“Since you aren’t any of those things,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion, “since you’re w-wonderful, and w-wise, and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, and dammit, not old, I—I can’t take this much longer.” A single tear slid down one cheek, shining silver in the candlelight; Stefen either didn’t notice it, or didn’t care. “I—I’m only glib when it comes to making rhymes, Van. I love you, and I’m not a Herald. I can’t show you how I feel—except physically. I want to be your lover. I don’t want anyone else, not ever again.”
When Vanyel didn’t respond, a second tear joined the first, slipping silently from the corner of Stefen’s eye; he swallowed, and broke eye contact to look down at his feet. He relaxed his hold on Vanyel’s shoulders, but didn’t release him.
“I suppose—I guess I must revolt you,” he said, bitterly. “All my . . . other lovers . . . I don’t blame you, I guess. I—”
That broke Vanyel’s paralysis. That, and the ache his Gift of Empathy let him feel all too clearly, an ache that was matched by the one in his own heart. “No,” he whispered. “No—Stef, I—just never knew you felt that strongly.”
His hands hurt from clenching the back of the chair. He let go, and flexed them, then raised his right hand, slowly, and brushed the tear from Stefen’s face with gentle, wondering fingers. “I never guessed,” he repeated, no longer trying to hide the strength of his own feelings from himself.
Stefen let go of Vanyel’s shoulders, caught Van’s hand and looked back up into Vanyel’s eyes, quickly. Whatever he read there made him smile, like the sun coming from behind a cloud; a smile so bright it left Vanyel dazzled. He kept Vanyel’s right hand in his, and backed up a step. Then another. Vanyel resisted for a fraction of a second, then followed, drawn along like an obedient child. His knees were weak, and the room seemed too hot—no, too cold—
He’s too young! part of him kept clamoring. He can’t possibly know what he’s doing, what this means. He’s hardly older than Jisa—
His conscience nagged as Stefen blew out the candles, as the young Bard ran strong, callused hands under Vanyel’s shirt, and drew him down onto the bed—
And then the voice was silenced as Stef gently proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was just as experienced as he had claimed. If there was someone being seduced, it wasn’t Stefen. . . .
The last of Vanyel’s misgivings dissolved as not-so-young Stefen showed him things he hadn’t even imagined, and then proved that the sweet giving and receiving the Bard had just taught him was only the beginning. . . .
• • •
Overhead, sky a dead and lightless black. To either side, walls of ice—
He turned to the one standing at his side. ’Lendel—
But it was Stefen; wrapped in wool and fur, and so frightened his face was as icy-pale as the cliffs to either side of them.
“You have to go get help,” he told the Herald—no, the Bard—
“I won’t leave you,” Stef said, stubbornly. “You have to come with me. I won’t leave without you.”
He shook his head, and threw back the sides of his cloak to free his arms. “Yfandes can’t carry two,” he said. “And I can hold them off for however long it takes you to bring help.”
“You can’t possibly—”
“I can,” he interrupted. “Look, there’s only enough room at this point for one person to pass. As long as I stand here, they’ll never get by—”
Blink—
Suddenly he was alone, and exhausted; chilled to the bone. An army filled the pass before him, and at the forefront of that army, a single man who could have been Vanyel’s twin, save only that his eyes and hair were deepest black—a dark mirror to Vanyel’s silver eyes and silvered hair, and as if to carry the parody to its extreme, he wore clothing cut identically to Heraldic Whites, only of ebony black.
“I know you,” he heard himself say.
The man smiled. “Indeed.”
“You—you are—”
“Leareth.” The word was Tayledras for “darkness.” The man smiled. “A quaint conceit, don’t you think?”
And Vanyel knew—
He woke, shaking like a leaf in a gale; his chest heaved as he gasped for breath, clutching the blanket.
He was cold, bone-cold, yet drenched with sweat. It was the old dream, the ice-dream, the dream where I die—I haven’t had that dream for years—
Stefen lay beside him, sprawled over the edge of the bed, oblivious to Van’s panting for air. Though the candles were out, Van could see him by moonlight streaming in the window. The storm had blown itself out, leaving the sky clear and clean; the moonlight was bright enough to read by, and Vanyel saw the bright points of stars glittering against the sky through the windowpane.
