The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Van gave up on trying to stop her, or even reason with her, and hung on for dear life.

  The sleet thickened and became real snow; by now Vanyel was so cold he couldn’t even feel his toes, and his fingers were entirely numb. Snow was everywhere, blown in all directions, including up, by the erratic gusts of wind. He couldn’t see where Yfandes was going because of the snow being blown into his face; only the tensing of her muscles told him when she was going to make another of those bone-jarring jumps, into or out of someone’s field, across a stream, or even through a barnyard.

  Finally she made another leap that ended with her hooves chiming on something hard. Presumably pavement; she halted abruptly, ending in a short skid, and he was thrown against the pommel of his saddle before he could regain his balance. When he looked up, the walls of the city towered over them both, and here in the lee of the walls the wind was tamed to a faint breath. Already snow had started to lodge in the tiny crevices between the blocks of stone, creating thin white lines around each of them.

  She moved up to the gate at a sedate walk, bridle bells chiming cheerfully as a kind of ironic counterpoint to her tired pacing.

  The Guard at the gate started to wave them through, then took a second look and halted them just inside the tunnel beneath the walls, with a restraining hand on Yfandes’ bridle. This tunnel, sheltered from the wind and snow, felt warm after the punishing weather outside.

  Vanyel raised his head tiredly. “What—” he began.

  “You’re not goin’ past me in that state, Herald,” growled the Guard, a tough-looking woman who reminded Van of his own sister, Lissa. “Old man like you should know better than to—”

  Old man? He shook his head so that his hood fell back, and she stopped in midsentence, her mouth falling open.

  “If there were any flies to catch,” he said, with tired good humor, “you’d be making a frog envious.”

  She shut her mouth with an audible snap.

  “Beg your pardon, milord Vanyel,” she said stiffly. “Just saw the white in your hair, and—”

  “You did quite right to stop me, my lady,” he replied gently. “I’m obviously not thinking, and it’s from cold and exhaustion. We’re far from infallible—someone had better watch out for us. Now what were you planning on doing with me—aside from telling me what a fool I was to be out in this muck?”

  “I was goin’ to give you a blanket to wrap up in,” she said hesitantly. “Make you take off that soggy cloak. Gods, milord, it looks like you’re carryin’ half the road-muck ’twixt here and the Border on you.”

  “I think we are, but the Palace isn’t far, and that’s where we’re heading,” he said. “I think we can make it that far.” He managed a real smile, and she smiled back uncertainly.

  “If you say so, milord.” She took her hand off Yfandes’ rein, and stepped aside; he rode back out into the cold and snow.

  But at least within the city walls they were sheltered from the wind. And it wasn’t that far to the Palace. . . .

  He must have blanked out for a while, a common enough habit of his, when he knew he was in relatively safe, but uncomfortable surroundings—riding on a patrolled road in the dead of winter, or waiting out an ambush in the pouring rain, for instance. The next thing he knew, he was in the dry and heated warming shed beside the stable; one of the grooms was at his stirrup, urging him to dismount.

  :’Fandes?: he queried.

  She turned her head slowly to stare at him, blinking. :Oh. We’re home. I must have—:

  :You did the same thing I did; the minute we crossed inside the city we went numb. Get some rest, love. I’m going to do the same as soon as I make my report.:

  “Get her closer to the heat,” he told the groom, dismounting with care for his bruises. The warming shed was heated by a series of iron stoves, and on very cold nights, the door into the stable would be left open so that the heat would carry out into the attached building. “Get her dry, give her a thorough grooming, then a hot mash for her supper.”

  :Bless you.:

  “Put two blankets on her, and take that tack away. It needs a complete overhaul.” He took the saddlebags from the cantle and threw them over his shoulder, mud and all.

  “Anything else, milord?” the groom asked, eyes wide with surprise at his state.

  “No,” Vanyel said, and dredged up another smile. “Thank you. I’m a little short on manners. I think they froze somewhere back about a candlemark ago.”

