:It’s good, Van, all of it. Hold up a moment.: Van sensed Joshe’s attention going elsewhere for a moment, then the contact strengthened as it came back. :King Randale gives you full permission; the official documents will get drafted today or tomorrow, and go out by regular courier. He also said to tell you he thinks your family is slipping. They’re not only degenerating into becoming normal, they’re getting sensible. He says he’s not sure how to take that—it sounds to him like the end of the world can’t be far away.:
So Randi was feeling good enough to make a joke. That was an improvement over the state he’d been in following Jisa’s revolt. :Tell him it isn’t the end of the world, it’s merely the result of my own patient application of a board to their heads for the last several years. Even they get the hint eventually.:
Joshe’s Sending was a simple laugh.
:I’ve also got some thoughts for you and the rest of the Heraldic Circle. I’d like you to call a meeting and put this before them, if you would. I really think it’s important, especially now.:
He explained his own thoughts on the dichotomy, perceived and actual, between the Heralds and Herald-Mages, the problems he could see it causing, and his own tentative ideas for a solution to the problems. Joshe was silent all through his explanation, and for a short time afterward. Finally he answered.
:I’m surprised you noticed,: he replied slowly, with thoughts just under the surface that Vanyel couldn’t quite read. :Most of the other Herald-Mages either don’t see it—or agree with the common perception that Heralds are some kind of lesser version of a Herald-Mage.:
The bitter taste to his reply told Vanyel that this was something Joshe himself had encountered, and it hadn’t gone down well. Joshe was immensely competent, and a match for Van in any number of spheres, and Vanyel didn’t blame him for feeling resentment.
:It’s a problem, Joshe,: he said, as carefully as he could. :It’s part of my peculiar mind-set to see problems. I think it needs to be dealt with now, before it causes serious damage. We can’t do much about the perceptions of the general populace until we start to fix things in our own house.:
Something followed that comment that was like a mental sigh of relief that follows after a far-too-heavy burden has been removed. Van nodded to himself, and pursued his advantage.
:You’ll never have a better time than now. The King is a Herald, the Heir is a Herald, the Herald-Mage in charge of the Karsite Border is much more Gifted in Fetching than magery and knows it, and you’re sitting in for me. Savil will be sensible about this. You can keep this on the table as long as you need to in order to get the others to see that it is a problem, and you can call on the Heralds in the Circle to submit examples.:
Now Joshe’s resolution wavered. :Do you think it’s that important? It seems so trivial with everything else in front of us. The Karse situation, Randi’s health.
:It’s important,: he replied grimly. :And it’s only going to get more so. I think you can make the rest of the Circle see that. Point out the attrition among the Herald-Mages, and then quote what happened out here. People are supposed to trust us, and how can they if they think of some of us as being better than others?:
:Good point. Consider it on the boards.: Vanyel knew that once Joshe made up his mind about doing something, he pursued it to its end. He felt a breath of relief of his own. The problem wasn’t solved, but it would be. At least a start was being made.
:Then I leave it in your capable and efficient hands. Wind to thy wings, brother.:
:And to yours.: Vanyel felt Joshe break the contact, and dropped his end of it with a sigh.
Blackfoot was still stuffing herself, and showed no signs of stopping any time within the decade. He hauled her head up; she fought him every thumblength of the way, and returned to the game trail sullenly, and with ill grace.
I wish I had as clean an answer to what I should do about Stef, he thought, uncomfortably. Gods, there’s no denying what I feel about him—or the lifebond. But if I accept all that, and do so publicly, it flaunts the fact that I’m shay’a’chern in the faces of people I have to handle very carefully. Can I afford that? Can Valdemar? Or will knowing I have my weaknesses actually put me at an advantage? It might . . . I know that an awful lot of people come to me with the idea that I’m some kind of supernaturally wise and powerful savant, and that I can’t possibly be interested in their problems. Knowing I have problems and weaknesses of my own might make me more accessible.
But it also puts Stef right where I don’t want him—in a position as an easy target for anyone who can’t come directly at me. And he doesn’t have any way to protect himself from that.
Maybe I ought to give him up. I don’t know that I can afford a liability like that. Just make this a wonderful little idyll out here where it’s safe to do so, then send him on his way when we get back to Haven. I’ll make him understand, somehow. Maybe we could pretend to quarrel. . . .
No—I can’t give him up. I can’t. There has to be another way.
He was so intent on his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Blackfoot left the game trail for the road, and turned herself back toward Forst Reach.
Why is it I can solve the problems of the Kingdom, but can’t keep my own life straight? Gods, I can’t even control a stupid horse. He let her go for a moment, then reined her in to turn her back onto one of the game trails. He was still in no mood to face his fellows, and intended to return home the way he’d left.
He got her turned, though not without a fight. She had gotten her fill of picking her way through the brush, and let him know about it in no uncertain terms. She balked when they reached the break in the blackberry hedges that lined both sides of the road, and he finally had to dismount and lead her through.
That was when the spell of paralysis struck him, pinning him and Blackfoot where they stood.
