“So tell me the truth, son,” Withen said after a long pause. “I’m an old man, and I can afford to be blunt. How much longer does Randale have?”
Vanyel sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. “I don’t know, Father. Not even the Healers seem to have any idea.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “The truth is, though, I don’t think it’s going to be more than five years or so. Not unless we find out what it is he’s got and find a way to cure it, or at least keep it from getting worse. Right now—right now the Council’s best hope is to be able to keep him going until Treven’s trained and in Whites. We think he can hang on that long.”
“Is it true the boy’s wedded that young Jisa?” Withen looked as if he approved, so Vanyel nodded. “Good. The sooner the boy breeds potential heirs, the better off we’ll be. Shows the lad has more sense than his elders.” Withen snorted his disgust at those “elders.” “It was shilly-shallying about Randale’s marriages that got us in this pickle in the first place. Should have told the boy to marry Healer Shavri in the first damn place, and we’d have had half a dozen legitimate heirs instead of one girl out of the succession.”
Withen went on in the same vein for some time, and Vanyel did not think it prudent to enlighten him to the realities of the situation.
“About the Pelagir lands, Father,” he said instead. “The last few times I’ve visited home, I’ve heard stories—and seen the evidence—of things coming over and into Valdemar. Are they still doing that?”
When Withen hesitated, he began to suspect that something was seriously wrong. “Father, are these—visitations—getting worse? What is it that you aren’t telling me?”
“Son,” Withen began.
“No, Father, don’t think of me as your son. I’m Herald Vanyel, and I need to know the whole truth.” He sat up from his sprawled position, looked his father straight in the eyes. Withen was the first to look away.
“Well—yes. For a while they were getting worse.” Withen looked at the fire, out the window—anywhere but at Van.
“And?”
“And we asked Haven for some help. For a Herald-Mage.” Withen coughed.
“And?”
“And they said there weren’t any to spare, and they sent us just a plain Herald.” Withen’s mouth worked as if he were tasting something bitter. “I won’t say she was of no use, but—but we decided if Haven wasn’t going to help us, we’d best learn how to help ourselves, and we sent her back. Let her think she’d taken care of the problem after a hunt or two. Had a talk with Tashir’s people—after all, they’ve been doing without mages for one damned long time. Found out the ways to take out some of these things without magic. Worked out some more. Finally the things stopped coming across altogether. I guess they got some way of talking to each other, and let it be known that we don’t like havin’ things try and set up housekeeping over here.”
“There’s been no more sign of anything?” Van was amazed—not that there were no signs of further incursions, but that the people here had taken on the problem and dealt with it on their own.
“No, though we’ve been keepin’ the patrols up. Tashir’s people, too. But—”
“But what, Father?” Vanyel asked gently. “You can say what you like. I won’t be offended by the truth.”
“It’s just—all our lives we’ve been told how we can depend on the Herald-Mages, how they’ll help us when we need them—then when we need them, we get told there aren’t any to spare, they’re all down on the Karsite Border or off somewhere else—and here one of our own is a Herald-Mage—it just goes hard.” Withen was obviously distressed, and Vanyel didn’t blame him.
“But Father—you were sent help. You said so yourself. They sent you a Herald,” he pointed out.
“A Herald?” Within scoffed. “What good’s a plain Herald? We needed a Herald-Mage!”
“Did you give her a chance?” Vanyel asked, quietly. “Or did you just assume she couldn’t be of any help and lead her around like a child until she was convinced there wasn’t any real need for her?”
“But—she was just a Herald—”
“Father, nobody is ‘just’ a Herald,” Vanyel said. “We’re taught to make the best of every ability we have—Heralds and Herald-Mages. The only differences in us are the kinds of abilities we have. She would have done exactly as you did. She probably would have been able to help you, if you’d given her the chance. She wouldn’t have been able to invoke a spell and destroy the creatures for you, but it’s quite probable a Herald-Mage wouldn’t have been able to either. I have no doubt she could have found the ones in hiding, perhaps, or uncovered their weaknesses. But you didn’t give her a chance to find out what she could do.”
“I suppose not,” Withen said, after a moment. “I—don’t suppose that was very fair to her, either.”
Vanyel nodded. “It’s true, Father. There aren’t enough Herald-Mages. I’m afraid to tell you how few of us there are. I wish there were more of us, but there aren’t, and I hope when you are sent help next time, you won’t think of that help as ‘just’ a Herald.”
“Because that’s the best help Haven can give us,” Withen concluded for him.
But he didn’t look happy. And in a way, Van understood. But there was that stigma again—“just” a Herald—when there were Heralds who had twice the abilities of some of the Herald-Mages he’d known.
It was a disturbing trend—and unfortunately, one he had no idea how to reverse.