Vanyel controlled his breathing, and lay back, forcing his heart to slow. He blinked up into the dark canopy of the bed, still caught in the cold claws of the nightmare.
I haven’t had that dream for years—except this time it was different. This time, it wasn’t ’Lendel that was with me. Except—except it felt like ’Lendel. I thought it was ’Lendel until I turned around, and it was Stef. . . .
The young Bard sighed, and turned over, bringing his face into the moonlight. Lying beside Stef, for a moment—for a moment it had been, it had felt like being beside Tylendel, his love and life bonded.
Lifebonded.
Only then did he realize why Stefen “felt” like Tylendel. The tie was the same; Vanyel was not only in love with the Bard, he had lifebonded to him. There was no mistaking that tie, especially not for an Empath.
No—
But there was no denying it, either. Vanyel suppressed a groan; if being attracted to Stefen had been a betrayal of ’Lendel’s memory, then what was this? He couldn’t think; he felt his stomach knot and a lump in his throat. He had loved ’Lendel; he still did.
He thought that he would lie awake until dawn, but somehow exhaustion got the better of confused thoughts and tangled emotions, and sleep stole over him. . . .
• • •
:It’s about time you got here,: Yfandes said, with a knowing look. :Honestly, Van, you make things so complicated for yourself sometimes. Well, come on.:
She turned adroitly, and flicked her tail at him, looking back at him over her shoulder. :Well? Aren’t you coming?:
“Where am I?” he asked, looking about himself. There wasn’t anything to be seen in any direction; wherever he looked, there was nothing but featureless gray fog. He and Yfandes were all alone in it, so far as he could see.
:Where are you?: she repeated, her mind-voice warm and amused. :You’re dreaming, of course. Or rather, in Dreamtime. There is a difference. Now are you coming, or not?:
He followed her, having nothing better to do; the peculiar fog thickened until he could hardly see her. He tried to catch up with her, but she always managed to stay the same distance ahead of him. Finally, all he could make out of her was a vague, glowing-white shape in the swirling fog.
A tendril of fog wrapped around his head, blinding him completely. He faltered, tried to bat it away—
And stumbled into an exact duplicate of the grove in Companion’s Field where he and ’Lendel had spent so many hours. The same grove that ’Lendel had destroyed. . . .
“Well, ashke,” said a heartbreakingly familiar voice behind him. “You certainly took your time getting here.”
He turned, slowly, afraid of what he might see, especially after what he and Stef had done.
“Don’t be an idiot,” Tylendel said, shaking back hair as gold as the summer sun filtering through the pine boughs above him. “Why should I mind?”
Tylendel lounged against the rough trunk of a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, looking little older than when he’d died, but dressed in the Whites he hadn’t earned in life. He raised one golden eyebrow quizzically at V
an, then grinned. “Why, Van—that’s twice in one day you’ve been moonstruck. Is this getting to be a habit?” Then, softer, “What’s wrong Vanyel-ashke?”
As Vanyel stood, rooted to the spot, Tylendel pushed himself away from the tree, crossed the few feet between them and took him in his strong, warm arms. Sharp scents rose from the crushed pine needles beneath their feet. Vanyel returned the embrace, hesitantly at first, then, with a sob that was half relief and half grief, held his beloved so tightly his arms hurt.
“Here, now,” ’Lendel said, holding him gently. “What’s the matter? Why should I be angry with you because you found someone to love who loves you?”
“Because—because I love you—” It seemed a foolish fear, now—
“Van-ashke, what’s the point in suffering all your life for one mistake?” ’Lendel let go of him and stepped back a little, so that he could look down into Vanyel’s eyes. “You don’t give up a chance at happiness just because you’ve already been happy once in your life! Havens, that’s like saying you’ll never eat again because you’ve been a guest at one grand feast!”
