herald said. “Would you mind if I did something about those fingers?”
“Uh, no—” Stefen managed; at least he thought that was what he choked out. It must have sounded right, since Vanyel steered him deftly out of the room and toward the Heralds’ Wing.
Stefen immediately stopped being able to think; he couldn’t even manage a ghost of a coherent thought.
• • •
Vanyel took the young Bard’s music carrier and gittern away from him, and gave the youngster a nudge toward the side door. He refused to let Stefen carry anything; the boy’s fingers were a mess. He chided himself for not having noticed sooner.
For that matter, if I’d thought about how he’d been playing without a break, I’d have realized that no one, not even a Master Bard, can play all damned afternoon and not suffer damage. He tightened his jaw. The boy must have been in some kind of a trance, otherwise he’d have been in agony.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 77