One moment everything was fine; the next, with no warning at all, he was completely unable to move. Every muscle had locked, rigid as wood, and beside him Blackfoot shivered as the same thing happened to her. Magic tingled on the surface of his skin, and Mage-Sight showed him the cocoon of energy-lines that held him captive. It took him completely by surprise.
But only for half a breath; he hadn’t spent all those years on the Karsite Border without learning to react quickly, even after being surprised.
His body was trapped, but his mind was still free—and he used it.
He tested the barrier even as he searched for the flare of mage-energy that would betray the location of his enemy as the other mage held the spell against him.
There—
And it was someone who was reacting exactly as he’d postulated ordinary mages would when faced with a Herald; armored to the teeth with shieldings to magic, but completely open to any of the Heraldic Gifts.
Van could use his own magic, and not the Mind-magic, of course. The stranger was nowhere near Vanyel’s ability, and Van knew he could break the spell with a simple flexing of his own power, if he chose. But if he did that, the man might get away, and Van had no intention of letting him do that. Too many enemies had come back, better equipped, for second tries at him. Mages were particularly prone to doing just that, even one who was as outranked as this one.
Perhaps—especially this one. Because this was one whose power was stolen; siphoned from others with neither knowledge nor consent. Van saw that the instant before he struck. That may have been the other’s motivation; to catch Vanyel off-guard and steal his power. There was no way of knowing until Van had him helpless and could question him at length.
Which—Vanyel thought angrily, as he readied his mental energies for a mind-to-mind blast—would be very shortly now. . . .
• • •
No mage of ill-intent should have been able to concentrate long enough to set a trap, he thought, looking down at the trussed-up body of his would-be captor, lying on his side in a bed
of dead leaves. Especially not in my home territory. The vrondi should have had him so confused and paranoid that he should have been firing off blasts at nothing. At the least he should have been leaking mage-energy sufficiently enough for me to detect him. I can’t understand why he wasn’t. Or why the vrondi didn’t reveal him.
The man stirred and moaned; he was going to have a dreadful headache for the next several days. The bolt Van leveled him with had been at full-power, just under killing strength. Van could kill with his mind—in fact, he had, once. It was something he never, ever wanted to do again. It had left him too sick to stand for a month, and feeling tainted for a year afterward. Even though the mage he’d destroyed had been a self-centered, power-hungry bastard, without a drop of compassion in his body, and with no interests outside his own aggrandizement, experiencing his death directly, mind-to-mind, had been one of the worst things Vanyel had ever endured. No, unless there was no other way, he didn’t ever want to do that again.
Maybe he’s unusually good at concentrating. Or maybe he’s already so paranoid that having the vrondi watching him didn’t make things any worse for him.
The mage at Van’s feet was ordinary enough. He looked no different, in fact, from any number of petty nobles Van had encountered over the years; sandy hair and beard, medium build, a little soft and certainly not much accustomed to exercise or physical labor. His nondescript, blue-gray woolen clothing was that of “minor noble” quality, though cut a little differently from what was currently popular in Valdemar, and of heavier materials.
He must have come in over the Western Border; he certainly isn’t from around here. Van waited impatiently for the mage to regain consciousness. He wanted to scan his mind, and wouldn’t be able to do that effectively unless the mage was at least partially awake. The best information came when people reacted to questions, especially when they had something to hide.
The mage opened brown eyes that reflected his confusion when he felt he was tied up, and realized that he was lying in a pile of last year’s leaves. Van moved closer, stirring the branches, and the mage focused on him immediately.
With no outward sign whatsoever of recognition.
But inside—the man’s mind was screaming with fear.
Thoughts battered themselves to death against the inside of the mage’s skull, none coherent, none lasting more than a breath. The only thing they had in common was fear. After a few moments of attempting to make sense of what was going on in there, Vanyel gave up and withdrew.
The mage was completely insane. There was no reason for his action, because he wasn’t rational. He had trapped Vanyel because he had detected Van’s use of magic the way the vrondi had, and thought that Van was after him. But then, he thought everyone was after him. His life for at least the past month had been spent in constant flight.
He didn’t leak energy, because he couldn’t; he had himself so wrapped up in mage-shields that nothing would leak past them. And the vrondi’s constant surveillance was only confirmation of what he already knew, that everybody was after him. And they were probably so confused by his insanity that they hadn’t been able to make up their tiny minds about revealing him.
Vanyel sighed—then felt a twinge of guilt, and a sudden suspicion that sent him back to the mage’s mind, probing the chaotic memories for confirmation he hoped he wouldn’t find.
But he did. And this time he retreated from the chaos still troubled. The man had never been more than a hedge-wizard, but had convinced himself that “someone” was thwarting him from advancing beyond that status. To that end he began stealing power from others, specifically those whose Gift was even weaker than his. But since he really wasn’t terribly adept or adroit, he failed to clean that power of little bits of personality that came with it. . . .
For at least the past four years, he’d been going progressively closer to the edge of insanity. He’d have gone over eventually; of that Vanyel had no doubt. But he had still been clinging to the last shreds of rational thought, when he crossed the Border into Valdemar and used his powers to search for another victim.