’Lendel chuckled warmly; as his smile reached and warmed his brown eyes, Van found himself smiling back. “I guess that is kind of stupid,” he replied with a touch of chagrin. “But I never did think too clearly when my emotions were involved.”
’Lendel’s smile faded a little. “Neither of us did,” he said, soberly. “Me especially. Van—you know, I didn’t love you enough, and I’m sorry.”
Vanyel started to protest; ’Lendel put one finger on his lips to quiet him. “This is honesty; I didn’t love you enough. If I had, I would have cared more about what was good for you than what I wanted. I’m sorry, ashke, and I think perhaps I’ve learned better. I hope so. Because—oh, Van—I want to make it up to you more than anything. If you can believe in anything, please, believe that. And believe that I love you.”
He bent down and touched his lips to Vanyel’s.
• • •
Vanyel woke with a start, wrapped in Stefen’s arms. For a moment, he thought he could still smell the scent of crushed pine needles, and feel the breeze on his cheek.
“—love you,” Stefen whispered in his ear, then subsided into deep breathing that told Van he was still really asleep.
’Lendel. That was ’Lendel. What in hell did all that mean? Van wondered, still slightly disoriented. What in hell did all that mean? He stared, wide-eyed, into the darkness. He would have liked to talk to Yfandes, but a gentle Mindtouch showed her to be deep in slumber.
The next time Stef turned over, releasing him, he eased out of bed, far too awake now to fall back asleep. The room was chilly; the storm had cooled things off in its passing. He slipped into a robe and began slowly pacing the floor, trying to unravel his dreams and nightmares, and making heavy work of it.
That second thing didn’t feel like a dream, he thought, staring at the floor while he paced. That felt real; as real as the Shadow-Lover, and I know He was real. It was ’Lendel, it couldn’t have been anything I conjured up for myself out of guilt. Could it? I’ve never done anything like that before this. . . .
And the old ice-dream has changed. I thought I’d gotten rid of it—thought I’d purged it away after I faced down Krebain. Why has it come back?
The square of moonlight crept across the floor and up the wall, then vanished as the moon set. And still Vanyel was wide awake, and too intent on his own thoughts to feel chilled. He kept pacing the floor, pausing now and again to look down on Stefen. The Bard slept on, his lips curved in a slight smile, sprawled over the entire bed.
After a while, as the impact of the two dreams—if they were dreams—began to wear off, that posture of Stef’s began to amuse him. I never would have believed that someone that slight could take up that much room all by himself, he thought with a silent chuckle. He’s like a cat; takes up far more space than is even remotely possible under the laws of nature.
It was nearly dawn; the pearly light of earliest morning filled the room, making everything soft-edged and shadowy. Vanyel continued to stare down at Stef, not thinking, really, just waiting for some of his thoughts to sort themselves out and present themselves to him in an orderly fashion.
Stefen stirred a little, and opened his eyes. He blinked confusedly at Van for a moment, then seemed to recollect where he was. “Van?” he asked, sleep blurring his voice. “Is something wrong, Vanyel-ashke?”
Vanyel froze. The words, the very tone, brought back the second dream with the impact of a blow above the heart.
Tylendel leaning up against the shaggy tree trunk, a slight smile on his lips, his arms crossed over his chest. “What’s wrong, Vanyel-ashke?”
Ashke—it was the Tayledras word for “beloved,” and Tylendel’s special name for him, a play on Vanyel’s family name of “Ashkevron.”
But ’Lendel had been fluent in Tayledras; Savil had insisted that ’Lendel and Vanyel both learn the tongue, as she had always intended to take them to the Pelagir Hills territory claimed by her Hawkbrother friends as soon as Tylendel was ready for fieldwork. She didn’t even offer the lessoning to Donni and Mardic, her other two pupils.
Stefen, on the other hand, knew only one word of pidgin-Tayledras; shaych, the shortened form of shay’a’chern, which had become common usage for those whose preferences lay with their own sex. He couldn’t ever have heard the word he’d just used, must less know what it meant.
