The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy
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The young man relaxed. “We’ve managed to convince Randale and Shavri, too,” he said. “Though Jisa and her mother came awfully close to a real fight over it. I’m still not sure how I kept them from each other’s throats. Early training for diplomatic maneuvering, I guess.” He adjusted the fit of his white belt self-consciously.
“Feeling uncomfortable about that?” Van asked, gesturing at the white tunic.
Treven nodded. “I hadn’t expected it quite so suddenly. I don’t feel exactly like I’ve earned it. It feels like a cheat. And—and I don’t like getting it because—because—”
The young Herald hung his head.
“I understand,” Vanyel said. “I’d think less of you if you didn’t have doubts, Trev. I’ll give you my honest opinion, if you want it.”
Treven grimaced. “Lady bless, that sounds like a bitter pill! Still—yes, I think so. At least I’d know what to measure myself against.”
Vanyel took his feet off the chair, and straightened his aching back before facing Treven. The young man’s honest blue eyes met his fearlessly, and Vanyel felt a moment of satisfaction. There weren’t many people who could meet his gaze.
“I think you were rushed into this, Trev, and we both know why. No, I don’t think you’re ready—quite. I think you will be when you have to be, if you don’t let that uniform fool you into thinking the Whites make the Herald.”
Treven looked disappointed, and Vanyel knew he’d been hoping to be told—despite Van’s warning that this would be an honest opinion—that he really was ready to be called a full Herald.
In some ways Treven was a boy still, and that had something to do with what Van had told him. He had a boy’s optimism and a boy’s belief in the essential fairness of the universe. This wouldn’t have been a problem in an ordinary Herald—but neither belief had any place in the thinking of a Monarch. A King never assumed anything was fair; a ruler must always expect the worst and plan for it.
Treven would learn, as Randale had learned. As Jisa had learned.
As if his thought had summoned her, Vanyel felt Jisa’s presence before she entered, the little mind-to-mind brush that was the Mindspeaker’s equivalent of a knock.
:Hello, love,: he replied. :Holding on?:
:As well as I can,: she replied. :You saw.:
So, she hadn’t missed what her mother had done, binding herself to her lifebonded’s fate. And she wasn’t blinded to Randale’s condition by her love of him. There was resignation in her mind-voice, and a sadness as profound as if her parents were already gone.
:They’ve closed me out,: she said, in answer to the questions he couldn’t bring himself to ask. :They’ve closed everyone out except each other. Most of the time I could be a thousand miles away, for all they notice I’m there.:
:Well, I notice you’re here. Come on in.:
The door behind him creaked again, and Treven looked up and smiled. Vanyel started to get up, but Jisa pushed him back down into his chair with her hands on his shoulders.
“No you don’t, Uncle Van. There’s enough Healer in me to know how tired you are.” She kissed him on the top of his head, and Sent, :Treven doesn’t know, Father. I don’t see any reason why he has to.:
:Thank you, dearheart.: “I won’t deny you’re right. Are you part of the Council now, too?”
She sat down beside Treven. “Both of us; I’m here as Mother’s proxy. I have been ever since late fall.”
“And doing very well at it, too.” Jisa had left the door open, and the rest of the Council filed in, taking their usual seats. The Seneschal had said that last, and he stopped on the way to his seat at the head of the table, pausing with his hands on the back of Jisa’s chair. His inflection told Vanyel he meant the compliment; there was nothing paternalistic or condescending in his voice. “I frankly don’t know what we would have done without her earlier this fall; we had a situation with someone who claimed to be a high-ranking Karsite refugee. We suspected his motives, but he was shielded against casual Thought-sensing, and we didn’t want to tip our hands by probing him. We badly needed someone whose Gift was Empathy—”
“But Mother was exhausted and in any case, wouldn’t leave Father,” Jisa said matter-of-factly. “So I went. He was a spy for the Prophet, sent to see if we were giving aid to their mages. It’s hard to mistake fanatic devotion for anything else.”
