The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  And then he’d seen to it that Stef learned to ride, among other things.

  He was actually glad that Stefen was still such a tyro; it gave him a good excuse to stop fairly early each day. Savil wasn’t up to long rides either, but she would never admit it. But with poor, saddle-sore Stefen along, she could be persuaded to make an early halt long before she ran into trouble herself.

  By the third day of their easy trip, Stef was looking much more comfortable astride. In fact, he looked as though he was beginning to enjoy himself, taking pleasure in his mount and her paces. The chestnut filly was a good match for his dark red hair, and the two of them made a very showy pair.

  :I imagine they’d attract quite a bit of notice if we weren’t around,: Yfandes commented, echoing his thoughts.

  :Don’t look now, beloved, but they attract quite a bit when we are around.: With the late summer sun making a scarlet glory of the chestnut’s coat and Stef’s hair, and the two White-clad Heralds on their snowy Companions on either side of him, Stefen looked like a young hero flanked by savants.

  :It’s a good thing he isn’t the clothes-horse I was at his age,: Van continued. :Otherwise he’d outshine all of us.:

  :He is rather striking, isn’t he?: There was a note of fondness in Yfandes’ thoughts that pleased Vanyel. She didn’t always like his friends; it was a relief when she did. One thing that helped was that Stef shared a habit with Jervis, the former armsmaster of Forst Reach. He talked directly to Yfandes, never talked about her in her presence, and included her in on conversations as if she could understand them—which, of course, she could.

  Stef’s filly snorted at a butterfly and pranced sideways, tossing her mane and tail playfully. Stefen laughed at her, and reined her in gently. A few weeks ago he would have clutched at the reins, probably frightening her and himself in the bargain. There was a patience and a confidence in the way he handled her that spoke to Vanyel of more than riding experience.

  He’s matured, Vanyel thought, with some surprise. He’s really grown up a lot in the last few weeks. He looks it, too, which is probably just as well. It’s bad enough that my father is assuming he’s my lover—if they knew how young he really is, my tail would truly be in the fire!

  He squinted ahead, trying to make out a distance post or a landmark through the bright sun. Another week at most, even at this easy pace, and we’ll be there. I wish I knew how much of a strain this was really going to be. It could be worse, I suppose. At least they’re making an effort to be polite.

  The filly fidgeted, but Stef held her down to a fast walk, talking to her with amusement in his voice. Savil caught Vanyel’s eye and grinned, nodding her head toward the young Bard.

  :A month ago she’d have put him on his rump in the dust. Boy’s doing all right, Van. I like him.: Her grin got a little wider. :Beats the blazes out of some “friends” you’ve had.:

  He made a face at her. :Now don’t you start! I’ve told you; we’re just friends and that’s the way I intend to keep it.:

  She just gave him a look out of the corner of her eye that implied she knew better.

  He ignored the look. By his reckoning, even if his parents were willing to admit that he was shaych that didn’t imply they were minded to aid and abet him.

  They’re willing to meet my friends but they won’t want to know they’re more than friends. I’ll bet they keep half the hold between my room and Stef’s, he thought wryly. Little do they know how much I’m going to appreciate that. It’s been hard enough keeping things cool between us, and if they’re going to help, that’s just fine with me.

  Stefen slowed his filly and brought her alongside Yfandes. “If this is the way traveling always is, I’m sorry they jumped me out of Journeyman so quickly,” he said, as Vanyel smiled. “I could get to like this awfully fast.”

  “You should have talked more with Medren,” Van told him. “You’re lucky. This is a good trip; the roads are fine, it hasn’t rained once, and it’s late summer. I’d say that on the whole, the bad days outnumber the good two to one. That’s what it feels like when you’re stuck out on the road, anyway.”

  Yfandes snorted and bobbed her head in agreement. Stef looked down at her.

  “That bad, is it, milady?”

  She whickered, and snorted again.

  “I’ll take your word for it. Both of you, that is. But this trip has been—entirely wonderful. I feel like a human being for the first time in weeks.” He tilted his head sideways, and gave Vanyel a long, appraising look. “You look a lot better yourself, Van.”