That had triggered Vanyel’s Guardian spell, and the vrondi swarmed on him. It was at that point that he lost his grip on reality.
“In other words,” he told the man, who stared at him blankly, “I might well be the one who sent you mad, in a roundabout fashion. Damn.”
He crossed his arms, leaned back against the trunk of a tree, and thought over what he was going to have to do. Blackfoot snorted her disgust at being tied to a bush for so long with nothing she wanted to eat within reach. When Van didn’t respond, she stamped her hooves impatiently. He continued to ignore her, and she heaved an enormous sigh and turned as much as her reins would allow to watch a moth fly past.
“I guess I’m going to have to take you back to Forst Reach,” Vanyel said, reluctantly. “If I leave you with Father Tyler, he can find a Mindhealer to set you straight—and power-theft is really more in the provenance of the clergy than it is mine, since you didn’t actually do any of that inside Valdemar. I really hate to have to take you there, but there’s no place else.”
With that, he hauled the mage to his feet, ignoring the man’s struggles. He’d learned a thing or two on the Border, and one of those things was the best way to immobilize a prisoner. Blackfoot snorted with alarm when they approached her, but Van ignored her alarm as well as he ignored the man’s attempts to struggle free.
At that point, Vanyel gave the man a taste of his own medicine; a touch of the paralysis spell he’d set on Van. With the man completely helpless, Vanyel was able to haul him bodily to lie facedown over Blackfoot’s saddle, like an enormous bag of grain. He felt the curious touch of the vrondi, attracted by his use of the spell, but ignored the creature; when he didn’t invoke magic again, it got bored and vanished.
He was sweating and annoyed when he finally got the man in place; he considered using the spell to keep him quiescent during the walk back—but decided against it. It would be a waste of energy, since the ropes tying feet to hands under Blackfoot’s belly would hold him perfectly well.
With a glance of annoyance at him, and a swat for Blackfoot, who decided to rebel against this unexpected burden, Vanyel took the reins and began leading the hunter along the game path, heading back to the manor.
And he couldn’t help wondering if every half-mage in the Kingdom was going to take it into their heads to go mad.
The prospect was not an appetizing one.
CHAPTER 10
“LAMENTABLE,” SAID FATHER TYLER, regarding the trussed-up mage, who was propped against a corner of the low wall surrounding the father’s stone cottage. From the look of things, the mage was neither happy nor comfortable, not that Van was inclined to wish him either of those states.
Father Tyler shook his head again, his tightly-curled blond hair scarcely moved. “Most regrettable.”
“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for him, Father,” Vanyel said sourly, rubbing a pulled shoulder. The man had somehow gotten heavier when the time came to get him off Blackfoot’s back, and Van had wrenched his back getting the mage to the ground. “He brought at least two thirds of this on himself. Maybe more; mages aren’t supposed to cross into Valdemar without registering themselves, but I doubt you’ll find a record of this one. Be that as it may, his problem stems from power-theft. He’s certainly guilty of that, and he’s managed to do as much harm to himself as he ever did to his victims.”
“Just how serious is power-theft?” the priest asked, rubbing his chin, a look of intense concentration on his long face. “I admit the seminary never covered that.”
“Somewhere between rape and larceny,” Vanyel replied, absently, wondering if he could get Blackfoot back to the stables without running into his relatives. “Power becomes part of a mage; it has to, if he’s going to be able to use it effectively. Because of that, having your power stolen is a little like rape; there’s a
loss of self that’s very disturbing on a purely mental level. But that’s why this fool ran into trouble. He wasn’t good enough to cleanse the power he stole of all the personality overtones, and they became part of him. Pretty soon he never knew if what he was thinking stemmed from his own personality, or what was from outside, and he couldn’t control what was going on in his dreams and random thought processes anymore. He put on tighter and tighter shields to stop the problem, which only made it worse. The pressure in there must have been intolerable. Then the vrondi started spying on him, and he snapped completely. But if he hadn’t stolen the power in the first place, this never would have happened.”
“Well, it is your job to judge, Vanyel,” the priest said, with a smile that made it clear he intended no insult. “But it is part of mine to forgive, and mend. I’ll see what can be done for this poor fellow.”
That only succeeded in making Van feel guiltier, but he smiled back and thanked the priest. He thought about warning him that the mage was strong and far from harmless—
But Father Tyler was younger than Vanyel himself, quite as strong as any of the stablehands; besides, he was the successor to Father Leren. He had been part of the united Temples’ effort at cleansing their own ranks and was probably quite well acquainted with all the faces of treachery.
He’ll be all right, Vanyel told himself as he made his farewell and took Blackfoot’s reins. She was quite willing to go; in fact she tried her best to drag him to the stable. He would have been amused if he hadn’t been so preoccupied.
He held Blackfoot to a walk by brute force, and turned again to his personal dilemma. The problem of Stef was no closer to a solution. Van still couldn’t see how he would be able to reconcile all the warring factors in his life.
“What would you do?” he asked the mare, who only strained at the reins on her halter and tried to get him to quicken his pace. “Oh, I know what you’d do,” he told her. “You’d eat.”
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 90