“Father, which would you rather have in a pinch—a Herald with a very strong Gift, a Gift that’s exactly the kind of thing you need, or a Herald-Mage who may be able to do no more than you could on your own?” He paused for effect. “There have been no few Herald-Mages killed down on the Karsite Border precisely because they were mages, and because of that they tried to handle more than they were capable of. If I were spying on the enemy, I’d rather have a strongly Mindspeaking Herald doing it for me than a Herald-Mage who has to send up a flare of mage-fire when he needs to talk! If I were hunting up magical creatures, I’d rather have a Herald with powerful Farsight than a weak Herald-Mage who’d light up like a tasty beacon to those creatures every time he uses his magic.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Withen mumbled. “But still—”
“Please do think about it, Father,” Van urged. “And please talk to others about it. Valdemar is short of friends and resources these days. We have to use everything we can, however we can. You have a powerful influence on the way people think in this area—”
“I wish your brother thought that,” Withen mumbled, but he looked pleased.
“If you decide that I’m right, you can make an enormous difference in the way things are handled the next time. And that just may save you a great deal, including lives.”
Withen sighed, and finally met his eyes. “Well, I’ll think about it, son. That’s all I’ll promise.”
Which is about as much of a concession as I’m ever likely to get out of him. “Thank you, Father,” he said, hoping it would be enough. “That’s all I can ask.”
• • •
Dinner proved to be entertaining and amazingly relaxing. Only the immediate family and important household members assembled in the Great Hall anymore—there wasn’t room for anyone else.
Vanyel was partnered with the priest who had replaced the late, unlamented Father Leren; a young and aggressive cleric with a thousand ideas whose fervor was fortunately tempered with wit and a wry good sense of humor. The young man was regrettably charismatic—before the meal was over, Van found he’d been lulled into agreeing to broach a half dozen of those ideas to his father.
Treesa had kidnapped Stef and ensconced him at her side, with herself and Withen between the Bard and Vanyel. Since that was pretty much as Van had expected things would go, he ignored Stef’s mute pleas for help throughout the meal. Given how muc
h effort he’d been going to in order to avoid the less platonic of Stef’s continued attentions, he found it rather amusing to see the Bard in the position of “pursued.”
Immediately following dinner, Withen claimed his son for another conference. This time it included Withen, Radevel, Mekeal, and two cousins Vanyel just barely knew. That conference left him with a profound admiration for how well the folk in this so-called “Border backwater” were keeping up with important news. They knew pretty well how much impact Treven’s marriage was going to have on situations outKingdom, had good guesses about what concessions Randale was likely to have to make with Rethwellan in order to gain their Queen’s aid, and had a fair notion of the amount of help Tashir was likely to be able to offer Valdemar.
What they wanted to know was the real state of the situation with Karse. “We heard they’d outlawed magery,” Radevel said, putting his feet up on the low table they all shared, “and there was rumors about fightin’ inside Karse. All well an’ good, if it’s true, an’ what’s bad for Karse is likely to be good for us ’twould look like, but what’s that really gonna do to us? That gonna end up spillin’ across the Border, you reckon?”
Vanyel put his drink down on the table, and dipped his finger into a puddle of spilled ale. “Here’s the Karsite Border,” he said, drawing it for them. “Here’s Rethwellan, and here’s us. Now this is what we know so far—”
In a few sentences he was able to sum up his own and Randale’s analysis of the situation, and the reasons why the alliance with Rethwellan was all the more necessary.
“So we end up takin’ hind teat if there’s trouble out here, hmm?” one of the cousins said cynically, around a mouthful of bread and cheese.
“To be brutally frank,” Vanyel felt forced to say, “unless it’s a major incursion, yes. I wish I could tell you differently.”
Radevel shrugged philosophically. “Somebody’s gotta take second place,” he pointed out. “No way around that. Seems to me we’ve been doin’ pretty well for ourselves; we got some Guard, we got our own patrols, we got Tashir an’ his people. So long as nobody brings up an army, we should be all right.” Withen nodded, and refilled all their mugs, letting the foam run over the tops with casual disregard for the state of the furniture.
“I can do this much for you,” Vanyel told them after a moment’s thought. Five sets of eyes fastened on him. “You know I have limited Crown authority. I can authorize a general reduction in taxes for landholders who keep their own armed forces. And I can get you weapons—and I think some trainers. We’ve got some Guards that are minus legs or arms that would still make good trainers, even if they can’t fight.”
All of them brightened at that. Mekeal looked as if he was counting something up in his head.
:Probably would-be young heroes,: Yfandes said cynically. :And he’s reckoning how much he can get taken off the tax-roles by encouraging young hotheads to take their energy off to the Guard.:
:Probably,: Van replied, thinking a little sadly of all the aspiring heroes who had found only early graves on the Karsite Border. And how many more he’d send there, if indirectly. . . .
But the fighters had to come from somewhere. Better that they came as volunteers, and well-trained. “I can probably even authorize tax credit if you send trained fighters for the Guard instead of cash or kind at tax time,” he continued. “Randale’s pretty loath to hire mercenaries, but he wants to avoid conscription, and right now the ranks down South are getting thinner than we’d like.”
“I got another thought,” Mekeal put in. “Give that credit across Valdemar, an’ send the green ’uns to us for training an’ seasoning. We’ll get ’em blooded without the kind of loss you get in combat.”
That made him feel less guilty. “Good gods,” Vanyel replied, “I’m surrounded by geniuses! Why didn’t we think of that?”