  “I feel better,” he admitted. “I just hope Joshel can hold things together for a few weeks.”

  “Huh,” Savil said, entering the conversation. “If he can’t, he’s not worth his Whites.”

  “That’s not fair, Savil,” Vanyel objected. “Just because Joshe isn’t a Herald-Mage—”

  “That’s not it,” she replied. “At least, that’s not all of it. You left him a clean slate, if he can’t deal with it—”

  “Then I’m sure we’ll hear from someone,” Stefen interrupted firmly. “I don’t think it matters. They know where we are; if they really need you, they can contact you, Van. Why not relax?”

  Stef was right, he thought reluctantly. He really should relax. This was another in a string of absolutely perfect summer days; the air was warm and still, without being sultry. They encountered a number of travelers, and all were completely friendly and ordinary, farmers, traders, children on errands—not a one had aroused his suspicions or Savil’s. Birds chirped sleepily as they passed, and when the sun grew too oppressive, there always seemed to be a pleasant grove of trees or a tiny village inn to rest in for a little.

  Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. It’s too perfect. I mistrust perfection. I keep waiting for something to go wrong.

  This afternoon was identical to the rest; at the moment they were passing through an area completely under cultivation. Open fields left fallow alternated with land under the plow. There were usually sheep or cattle grazing in the former, and farmfolk hard at work in the latter. The sheep would either ignore their presence or spook skittishly away from the road—the cattle gathered curiously at the hedgerows to watch them pass. Insects buzzed on all sides, in the fields and the hedges.

  This is the way it should be, Van thought a little sadly, thinking of the burned-over fields, and ravaged villages of the South. This is how Valdemar should be, from Border to Border. Will I ever see it that way in my lifetime? Somehow I doubt it. Dear gods, I would give anything if I could ensure that day would come. . . .

  Stefen gave the filly her head, and she danced away ahead of them, her hooves kicking up little puffs of dust.

  Vanyel shook his head. No use in brooding. I’ll just do what I can, when I can. And keep Stef at arm’s length until he comes to his senses.

  The Bard let his filly stretch into a canter, outdistancing both the Heralds. Van chuckled; the filly was headstrong, but hadn’t learned her own limits yet. He and Savil would catch up to the two of them eventually, probably resting in the shade of a tree.

  With any luck, this whole trip may end up with Stef doing just that—learning his limits. Especially after he meets Mother and Father. Chasing me is one thing, but trying to do so around them—and having to play little politeness games with them—He chuckled to himself, and Yfandes cocked an ear back at him. Oh, Stef, I think you may have met your match. “Many’s the marriage that’s been canceled on account of relatives.” This might be exactly what’s needed to make him realize that he’s been throwing himself at a legend, not a flesh-and-blood human. And when he sees that this human comes with a package of crazed relations, I won’t seem anywhere near as attractive!

  • • •

  They rode into Forst Reach in the late afternoon of the one day that hadn’t been completely perfect. Clouds had begun gathering in late morning, and by mid-afte
rnoon the sky was completely gray and thunder rolled faintly in the far south. Farmers were working with one eye on the sky, and Stefen’s filly fidgeted skittishly, her ears flicking back and forth every time a peal of thunder made the air shudder.

  Nevertheless, there was the usual child out watching the road for them, and by the time they came within sight of the buildings of Forst Reach the multitude had assembled. Withen Ashkevron had given in to fate, and begun adding to the building some ten years ago; now two new wings spread out from the gray granite hulk, sprawling untidily to the east and north. And scaffolding on the southern side told Van that yet another building spree was about to begin. The additions had totally altered the appearance of the place; when Vanyel was first a Herald it had looked foreboding, and martial, not much altered from the defensive keep it had originally been. Now it looked rather like an old warhorse retired to pasture; surrounded by cattle, clambered upon by children, and entirely puzzled by the change in its status.

  And it appeared, as they drew nearer, that the entire population of the manor had assembled to meet them in the open space in front of the main building. Much to Van’s amusement, Stefen looked seriously alarmed at the size of the gathering.

