“And every one of those people is dying for a close-up look at you,” Savil sighed. “I tried to warn you.”
“The warning came too late.” He shrugged. “Though—I am glad to have met Withen’s falconer, for all that he salivates every time he looks upon our winged brothers. And I am doubly glad to have met Vanyel’s father and mother.”
Savil strolled over to a fence surrounding the field that held the yearling fillies, and leaned on it, putting one foot on the lowest rung. “Withen’s gotten better the last five years or so. I must say, I’m rather proud of him. Most men go more hidebound with age, but the old bastard seems to have relaxed some of his attitudes. Hellfires, he hardly ever bellows at me anymore.”
“You think so?” Starwind replied, looking out over the field. “That is good. That is very good.”
But why it was good, he refused to say.
• • •
Every night after dinner, Withen and Treesa had taken to inviting the Tayledras, Savil and Vanyel up to their private suite or (more often, since the weather was excellent) out to the secluded side porch Vanyel had favored before the orchard incident. In part, it was out of pity—to get them away from the Forst Reach hordes. And after the first evening, they included Stefen in on the invitation, although the Bard begged off, saying he had promised to entertain the younger set.
Tonight was no exception, but this time Vanyel, too, had gracefully asked pardon to decline. He didn’t give a reason, but Savil told Withen as she joined the group out on the porch that he was missing an unusual experience.
“What is it?” Withen said curiously, handing Starwind a cup of wine. He’d had servants line the porch with festival-lanterns so that the place was well, but not brightly, lit.
“Someone managed to goad your son and his friend into challenging each other, musically speaking,” she replied. “That’s what they’re up to right now, in front of most of the younglings of the keep—no, Treesa, trust me, it isn’t anything you want to subject yourself to.”
Treesa had begun to rise, but sank back down to her seat. “I do trust you, but why? I trust Van not to do anything that would upset the children’s parents, so it can’t be a bawdy-song contest, can it?”
“No, it’s not,” Savil said, grinning. “It’s a bad song contest. They’ve challenged each other to come up with the worst songs they know. Trite, badly-rhymed, badly-scanned—you name it. Right now Van’s going through some piece of drivel about being trapped in a magic circle for seventeen years, and it sounds like it may take seventeen years to sing it.”
Treesa laughed. “It may, at that,” she said, and filled a cup for the younger Tayledras.
Moondance took it, but his face was sober. “Lady Treesa, Lord Withen, I have a great wish to speak of something with you, and as it concerns your son, I think this moment of his absence gives me the opportunity. If you will permit.” He paused, and looked first into Treesa’s eyes, then into Withen’s. “It is not comfortable.”
Treesa dropped her gaze, but nodded. Withen cleared his throat. “Nothing about my son is particularly comfortable. I’m not sure he was ever created to inspire comfort. I think I would like to hear what you have to say. No, I would not like it, but I think I should hear it.”
Moondance sighed, and sat down on the stone railing.
“Then, let me tell you something about a very young man, a boy, named Tallo.”
Savil was considerably more than a little surprised; Moondance found the story of his own past so painful that he had rarely divulged it to anyone. She knew it, of course; she had found the boy . . . she had brought him to Starwind, nearly dead.
Moondance told his story in as few words as possible, his voice flat and without emotion.
“Some thirty years ago, in a village far from here, there lived a boy named Tallo. He was a recluse, a lone runner, an odd boy, given more to thought than deed. His parents hoped he would become a votary, and sent him to the priest to learn—but in the priest’s books he found what he was truly Gifted with. Magic. His parents did not understand this, nor did they sympathize, for their lives had little to do with magic and mages. This made him further alone, more different, and his parents began to try to force him back to their own simple ways. It was too late for that—there were arguments. There were more when they attempted to bring him to wed, and he refused. He could not tell them what he felt, for what he yearned for were those of his own sex, and such a thing was forbidden.”
Moondance’s soft voice did not betray the pain the Tayledras Adept felt. Savil knew, no one better—but certainly Withen could never have guessed.
“One summer, after a winter of arguments and anger, there came a troupe of gleemen to the village—one among them was very handsome, and quite different from his fellows. Thus it was that Tallo learned he was not the only boy to feel yearnings of that kind. They became lovers—then they were discovered. Both were beaten and cast out of the village. In anger Tallo’s lover repudiated him—and in pain and anger, Tallo called lightnings down upon him.”
Moondance sighed, and shook his head. “He did not mean even to hurt, only to frighten—but he did not know enough to control what he called, and the young gleeman died in agony, crying out Tallo’s name. And in remorse for what he had done, Tallo tried to take his own life. It was Herald Savil who found him, who brought him to her new friend, Starwind of the k’Treva. Who was also shay’a’chern, and Healed the young boy in body and spirit—but still, there was such grief, such remorse, that Tallo felt something must be given in sacrifice to the harm he had done. So did Tallo die, and in his place came Moondance.”
