The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Vanyel!” Stef shouted. The Herald turned around for a moment, but a movement by one of the men he had cornered made him turn back to face them. It was Vanyel, but not a Van that Stefen recognized. Like Yfandes, his eyes and the mage-focus around his neck glowed an identical, angry red, and beneath the glow the eyes were not sane. His clothing was tattered and bloodstained, and his face disfigured with bruises, but it was not that mistreatment that made him impossible to identify. It was those furious, mad eyes, eyes which held nothing in common with humanity at all.

  Vanyel gestured, and one of the men shivering against the wall jerked upright, and stumbled toward him. As he did so, the last of the screaming stopped, though the fires continued to burn in eerie silence. In that silence, the man’s whimpering pleas for mercy were sickeningly clear.

  Vanyel laughed. “What mercy did you grant me, scum?” he replied in a soft, conversational voice. “It seems to me that I remember you. It seems to me that you were the first and the last to sate yourself. ‘Little white mare,’ I believe you called me.” He gestured again, and the bandit stooped, like a clumsily-controlled marionette, and picked something up from the floor.

  It was the splintered end of a spear-shaft, ragged, but as sharp as anything of metal. The bandit’s arms jerked again, and the jagged end of it was placed against his stomach.

  The bandit’s eyes widened; his mouth opened, but nothing emerged. There was a popping sound, and as the point of the wood penetrated the bandit’s clothing, Stefen realized with horror that Vanyel was forcing the brigand to disembowel himself, controlling his body with Mind-magic.

  “No!” he screamed. “Van, no!”

  He flung himself between the two, and faced that frightening mask of insanity, his hands held out in pleading. “Van, you’re a Herald, no matter what they did to you, you can’t do that to him!”

  The red glow died from Van’s eyes for a moment; then his jaw hardened, and something like an invisible hand pushed Stefen out of the way. The Bard stumbled and fell to the filthy floor, but was up again in a breath, and right back between the Herald and his victim. The brigand fell onto his back, writhing, then stiffened as Vanyel stepped forward.

  “Van—Van, don’t! If you do this, you’ll be just as bad as he is. Don’t let him do that to you! Don’t let them make you into something like they are!”

  Vanyel froze, with his hand still outstretched.

  Then the angry red glow faded, first from his eyes, then from the pendant at his breast. He blinked, and sanity returned to his face.

  He looked around at the carnage he caused, and his face spasmed; his mouth twisted as if he was going to be sick, but his eyes went to two bodies beside a storeroom door, and stayed there. One of those bodies was that of an old man, with the kind of pouch an herb-Healer often carried spilled out on the floor beside him. The other body was too small to be an adult; it had to be a child.

  Van’s posture betrayed him—tense, and legs slightly bent.

  He’s going to bolt—Stef realized, wondering if he could tackle the Herald before he broke and ran.

  :No, he’s not,: Yfandes said firmly, and interposed herself between Vanyel and the door.

  Something—broke open. And suddenly Stef felt what Vanyel was feeling. Absolute revulsion at the deaths, the massacre he had caused. Despair at the knowledge that he had killed at least one innocent; two if the boy could be counted in that category. Contemptible. Worse than contemptible . . . hateful. Insane. . . .

  Under the self-loathing, the fear that Yfandes and Stef would both repudiate him, would hate him for what he’d done, and cast him out of their lives and hearts.

  “No—Van—” Stef walked carefully toward him, slowly, with Yfandes maneuvering to keep Van’s escape blocked. “Listen to me, it’s not your fault. You were in pain, your mind was confused, you weren’t able to think of anything except hurting them back. That’s part of you—everybody has that as a part of them. You’re not a god, above mistakes! It’s just a part of you that you lost control of for a little. If it had been me, I’d probably have done a lot worse things than you did—”

  ’Fandes herded the Herald in close enough that Stef could get Vanyel in his arms. He did so, before Van could evade his embrace. The Herald shuddered all over his body, like a terrified animal.

  :We’ve a problem, Bard: Yfandes said grimly. :There’s a lot worse damage than we thought.: And through her powers, she permitted him a glimpse of a little of what had been done to Van, a glimpse that suddenly made Van’s speech about being “sated” and “little white mares” understandable. Stefen choked—and then had to make a conscious effort to start breathing again.

  The bandits seemed to realize that Vanyel was no longer a threat, and began slipping past the three of them to vanish into the thin, gray light of dawn beyond the walls. Stef ignored them; they didn’t matter. What mattered was Van.

  He held Vanyel, but not in a way that would confine him—lightly—and tried to send back love along the link between them. The last of the brigands, the man who’d nearly impaled himself at Vanyel’s command, crawled toward the shattered door, leaving a blood-smeared trail. He scrambled to his feet when he reached it, and tumbled out of sight beyond a pile of toppled stone blocks. I don’t think he’ll live long out there, Stefen thought. I can’t really admit to caring much if he does.

  Gray light filled the hollow of the wrecked hall, and the mage-fires died and went out, leaving smears of black ash where the burning bodies had been. Vanyel stood shivering and tense in Stefen’s arms, while the sun rose over the walls of the keep. Finally, as the sun touched his blood-soaked, tangled hair, he collapsed into Stef’s embrace.

  Yes, Stefen thought. We’ve won the first round—

  :It won’t be the last,: Yfandes said, smoldering anger beneath her words. :They’ve broken him.:

  Then it’s up to us to put him back together.

  “Come on, Vanyel-ashke,” he said softly. “Let’s go. Let’s get you somewhere warm and safe.”