Wild thoughts of hauntings and possessions ran through Vanyel’s mind. He’d seen so many stranger things as a Herald—“Stef,” Vanyel said, slowly and carefully. “What did you just call me?”
“Vanyel-ashke,” Stefen repeated, bewildered, and plainly disturbed by Van’s careful mask of control. “Why? Did I say something wrong?”
“Is there a reason why you called me that just now?” Vanyel didn’t move, though the hair was rising on the back of his neck. First the dreams, and now this . . . he extended a careful probe, ready at any moment to react if he found anything out of the ordinary.
“Sure,” Stef replied, blinking at him, and rising up onto one elbow. “I’ve—” He blushed a little. “—I’ve been calling you that to myself for a while. Comes from your name, Ashkevron. It—it seems to suit you. You know how a Bard likes to play with words. It has a nice sound, you know?”
The probe met with nothing. No resistance, no aura of another presence. Vanyel relaxed, and smiled. It was nothing, after all. Just an incredible coincidence. He wasn’t being haunted by the spirit of a long-dead lover, nor was this love in any danger of being possessed or controlled by the last.
Not that ’Lendel would ever have done that, he reminded himself. No, I’m just short on sleep and no longer thinking clearly, that’s all. And so used to jumping at shadows that I’m overreacting to even a perfectly innocent pet-name.
“Did I say something wrong?” Stefen asked again, more urgently this time, starting to sit up as he pulled tangled hair out of his eyes with both hands. “If you don’t like it—if it bothers you—”
“No, it’s all right,” Vanyel answered him. “I was just a little startled, that’s all. Ashke is the Tayledras word for ‘beloved,’ and I wasn’t expecting to hear that from you.”
“If you’d rather I didn’t—” Stef hastened to say, when Vanyel interrupted him.
“I do like it—just, I had some odd dreams, and coming on top of them, it startled me. That’s all.” Vanyel touched Stefen’s shoulder, and the Bard flinched.
“Havens, you’re freezing,” Stef exclaimed. “How long have you been up? Never mind, it’s probably too long. Get in here before you catch something horrible, and let me warm you up. After all,” he added slyly, as Van shrugged off his robe and slid into bed beside him. “Whatever you catch, I’ll probably get, and you wouldn’t want to have the guilt of ruining a Bard’s voice on your conscience, would you?”
“
Anything but that,” Van replied vaguely, then gasped as Stef curled his warm body around Van’s chilled one.
“Oh?” the Bard said archly. “Anything?”
CHAPTER 9
AFTER STEFEN HAD warmed him and relaxed him—among other things—they both fell asleep for a second time as the first light of the sun sent strokes of pink and gold across the sky. This time Vanyel slept deeply and dreamlessly, and Stefen actually woke before him. Van awakened to find Stef lounging indolently next to him, watching him with a proprietary little smile on his face.
“Well, what are you looking at?” Van asked, amused by the Bard’s expression. “And a copper for your thoughts.”
Stefen laughed. “‘Acres and acres, and it’s all mine,’” he said, quoting a tag-line of a current joke. “If you had any idea of the number of times I’ve daydreamed of being right where I am now, you’d laugh.”
“You think so?” Van smiled, and shook his head. “Oh, no, I promise, I wouldn’t laugh.”
“Well, maybe you wouldn’t.” Stefen searched his face for a moment, looking as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t make up his mind how to say it. Vanyel waited patiently for him to find the words. “Van,” he said, finally, “I have to know. Are you sorry? I mean, I’m just a Bard, I haven’t got Mindspeech; I can’t, you know, mesh with you when we—” He flushed. “I mean, does that bother you? Do you miss it? I—”
“Stef,” Vanyel interrupted him gently. “You’re laboring under a misapprehension. I’ve never had a lover who shared his mind with me, so I wouldn’t know what it was like.”
“You haven’t?” Stefen was flabbergasted. “But—but what about Tylendel?”
“My Gifts were all dormant while he was alive,” Van replied, finding it amazingly easy—for the first time in years—to talk about his old love. “The only bond we had that I could share was the lifebond.”
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 88