Withen started. Moondance glanced sideways at him, and only now did the Tayledras show any emotion. “Tallo is no more,” he said, his voice subdued. “And no one in Tallo’s village would know Moondance. The Tayledras are stories to frighten children with, and they would not dare to recognize him. Those that were his family would only be afraid of what he has become. Never can the one who became Moondance reconcile with his family; he did not when he was Tallo, and now it is impossible to do so. And that, Lord Withen, Lady Treesa, is a desperate sadness.”
He sipped his wine, as the insects sang in the darkness around them, and the lights in the lanterns flickered.
“It seems to me, Lord Withen,” Starwind said, finally, just before the long silence became too much to bear, “that a man’s life must be judged by what he has done with it. Your son is a hero, not only to your people, but to ours, to the peoples of Baires and Lineas, even to some outside the Borders of your realm. Look at the good he has done—and yet always with him is a deep and abiding hurt, because he feels that you have seen nothing of the good he has done, that you feel he is something evil and unclean.”
Withen swallowed his cup of wine in a single gulp. He stared up at the stars for a long time, then lowered his eyes to meet Starwind’s for just a moment. He dropped them, then toyed with his cup, until the silence grew too much even for him to bear.
He cleared his throat, and furrowed his brow, looking very unhappy. “Thank you. You’ve given me a lot to think about,” he said, awkwardly, and turned to lock gazes with Moondance. “Both of you have. And I promise you that I will think about it.” He looked down at his cup, as if he was surprised to find it empty. “I think at the moment that I have had quite enough wine for one night.” He smiled suddenly, stood up, and held out his hand to Treesa, who took it with a surprised expression. “By now that little contest should be over, and I do believe I’d like to find out who—and what—won.”
And with that, he set his cup down, aided Treesa to her feet, and exited with a certain ponderous grace.
Savil blinked, and took a sip of her own wine. “What was that supposed to accomplish?” she asked. “And why on earth did you broach that subject now?”
Moondance put down his cup of wine untasted. “It was something that needed Healing,” he re
plied. “I have done my poor best, and we may only see what time will bring.”
Starwind nodded without speaking.
Savil looked up at the velvet of the night sky; no moon tonight, which made the stars seem all the brighter. “It felt right, if my opinion means anything to you,” she said at last. “Right words, right time. If anything is going to happen—”
“It is in Withen’s hands,” Starwind sighed, then stretched. “Gods of my fathers—if there is anything more difficult than dealing with the heart, I do not know what it may be. I am to my rest.”
“And I to mine,” Savil said, putting her cup down. “Tomorrow is another day.”
“Yes. And tomorrow we shall have finished the preliminaries over that evil hilt. Tomorrow we shall look into its past, and that of its wielder.” Moondance shook his head. “This will not be pleasant.”
“No,” Savil agreed, moving toward the door with the other two. “And I don’t think the answers we’re going to get will be pleasant either. So let’s enjoy our peace while we have it, hmm?”
“Indeed,” Starwind said, pausing to let her precede him. “For it is all too fleeting and fragile a thing, peace.”
• • •
Vanyel knew that Savil would have been happier in a fortified Work Room, but the current situation wouldn’t allow it. There really was no place suitable in all of the keep. The Tayledras felt more comfortable out-of-doors, and the orchard was the place where the strange mage had died, so to the orchard they had all come. Savil had brought a cushion with her; the ground was too much for her bones. The Tayledras sank down in their places with no sign of discomfort at all. Vanyel wished belatedly that he had thought to bring something to sit on, but it was too late now.
They sat in a circle, but with their backs to each other, rather than face-to-face. All four of them would see this reenactment of the recent past; all four of them would Hear the thoughts that had been strong enough to have left an imprint there. They were looking outward, not inward, and hence, the seating arrangement.
They were all in place now, as Vanyel eased himself down between Savil and Starwind.
The little circle did not include Stefen, who was keeping Treesa and her ladies occupied and out of the mages’ way, but it was Starwind’s opinion that he was better employed in that capacity than in watching them work magic he could not participate in.
Vanyel unwrapped the blackened hilt and laid it on the bare earth. He looked up at Savil, whose expression made him think that her insides were probably in knots. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he reminded her. “You don’t have to help.”
“I know that,” she replied, “but I’d worry myself to bits until you three finished this little exercise. I’d rather be in on it.”
Vanyel nodded. “All right, then. Let’s link.”
He linked to Savil, while Starwind gathered Moondance in; familiar bonds to familiar. Then the two halves joined, forming a meld that was as close to seamless as anything Van had ever seen. It helped that the four of them had wielded magics as a group before; it also helped that their friendship was as close as it was. But what made this work was that all four of them had actually trained together. They would take turns as leader and supporters in this, and there was no room for temperament or pride.
Savil took the lead for the first part, invoking from the hilt and from the blood-soaked ground the mage’s last moments.
The peaceful orchard and his companions vanished from Vanyel’s sight. Now he approached a ring of Treesa’s ladies, listening to Stefen’s music, as if he rode upon the mage’s shoulder, and Vanyel knew that the others were Seeing what he Saw. All of the stranger’s surface thoughts were open to them for that time period. Savil froze the scene at the moment the mage had attacked Treesa and Stefen, and they read then what was uppermost in his mind.