  “Van, that can’t be your family, can it?” he asked just before they got in earshot. “I mean, there’s hundreds of them. . . .”

  Vanyel laughed. “Not quite hundreds; counting all the cousins and fosterlings, probably eighty or ninety by now. More servants, of course. Farewells can take all day, if you aren’t careful.”

  “Oh,” Stefen replied weakly, and then the waiting throng broke ranks and poured toward them.

  The filly shied away from the unfamiliar scents and sounds, but the people pressed closely around her were all well acquainted with the habits of horses. The children all scampered neatly out of the way of her dancing hooves, and before she could bolt, Vanyel’s brother Mekeal took her reins just under the bit in a surprisingly gentle fist.

  “This one of Star’s get?” he asked, running a knowing hand over her flank. “She’s lovely, Van. Would you consider lending me her to put to one of the palfrey studs one of these days? We’re still keeping up the palfrey and hunter lines, y’know.”

  “Ask Bard Stefen; she’s his,” Vanyel replied, and dismounted, taking care to avoid stepping on any children. Not an easy task; they were as careless around adults as they were careful around horses. He moved quickly to help Savil down before she could admit to needing a hand, a service that earned him a quick smile of conspiratorial gratitude.

  Stefen dismounted awkwardly in a crowd of chattering children and gawky and admiring adolescents, who immediately surrounded him demanding to know if he was a real Bard, if he knew their cousin Medren, if he knew any songs about their cousin Vanyel, and a thousand other questions. He looked a little overwhelmed. There weren’t a great many children at Court, and those that were there were usually kept out of sight except when being employed as pages and the like. Vanyel debated rescuing him, but a moment later found himself otherwise occupied.

  Withen bore down on him with Treesa in tow, plowing his way through the crowd as effortlessly as a draft horse through a herd of ponies. He stopped, just within arm’s reach. “Van—” he said, awkwardly. “—son—”

  And there he froze, unable to force himself to go any further, and unwilling to pull away. Vanyel took pity on him and broke the uncomfortable moment. “Hello, Father,” he said, clasping Withen’s arms for just long enough to make Withen relax without making him flinch. “Gods, it is good to see you. You’re looking indecently well. I swear, some day I’m going to open a closet door somewhere, and finally find the little wizard you’ve been keeping to make your elixir of youth!”

  Withen laughed, reddening a little under the flattery; in fact, he was looking well, less like Mekeal’s father than his older brother. They both were square and sturdily built, much taller than Vanyel, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-completed. Withen’s hair and beard were about half silvered, and he’d developed a bit of a paunch; those were his only concessions to increasing age.

  Withen relaxed further, and finally returned the embrace. “And as usual, you look like hell, son. Randale’s been overusing you again, no doubt of it. Your sister warned us. Kernos’ Horns, can’t we ever see you when you haven’t been overworking?”

  “It’s not as bad this time, Father,” Van protested with a smile. “My reserves are in fairly good shape; it’s mostly sleep and peace I lack.”

  “But don’t they ever feed you, boy?” Withen grumbled. “Ah, never mind. We’ll get some meat back on those bones, won’t we, Treesa?”

  Vanyel held out his hands to his mother, who took both of them. Treesa had finally accepted the onset of age, though not without a struggle. She had permitted her hair to resume its natural coloring of silver-gilt, and had given up trying to hide her age-lines under a layer of cosmetics.

  Yet it seemed to Van that there might have been a little less discontent in her face than there had been the last time he was here. He hoped so. It surely helped that Roshya, Mekeal’s wife, was accepting her years gracefully, and with evident enjoyment. Whatever stupid things Mekeal had done in his time—and he’d done quite a few, including the purchase of a purported “Shin’a’in warsteed” that was no more Shin’a’in than Vanyel—he’d more than made up for them by wedding Roshya. At least, that was Van’s opinion. Roshya stood right behind Treesa, a young child clinging to her skirt with grubby hands, giving Treesa an encouraging wink.

  “Run along, dear,” Roshya said to the child, with an affectionate push. The child giggled and released her.