“That was when we put her on the Council,” the Seneschal said, taking his seat. “And that brings us around to the Karsite situation.”
The situation, so Seneschal Arved told them, was stalemate. The followers of the Prophet had won, and were consolidating their victory. As yet they had shown no signs of resuming the war the previous regime had begun—but they had also been probing to see if Valdemar had been aiding mages, or were offering aid to those who continued to evade the “witchfinders.”
“They’re just looking for an excuse to start things up again when they’re ready,” said the representative for the South, Lord Taving, with a sour grimace.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Vanyel’s father replied. “You know what they say: ‘Nothing comes out of Karse but brigands and bad weather.’ Whether they say their cause is for their god or for their greed, the Karsites always have been robbers and always will be.”
Lord Taving looked gratified to find someone who shared his basic feelings toward Karse. “The only problem is, we’re still in no shape to fight a war,” he said, “or at least that’s my understanding.”
“You are correct, my lord,” the Lord Marshal said. “Thanks to Vanyel’s suggestions, we haven’t had to resort to conscription, but our new Guards are still green as new leaves, and if faced with troops of seasoned fanatics, they wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“And why aren’t they ready?” asked Guildmaster Jumay. “Zado knows we pay enough in taxes!”
“Largely because we’ve already lost more men to this war with Karse than in the whole of Elspeth’s reign!” the Lord Marshal shot back heatedly.
“Which is why the treaty Vanyel brought back from Rethwellan is vital,” the Seneschal said, pouncing on the opportunity to introduce the subject.
The rest of the Councillors—who had not been at the Audiences—reacted according to their natures. Lord Taving was not inclined to trust anything South of Valdemar’s Border. Withen wanted to know where the catch was. The Lord Marshal heaved an audible sigh of relief, until he realized the thing included a mutual assistance pact.
Vanyel explained the details of the treaty at length until his head ached, pointing out the ones Randale had requested and the ones he had gotten inserted. They finally agreed that it was an excellent treaty as it stood—which was just as well, since Randale had already signed it.
When they finally let him go, it was clear that they were already preparing for Randale’s death and a period in which Treven would be just one of the Council when it came to decision-making. Which was a good idea—but it brought home the fact that Randi’s days were numbered, and probably less than a year.
He returned to his room very depressed, and paused outside the door for a moment to think where Stefen might be.
Then the door opened under his hand—
“I’m glad you’re back,” Stef said simply, and took his hand to pull him inside.
CHAPTER 14
STEFEN HAD BEEN waiting for Van ever since the Audience session ended. He’d come straight to Vanyel’s room once Randale had been put to bed. He’d had a page bring food and wine, and had gotten everything set up exactly like the supper he’d had with Vanyel the first night the Herald had brought him to this room. Except tonight he expected the end of the evening to be somewhat different.
He’d known Van was expected back at any time, but no one had been able to tell him exactly when the Herald would arrive, so he’d been as nervous and excited as a kid waiting for Festival for the past week.
“I’m glad you’re back,” Stefen said simply, letting his voice tell Vanyel exactly how glad he really was. “I’ve missed you.” He reached behind Vanyel and closed the door.
“I’ve missed you,” Vanyel said, then unexpectedly pulled the Bard into his arms for an embrace with more of desperation in it than passion. Stef just held him, not entirely sure what had prompted the action, but ready to give Vanyel whatever he needed. Behind him, the fire crackled and popped, punctuating the silence.
Finally Van let him go. “I was afraid once I was gone you’d find someone who suited you better,” he said hoarsely.
“We’ve lifebonded,” Stef reminded him, pulling the Herald into the room and getting him to sit in the chair nearest the fireplace. “How could I find anybody who suited me better than that? That’s not something that goes away just because there’s some distance between us.”