Vanyel was so startled he nearly fell out of the link. The man he had captured in the Wood and this mage might just as well have been two entirely different people! Not only was this mage not crazed, but his attitudes were drastically different, as well as what could be read of his past history and training.
The mage had not known that Vanyel was home; he had deduced who Vanyel was quickly enough, but had entrapped him by pure accident. He had been assuming that he would trap Withen’s house-mage; most nobles outside Valdemar had one, to weave protections for themselves and their interests. Since he hadn’t detected any of the arcane protections that would have shown him Withen’s house-mage had a Work Room, he had supposed that his enemy must be some kind of woods’ witch, or hedge-wizard, to do all of his spellcasting out-of-doors. The Wood, with all of its residual magics, would have been perfect for that. So the stranger had waited, snare at the ready, for the first sign of spellcasting. He had expected to catch another hedge-wizard.
He had gotten Vanyel. This was rather akin to setting a trap for a sparrow and catching a firebird. The mental blow that knocked him unconscious had caught him completely by surprise.
So when he came to, he had done so behind a screen prepared for just such an occasion. He had retreated behind a disguise that had been created for him by another mage—just in case he had discovered that the one he intended to neutralize had been more powerful than he. This was the false persona whose thoughts Vanyel had skimmed, the madman who interpreted everything as an attack or a threat to himself.
At this point the stranger had still not known that he’d caught Vanyel; he had only thought that Withen’s house-mage was far more skilled than he had guessed. It wasn’t until Vanyel actually came into his line-of-sight that he had realized who and what had caught him.
That had been the spark of recognition Vanyel had seen. After that, the man buried himself even deeper beneath the false persona, deciding to fall back on his secondary plan.
That involved getting inside Forst Reach itself—and Vanyel played right into his hands by taking him to Father Tyler.
He’d waited for Vanyel to probe him more carefully, and had been relieved when Van was too preoccupied to see if there was anything behind the persona-screen. That made his job all the easier.
He had disposed of Father Tyler, and had gone looking for Treesa or Withen. He’d found out where they were by the simple expedient of asking a servant. Then he’d gone hunting.
The final thought Vanyel read as the mage prepared to launch the leech-blade at Treesa was that his master would be very pleased.
That was, maddeningly, all.
Savil tried to Read further into the past than the moment of the attack, but once he was off Forst Reach lands, the mage had been screened and shielded, and there was nothing there to be Read. There was no image in the mage’s mind connected with this “master”; he’d never seen the unknown mage in person. The “master” had only given him his orders, then given him the means to carry them out—he had set up the disguise-persona, had screened his servant against detection and back-Reading while off the Forst Reach lands, and had constructed the twin leech-blades for him.
The mage had only been a tool in the hands of someone bigger.
Vanyel shook off his disappointment, and began gently disengaging himself from the spell. Gradually the frozen scene faded from Mage-Sight and ordinary sight; then, with an abrupt, gut-wrenching shudder, it vanished completely, and Vanyel was back in the present, with a numb behind, and far too many unanswered questions.
He got up, breaking the circle, and stretched. He stood staring at the tree just in front of him for a while, trying to get everything he’d learned and everything he hadn’t learned sorted out. When he turned around, Starwind was staring at him, a slight frown on his lips.
“You do realize what this attack means, do you not?” he said to Vanyel. “That you were vulnerable to the leech-blade was the purest accident; if you had been warded against magic the thing would have had no purchase upon you. Nevertheless, you were the target; the m
age recognized you and knew that. He was to destroy you by indirect means, by destroying those you love. The one who sent him does not want to confront you—but does want you eliminated. This time the targets were to be Lady Treesa, Lord Withen, or both—hence the two blades.”
“The protections I put on them won’t hold against direct attacks,” Savil admitted unhappily. “I can’t stop an assassin. I don’t think this is going to end with one attack, either, not with what I picked up. Van, I don’t know what to say.”
Vanyel sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s nothing I haven’t anticipated, Savil. That’s always been my worst fear, you know that. But if there is somebody, some powerful enemy of mine out there—where has he been all this time? What does he really want? And is he just my enemy, or is he Valdemar’s enemy as well?”
Moondance stretched as Starwind clasped his shoulders and rubbed them absently. “This comes as quite a surprise to us as well, Wingbrother. We are reclusive, yes, but there are still signs of such a mage as this ‘master’ seems to be which we should have detected long before this.”
Vanyel offered Savil his hands to pull her to her feet. “Except that you have a peculiar blind spot, my friends,” Savil, said, accepting the aid. “You never look outside your own territory. Even the Shin’a’in Clans work together, but you don’t; each of your Clans operates on its own. That’s your strength, but that’s also your weakness.”
“Strength or weakness, it matters not,” Starwind said shortly. “The question is, how is Vanyel to ensure the continued safety of his parents? As you have pointed out, Wingsister, this is not going stop at one attack.”
“There’s only one thing I can do,” Vanyel said. “Since I can’t be where they are—”
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 95