  Treesa smiled tentatively, then with more feeling. “Your father’s right, dear,” she said, holding him at arm’s length and scrutinizing him. “You do look very tired. But you look a great deal better than the last time you were here.”

  “That’s mostly because I am,” he replied. “Mother, you look wonderful. Well, you can see that I brought Aunt Savil—and—” He hesitated a moment. “And the friend you wanted to meet. My friend, and Medren’s. Stef—”

  He turned and gestured to Stefen, who extracted himself from the crowd of admiring children and adolescents.

  Van steeled himself, kept his face set in a carefully controlled and pleasant mask of neutrality, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “Father, Mother,” he said, gesturing toward Stefen, “This is Bard Stefen. Stef, my father and mother; Lord Withen, Lady Treesa.”

  Stef bowed slightly to Withen, then took Treesa’s hand and kissed it. “Mother? Surely I heard incorrectly. You are Herald Vanyel’s younger sister, I am certain,” he said, with a sweet smile, at which Treesa colored and took her hand away with great reluctance, shaking her head. “His mother? No, impossible!”

  Withen looked a little strained and embarrassed, but Treesa responded to Stef’s gentle, courtly flattery as a flower to the sun. “Are you really a full Bard?” she asked, breathless with excitement. “Truly a Master?”

  “Unworthy though I am, my lady,” Stef replied, “that is the rank the Bardic Circle has given me. I pray you will permit me to test your hospitality and task your ears by performing for you.”

  “Oh, would you?” Treesa said, enthralled. Evidently she had completely forgotten what else Stef was supposed to be besides Van’s friend and a Bard. Withen still looked a little strained, but Van began to believe that the visit would be less of a disaster than he had feared.

  Thunder rumbled near at hand, startling all of them. “Gods, it’s about to pour. Meke, Radevel, you see to the horses,” Withen ordered. “The rest of you, give it a rest. You’ll all get your chances at Van and his f-friend later. Let’s all get inside before the storm breaks for true.”

  Treesa had already taken possession of Stefen and was carrying him off, chattering brightly. Van turned protectively toward Yfandes, remembering that his father never could bring himself to believe she was anyt
hing other than a horse.

  But to his immense relief, Meke was leading Stef’s filly to the stables, but his cousin Radevel had looped the two Companions’ reins up over their necks and was standing beside them.

  “Don’t worry, Van,” Radevel said with a wink. “Jervis taught me, remember?” And then, to the two Companions, “If you’ll follow me, ladies, one of the new additions to the stables are proper accommodations for Companions. Saw to ’em m’self.”

  Vanyel relaxed, and allowed his father to steer him toward the door to the main part of the manor, as lightning flashed directly overhead and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Good old Rad. Finally, after all these years, I get one of my family convinced that ’Fandes isn’t a horse!

  CHAPTER 8

  “. . . SO, THAT’S THE SITUATION,” Withen continued, staring out the bubbly, thick glass of the crudely-glazed window at the storm outside. “I don’t think it’s going to change any time soon. Tashir is turning out to be a fine young man, and a good ruler. His second eldest is fostered here, did I mention that?”

  Thunder vibrated in the rock walls, and Vanyel shook his head. “No, Father, you didn’t. What about farther north though, up beyond Baires?”

  Withen sighed. “Don’t know, son. That’s still Pelagir country. Full of uncanny creatures, and odd folks, and without much leadership that I’ve been able to see. It’s a problem, and likely to stay one. . . .”

  Vanyel held his peace; the Tayledras weren’t “leaders” as his father understood the term, anyway, although they ruled and protected their lands as effectively as any warlord or landed baron.

  Rain lashed the outside of the keep and hissed down the chimney. He and his father were ensconced in Withen’s “study,” a room devoted to masculine comforts and entirely off-limits to the females of the household. Withen turned away from the window and eased himself down into a chair that was old and battered and banished to here where it wouldn’t offend Treesa’s sensibilities; but like Withen, it was still serviceable despite being past its prime. Van was already sitting, or rather, sprawling, across a scratched and battered padded bench, one with legs that had been used as teething aids for countless generations of Ashkevron hounds.