  :Where are you going?: Yfandes asked, as she was being led away.

  :To my room long enough to change, then to report,: he told her. :Check with the others and tell me if Randi’s holding Audience today, would you?:

  :He is,: she replied immediately. :Stef’s with him.:

  :Good. Thank you. Go get some rest, you deserve it.: He found a little more energy somewhere, and quickened his steps toward the door.

  :So do you, but you won’t take it,: she replied with resignation. Van sent her a tired but warm mental hug.

  He strode out into the snow, which was coming down so thickly now that it completely hid the Palace from where he stood. :I’ll take it, love. Later. Randi’s good hours are too rare to waste, and I have too much to report.:

  He was afraid; afraid of what he’d find when he saw Randale, afraid that Treven was not going to be able to cope with so many duties thrust on him so young, afraid that Shavri was going to fall apart at any moment—

  Yes, and admit it. Afraid Stef’s lost interest. That’s what is really eating at you. He shivered, and forced himself to walk a little faster, as the snow coated him with a purer white than his uniform cloak was capable of showing just now.

  The stable-side door opened just before he reached it, and someone pulled him inside, into warmth and golden light from the oil lamp mounted in the doorframe.

  It took Vanyel a moment to recognize him; not because Tantras had changed, but because his numb memory couldn’t put name and face together.

  “Tran—” he croaked. Ye gods, I doubt I’d recognize my own mother in this state.

  “Give me that cloak,” Tantras said briskly, unfastening the throat-latch himself. “Delian has been watching for you two for days; as soon as he saw how mind-numb you were, he called me. There.” The cloak fell from Van’s shoulders, landing in a sodden heap on the floor. “Good. There isn’t a lot of time to spare; Randi’s Audiences rarely last more than a candlemark or two even with Stef to help. Come in here—”

  He pulled Vanyel into a storage-chamber. There was a small lantern here on a shelf, and a set of Whites beside it. “Strip, and put these on,” Tantras ordered. “What do you need out of your saddlebags?”

  “Just the dispatch cases,” Vanyel said, pulling at the lacings of his tunic, with hands that felt twice their normal size.

  “I take it that you did all right?” Tantras pulled out the pair of sealed cases and laid them on the shelf where the uniform had been.

  “It wasn’t easy, but yes, I got the treaty Randi wanted.” He had to peel his breeches off, they were so soaked. Tran handed him a towel, and he dried himself off, then wrapped it around his dripping hair before he began pulling on the new set of breeches. “Queen Lythiaren—gods, that’s a mouthful!—has only heard rumors of what we are and what we can do. Heralds, I mean. She isn’t familiar with Mind-magic; the very idea that someone could pick up their thoughts and feelings frightens most of the people of Rethwellan. I spent about as much time undoing rumor as I did at the bargaining table. But it’s over, and I must say, it’s a good thing Randi sent me, because I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t think anyone else has the peculiar combination of Gifts that would have let them pull it off.”

  “Your reputation doesn’t hurt, either,” Tran observed wryly.

  Vanyel pulled the tunic over his head—one of Tran’s and much too loose, but that wouldn’t matter. He began
toweling his hair, still talking. “That’s true, though it almost did more harm than good. That’s why I got out of there before the passes snowed up. I make them all very uneasy, and they were very happy to see my back.”

  “Here’re your dispatches,” Tran said, handing the cases to him as he ran his fingers through his hair to achieve a little order. “I’ll take the rest of your stuff back to your room. And Randi looks like hell, so be prepared.”

  Vanyel took the twin blue-leather cases from his friend, and hesitated a moment. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t certain what.

  “Go,” Tran said, holding open the door with one hand while he grabbed the lantern with the other. “You haven’t got any time to waste.”