Meke shrugged, pleased. “Just tryin’ to help all of us.”
:It’s an excellent solution to getting youngsters used to real combat at relatively low risk,: ’Fandes observed, with approval. :I like the way your brother thinks.:
:So do I, dearling.: He nodded at Meke. “That will help immensely, I truly think.”
They discussed other matters for a while, but it was fairly evident that they’d touched on all the topics the others considered of the most import. Vanyel got to his feet and excused himself when the conversation devolved to small talk about hunting.
“I’ll make an effort to get in touch with Herald Joshel and get confirmation on everything we covered,” he told them, and grinned, seeing a chance to bring a point home. “That’s the advantage of having a strong Mindspeaking Herald around when you need answers in a hurry. Joshe is actually a stronger Mindspeaker than I am, and he’s taking my place with Randale while I’m gone. I know when he’ll be free tomorrow, and I’ll contact him then.”
He was surprised at how late it was when he left them. The halls were quiet; the servants had long since gone to bed, leaving every other lamp out, and the ones still burning turned down low. His room would be the guest room he’d used every visit he’d made home, and he knew exactly where it was, despite the additions to the manor and the darkness of the halls.
He found himself yawning as he neared his door. I didn’t realize how tired I was, he thought sleepily. It’s a good thing I didn’t drink that second mug of ale Father poured. I wonder what room they put Stef in? I hope it wasn’t the one overlooking the gardens; ye gods, he’ll be up all night with mocker-birds screaming at his window. I’ll take the old room any time, even if it isn’t as cool in the summer. Havens, that bed is going to feel good. . . .
He reached for the door handle and pulled it open just enough to slip inside. Some kind soul had left two candles burning, one above the hearth, one beside the bed. The gentle candlelight was actually quite bright compared to the darkened hallway; shadows danced as the candleflames flickered in the draft he had created by opening the door. As he stepped away from the door, he glanced automatically toward the right side of the hearth, beside the bed—the servants always left his luggage there, and he wanted to make sure his gittern was all right before he went to bed.
And he froze, for there were two sets of packs, and two gitterns. His—and Stefen’s. And—he looked beyond the luggage to see if the furnishings had been changed; but they hadn’t—only one bed.
Behind him, someone shot the bolt on the door.
He whirled; Stefen turned away from the door and faced him, the warm gold of candlelight softening his features so that he looked very young indeed. His loose shirt was unlaced to the navel, and his feet were bare beneath his leather riding breeches.
“Before you ask,” he said, in a soft, low voice, “this wasn’t my idea. This seems to have happened on your father’s orders. But Van—I’m glad he did it—”
Vanyel backed up a step, his mind swimming in little circles. “Oh. Ah, Stefen, I’ll just get my things and—”
Stef shook his head, and brushed his long hair back behind his ears with one hand. “No. Not until I get a chance to say what I have to. You’ve been avoiding this for weeks, and I’m not letting the one chance I’ve had to really talk to you get away from me.”
Vanyel forced himself to relax, forced his mind to stop whirling as best he could, and walked over to one of the chairs next to the hearth. He stood beside it, with his hands resting on the back so that Stefen could not see them trembling. He glanced down at them; they seemed very cold and white, and he wondered if Stefen had noticed. “Ah . . . what is it you need to talk about that you couldn’t have said on the road?” he asked, as casually as he could.
“Dammit, Van!” Stefen exploded. “You know very well what I want to talk about! You—and me.”
“Stefen,” Vanyel said, controlling his voice with an effort that hurt, “you are one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I mean that. And I appreciate that friendship.”
There were no footsteps to warn him; suddenly he found Stef’s hands on his shoulders, wrenching him around, forcing him to look into the young Bard’s face. Stef’s hands felt like hot irons on his shoulders, and there was strength in them that was not apparent from the Bard’s slight build. “Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stef said, hoarsely, “I am shaych, just like you. I’ve known what I am for years now. I’m not an infatuated child. What’s more—” Now the Bard flushed and looked away, off to Vanyel’s right. “I’ve had more lovers in one year than you’ve had in the last ten. And—and I’ve never felt about any of them the way I feel about you. I—I think I love you, Van. I don’t think I could ever love anyone but you.”
He looked back up at Vanyel. The Herald could only gaze back into the darkened emerald of Stefen’s eyes, eyes that seemed in the dim light to be mostly pupil. Vanyel was utterly stunned. This—this was considerably beyond infatuation. . . .
“Bards are supposed to be so cursed good with words,” Stefen said unhappily, looking into Vanyel’s eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Well, all my eloquence seems to have deserted me. All—all I can tell you is that I think I’d love you if you were a hundred years older than me, or a deformed monster, or—or even a woman.”
The Bard’s voice had lost any hint of training; it was tight and rough with tension and unhappiness. For his part, Vanyel couldn’t seem to speak at all. His throat was paralyzed and his chest hurt when he tried to breathe. He felt alternately hot and cold, and his heart pounded in his ears. Stefen didn’t notice his unresponsiveness, evidently, for he continued on without looking away from Van.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 87