Vanyel laughed weakly. “I know, I was being stupid. It’s just that in the middle of the night, when you’re leagues and leagues away from me, it’s hard to see why you’d choose to stay with me.” Stefen reached for the food since Van was ignoring it, and poured some wine for him.
“You’re still being stupid,” Stef said, and put bread and cheese in one hand, and a mug of hot mulled wine in the other. “Eat. Relax. I love you. There, see? Everything’s all right.” He sat in the chair opposite Vanyel, and glared at him until he took a bite.
“I wish it could be that simple,” Vanyel sighed, but he smiled a little when he said it. He ate what Stef gave him, then sipped at his wine, watching Stefen, his strange silver eyes gone dark and thoughtful.
“I have a surprise for you,” Stef said, unable to bear the silence anymore. He got up, went to the desk, and took out the box he’d put there earlier. “I left it here in case you came back to your room before I got done. Here—”
He thrust it into Vanyel’s hands and waited, hardly breathing, for the Herald to open it.
Vanyel turned the catch on the simple wooden box, saying as he did so, “You didn’t have to do this—you don’t have to give me things, Stef—” The lid came open, and he saw what nestled in the velvet and his mouth opened in a soundless “oh.”
He took it out, his hands trembling a little. He’d told Stef once or twice that he was hampered in his mage-craft by not having a good focus-stone. The mineral he worked best with was amber, which wasn’t particularly rare, but he had a problem similar to his aunt Savil’s. For mage-work, the clearer and less flawed the stone, the better it focused power. And amber rarely appeared totally clear and without inclusions. When it did—it was expensive. Since the loss of his first focus-stone a few years ago, Van had never again found a piece even in the raw state that was flawless and large enough to be of use. Flaws in a stone could make it disintegrate or even explode when stressed by magic energies.
So, like Savil, Vanyel had to do most of the work that required a focus through his secondary stone, an egg-shaped piece of tiger-eye.
Stefen’s present was a faceted half-globe of completely flawless, water-clear, dark gold-red amber, set in a thin silver band with a loop at the top so that it could be worn as a pendant. He’d begged a silver chain of Jisa just so that Van could wear it immediately. Jisa had given one to him without asking why, but when he’d told her, she’d been as pleased as if the gift had been for her.
“Stefen,” Van said in a strange, strained voice. “You have to tell me. Where—and more importantly, how—did you get this?”
“I didn’t steal it!” Stef exclaimed, stung.
“I didn’t think you did, love—but there’s no ordinary way you could afford something like this, and we both know it.” Vanyel put the pendant back in the box and closed it. “I can’t in good conscience wear this until I know.”
He thinks I sold my bed-time for it, Stef thought suddenly. Oh, gods—I have to put him right.
“I met this gem-merchant,” he said quickly. “He was giving some of the ladies I was playing for a private showing; amber, pearls, and coral, really unusual things, but he says he’s been all over the world at one time or another. Anyway, he had this and I saw it, and he saw me looking at it. He told me it would be useless to me, that it was made to be a mage-focus . . . well, we got to talking, and I told him I wanted it for you, even though I knew I couldn’t afford it.”
He remembered what the merchant had told him, too: “What, a Bard like you? Gods, my friend, in my country you’d have been showered with baubles like this a thousand times over. A Gift such as yours is rarer than all my collection put together.”
Then the merchant’s face had grown thoughtful. “On the other hand, perhaps we could do each other a service. . . .”
“So anyway, he offered to give me the stone if I’d do him a favor. He had some more private showings planned, at the house he’d rented, for fellow gem-merchants. He said they were a lot harder to convince than pretty ladies and he wanted me to play for them—”
He faltered, for Vanyel was looking at him in a way that made him feel as if he had sold himself. “—he didn’t ask me to do anything like make them buy things. Just to put them in a pleasant mood; make them feel good, and allow him to drop the fact that I was the King’s Bard to impress them. That was all! I didn’t do anything wrong!”
Vanyel was still looking at him doubtfully.