  Just how much worse can Randi have gotten in three months? he wondered, forcing tired legs into a brisk walk. The corridors were deserted; in fact, the entire Palace had an air of disuse about it. It was disquieting in the extreme, especially for someone who remembered these same corridors full of courtiers and servants, the way they had been in Elspeth’s time. It was as if an evil spirit had made off with all the people, leaving the Palace empty, populated by memories.

  The Throne Room was mostly empty; no sycophants, no curious idlers, only those who had business with Randale. Hardly more than twenty people, all told, and all of them so quiet that Van clearly heard Stef playing up at the front of the room. At first Van couldn’t see Randale at all; then someone moved to one side, and Van got his first look at the King in three months.

  With a supreme effort of will he prevented himself from crying out and running to Randale’s side. Randale had changed drastically since summer.

  It wasn’t so much a physical change as something less tangible. Randale looked frail, as fragile as a spun-glass ornament. There was a quality of transparency about him; he could easily have been a Tayledras ice-sculpture, the kind they made for their winter-festivals, but one of a creature other than a man. One of the Ethereal Plane Varrir, perhaps.

  That was, perhaps, the most frightening thing of all. Randale no longer looked quite human. Everything that was nonessential had been burned away or discarded in the past three months; he held to life by nothing less than sheer will. There was something magnificent about him; Vanyel would never have believed that poor, vacillating Randi, Randale who had never wanted to be King, could have metamorphosed into this creature of iron spirit and diamond determination.

  He’s holding on until Treven is ready, Van thought, watching as Randale listened carefully to the messenger from the Karsite Border. He won’t let go until Trev can handle the job. But that’s all that’s keeping him. I wonder if he realizes that?

  Shavri bent over him and touched his shoulder. He raised a colorless hand to cover hers, without taking his eyes or his attention away from the messenger. Vanyel Felt the strength flowing from her to him, and realized something else. Shavri was as doomed as Randi. She had, out of love, done the one thing no Healer ever did—she’d opened an unrestricted channel between them. She was giving him everything she had—they would burn out together, because she no longer had any way to stop that from happening.

  She knew what she’d done; she had to. Which meant that was what she wanted.

  Neither of them knows what the other is hiding. Randi doesn’t know the channel Shavri opened is unrestricted; Shavri doesn’t know how little Randi has left. I should tell them—but I can’t. I can’t. Let them keep their secrets. They have so little else except love.

  Joshel beckoned to Van as the messenger bowed in response to something Randale said. Vanyel forced himself to walk briskly to the foot of the throne, as if he’d just come in from a pleasure ride. Randale was focused entirely on what came immediately before him; too focused to read past any outward seeming of well-being, if Van chose to enforce that kind of illusion. Which was precisely what Vanyel intended to do.

  “Majesty,” he said quietly, “your business with Rethwellan is successfully concluded.” He handed the dispatch tubes to Joshel, who opened them and handed them to the Seneschal. “Here is your treaty, my King; exactly what you requested I negotiate for. Mutual defense pact against Karse, extradition of criminals, provision for aid in the event of an attack, it’s all there.”

  Plus a few more things the Queen and I worked out. He watched as the Seneschal scanned each page and handed it on to Randale; noted with tired satisfaction the surprised smiles as they came to the clauses he had gotten inserted into the document. It was a good treaty, fair to both sides. The rulers of Karse would have a rude awakening when they found out about this particular agreement.

  He was proudest of the fact that he had negotiated the agreement despite having no formal training as a diplomat. Everything he knew, he’d picked up from Joshel or the Seneschal.

  Randale knew that, and his smile showed that he realized the value of Van’s accomplishment. “Well done, old friend,” he said, in a breathless voice that told Van how much each word cost him in effort. “I couldn’t have asked for more. I wouldn’t have thought to ask for some of the things you got for us. I’m tempted to ask you to give up mage-craft in favor of politics.”

  “Oh, I think not, my liege,” Vanyel said lightly. “I am far too honest. This is one situation where honesty was an asset, but that’s usually not the case in politics.”

  Randale laughed, a pale little ghost of a chuckle, and leaned back into the padded embrace of his throne. “Thank you, Vanyel. I’m sure the Council will want to go over this with you in detail shortly, and I’d appreciate it if you’d brief Trev on how to handle the Queen.”

  This was clearly a dismissal, and Vanyel bowed himself out. He left the Throne Room entirely; he couldn’t bear to see anything more of what Randale had become. Joshel followed him out into the corridor.

  “I know you’re exhausted, Van, but we need to convene the Privy Council on this and the Karse situation right away—” The haggard young Herald paused, concern for Vanyel warring with the needs of the moment, and the conflict evident in his expression.

  “It’s all right, Joshe,” Van told him. “The Council room is warm, and that’s what I need most right now. I’m cold right down to my marrow.”

  “Can you go there now? I can get pages to bring everyone there in next to no time.” Joshe’s relief was so plain that Van wondered what else had gone wrong in his absence.

  “Certainly,” he replied. “Provided that no one minds that I look like a drowned cat.”

  “I doubt they’ll mind,” Joshel said, “We’ve got other things to worry about these days. They’d take you looking like a stablehand covered with muck; you’re that important.”

  Frustration and anguish inside Vanyel exploded into words. “Important? Dammit, Joshe, what’s the use of all this? I can level a building with the power I control, but I can’t do anything for a friend who’s dying in front of my eyes!”

  Joshel sighed. “I know. I have to keep telling myself that it isn’t Randi that we’re working to preserve, it’s Valdemar. Most of the time, it doesn’t help.”

  “What good is having power if you can’t use it the way it needs to be used?” Vanyel asked, his hand clenched into a fist in front of him. “I’m Vanyel Demonsbane, and I can’t even keep my parents safe in their own home, much less keep Randi alive.”

  Joshe just shook his head; Vanyel could Feel the same anguish inside him, and unclenched his fist. “I’m sorry, Van. I wish I knew some answers for you. I should tell you one thing more before the Council meeting. The Heraldic Circle met today, and we’re promoting Trev to full Whites.”

  Vanyel felt the news like a blow to the stomach. To promote Treven so young could only mean one thing—the King had to be a full Herald, and the Foreseers did not see Randale living through the next two years it would ordinarily take Treven to make his Whites.

  Joshe nodded at Vanyel’s expression. “You know what that means as well as I do,” he said, a
nd turned back to the door to the Throne Room.

  Van walked the few steps down the corridor to the Council Chamber. Unlike the rest of the Palace, this room looked, and felt, as if it were in use. Heavy use, from the look of all the papers and maps stacked neatly about, and the remains of a meal on a tray beside the door. Here, then, was where the business of the Crown was being transacted, and not the Throne Room. Evidently Audiences were just for those things Randale had to handle personally, or for edicts that needed to come from the lips of the Sovereign in order to have the required impact.

  This treaty, obviously, was one of those things, which was why Tran had hustled him into the Throne Room. Randale was probably signing it now, with what there was of the Court as witness, which made it binding from this moment on.

  Van took his usual seat, then slouched down in it and put his feet up on the one beside it. If Stef hasn’t had a change of heart while I was gone, I could certainly use a massage, he thought wistfully. The fire in the fireplace beside him burned steadily, and the generous supply of wood beside it argued that it had become normal practice to keep the Council Chamber ready for use at a moment’s notice. That was in keeping with the rest of Van’s observations, so it meant that the business of the Kingdom was being conducted at any and all hours.

  After being told of Treven’s promotion, he wasn’t surprised when the door behind him creaked open, and Treven eased into the room, wearing a brand-new set of Whites.

  The youngster sat down in the chair beside Vanyel with an air of uncertainty, as if he didn’t know what his welcome would be. Van watched him through half-closed eyes for a moment, then smiled.

  “Ease up, Trev. We’re still friends. I’ve come to the conclusion that you and Jisa did the right thing.”