“Did I?” he asked, in a very small voice.
The Herald weighed the box in his hand. Stefen felt worse with every passing moment. He’d intended this to be a love-offering, and instead the thing had turned into a viper and bitten them both.
Finally Van opened the box, and took the amber out. Stef heaved a sigh of relief. Vanyel stared at the beautiful thing, and shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong—but only by accident and the fact that I don’t think your friend wanted you to get into trouble,” he said, in a low voice. “You came so close to misuse of your powers that I shudder to think about it. You must never use your Gift to manipulate people except at the orders of the Crown, Stef. You can be stripped of it, if you do. And it’s wrong, Stef, it’s just plain wrong. What if this man had been unscrupulous, and had been trying to sell trash—and what if he’d actually asked you to influence people to buy? What if he’d drastically overpriced his wares and asked you to make them think he was giving them a bargain? What if he’d brought in those who couldn’t afford his merchandise and told you to make them want it enough to buy it no matter what?”
“Stop!” Stef cried, horribly ashamed of himself. Now he almost wished he had sold himself; it seemed more honest.
“Stef—” Vanyel caught his hand and drew him down beside his chair. “Stef, I didn’t want to make you feel bad. You didn’t do any of those things; you didn’t misuse your powers. But it was a very near thing. You can thank that merchant for being an honest fellow, and not leading you into temptation.”
Stefen vowed silently to think about what he was being asked to do before he did it. And he marveled a little at this change in himself. A year ago he would have done any of those things, and never considered them wrong.
“Van,” he said quietly, “being with you . . . you’ve shown me that it’s as wrong to play with peoples’ minds and emotions as it is to steal—” He hesitated a moment, then added, “In a way, it is stealing from them. It’s stealing their right to think and feel at their own will. I wouldn’t have understood that before I met you, but I do now.”
Vanyel relaxed completely, and closed his hand around the amber half-globe. “Then I can wear this, Stef, and I will, gladly, and I’ll use it knowing it was a gift of love and honor.” He bowed his head and chuckled.
“I suppose that sounds rather pretentious and pompous, like something out of a ballad—but it’s how I really feel, Stef.”
“If you thought any differently, you wouldn’t be Vanyel,” Stef replied, flushing happily as Van pulled the chain over his head and laid his right hand on Stef’s shoulder.
“You give me too much credit, lover,” Vanyel said quietly. “I’m as prone to being a fool as anyone else. And just now, I’m a very sore fool. Could I possibly get you to use those talented hands of yours to unknot my shoulders?”
“And give me a chance to have my hands on you?” Stef grinned. “Of course you could, and I will. Gladly.”
Vanyel finished off his wine in a single gulp, peeled off his tunic, kicked off his boots, and sagged back into his chair. Stefen got up and moved around behind him, and began kneading his shoulders with steady, firm pressure.
“What’s wrong, Van?” he asked. “You just got back with everything the King asked you for and more.”
“Sometimes I feel like everything I’ve done is useless,” Vanyel said dispiritedly. “Randi is going to be dead before the year’s out, every enemy Valdemar has will take that as a signal to strike while Treven is so young, and a good half the treaties we made will fall apart, because they were made with Randale and not Trev. Karse is likely to declare holy war on us any day. The West is full of half-mad mage-born, any one of whom might be another Krebain, but with wider plans. I have a personal enemy out there somewhere; I don’t know who or why, only that he, she, or it is a mage.”
Stefen dug his thumbs into Vanyel’s shoulders a little harder and tried to think of things to say that would make a difference. “Randale is the mind behind the Crown, but about half of the work is being done by Trev and the Council,” he offered. “Trev’s bright, especially on short-term planning, and Randale’s doing long-range planning that ought to hold good for the next five years. Trev’s a little too idealistic, maybe, but he’ll get that knocked out of him soon enough—and Jisa is practical enough for two. They’ll be all right.”