  • • •

  Stef found the tack, and the configurations it had been twisted into made him tight with anger. He managed to get it all untangled, got Yfandes saddled and bridled; then she knelt and Van practically fell into her saddle.

  :I’d ask you to put the supports on him,: she said after she stood up again, :—but—:

  “I have a pretty good idea,” Stef answered her, wishing that the bandit Van had nearly impaled hadn’t gotten away. “I’m nowhere near as innocent as Van still thinks I am. He’d just get thrown back to last night if he felt restraints.”

  Vanyel had fallen into a half-stupor; shock, Stef guessed. And at this point, the last thing he wanted to do was rouse him.

  “I can walk beside, and steady him in the saddle, if you don’t go too fast,” he told the Companion.

  :Good. Thank you.: She moved off a few steps. :How’s that?:

  “That will do.” He kept one hand in the small of Vanyel’s back, holding his sword-belt, and one clutching the front of Van’s saddle. Now, if Stefen tripped, he wouldn’t fall and take Van with him. “Where are we going?” he asked, as she led him through the wreckage of the doorway and into the sunlight. Several trails of footprints led away from the place, and she looked around for a moment.

  :Anywhere except where those lead,: she replied, finally. :Other than that, I really don’t know. . . .:

  :Perhaps, white sister,: said a strange, very dry voice, :you should determine a direction before setting out.:

  The bushes directly ahead of them rustled, and something large—very large—stepped out from among them.

  :Perhaps I can help,: the voice continued.

  Stef groped after a knife, his eyes fixed on the creature, his heart right in his throat. This beast—whatever it was—looked something like a wolf, but was much bigger than any wolf Stef had ever heard of or seen. Its shoulder w
as as tall as his waist; it had a thin, rangy body with long legs, and a head with a very broad, rounded forehead, forward-facing eyes, and jaws—

  Dear gods, that thing could bite my arm in half and never notice—

  :I could, singer, but I won’t.: The thing lolled out its tongue in a canine grin. :I see you recognize my Folk, white sister. Tell him:

  :That’s a kyree, Stef. A neuter, I think.: Yfandes bowed her head to the creature, and Stef relaxed marginally. :One with a very powerful Gift of Mindspeech, or you wouldn’t be able to hear him . . . er, it.:

  :Indeed, right on all counts.: The kyree padded elegantly across the snow toward them. :I am the FarRanger for the Hot Springs Clan. I felt the magic, and I came. We are like in power, white sister, and you know my kind. Can I give you a direction?:

  :Do you know the Tayledras?: she asked. The kyree nodded. :We have a treaty with them, all Clans of the Folk.:

  :This one is Wingbrother to k’Treva.: She tossed her head at her rider.

  He raised his head and peered keenly at Vanyel. :Then we are honor-bound to give you more than direction; we must give you aid and shelter. Though of my own will,: he added over his shoulder as he turned, :I would have done so anyway.: His lip lifted as he sniffed audibly. :The things here were a foul, uncleanly folk, and the world is well rid of them. In time, they might have been a danger to my Clan.:

  Yfandes followed the kyree beneath the trees, where it turned northward. :I am Yfandes, this is Stefen, and my Chosen is Vanyel,: she said formally.

  The kyree looked back over its shoulder for a moment. :I am Aroon,: he replied, just as formally. :There is deep mind-hurt with the one you call your Chosen.:

  Stef felt Yfandes’ shoulder muscles relax a little. :Yes. Have you a Mindhealer among your Clan?:

  :I fear not,: Aroon replied, regretfully. :Yet the talents of the singer and yourself, and the safety of our caves may suffice. Do not count the prey escaped until it wings into the sky.:

  “I think you should know, sir,” Stef said hesitantly, “That the men that were here served someone who is our enemy. He’s killed a lot of people, and he’s a very powerful mage.”

  :Adept-class, easily: Yfandes interjected.

  “I doubt very much that he’ll be pleased with the way things have turned out. And he won’t hesitate to kill you if you give us shelter and protection.” Stef took a deep breath, afraid this would mean the creature would change its mind, yet feeling better that he’d told the kyree about the dangers involved.

  The dry voice warmed a great deal. :We have often been called insular, and isolationist,: Aroon replied. :And there is some truth to that. But if the one you speak of would indeed kill those of whom he knows nothing to achieve his vengeance on you, then he is our enemy as well, and you are well deserving of our protection. And as the Tayledras and the white sister will tell you, that is not inconsiderable, particularly for a Clan with a Winged One.:

  Yfandes heaved a great sigh. :You have a shaman, then?:

  :Indeed,: the kyree chuckled. :Comparable to your Adept-class. And I doubt me that this enemy of yours has ever encountered the magic of the Folk. If he can even find you on this continent, I would be greatly surprised. So—tell me all that you know of him. Warned ahead is armed ahead.:

  Yfandes touched Van’s leg with her nose before answering. :They called him Master Dark—:

  • • •

  Sunset saw them entering the mouth of the cave-complex that the kyree called home, in the foothills of the very mountains Vanyel had been aiming for. To Stefen’s considerable amazement, the caves were not dark; they were lit by glowing balls of light of many colors—each one, so Aroon told them, representing the last life-energy of a kyree shaman, created before he, she, or it passed out of the world.

  :The blue are those that were mages,: he told them, as he led them through a gathering crowd of curious kyree that had gotten word of their arrival. The kyree didn’t press about them, or hinder them in any way, but Stef felt their eyes on him, alight with a lively curiosity. :The green,: Aroon continued, :those that were Healers. The yellow, those that were god-touched, and the red, those that had mostly Mind-magic: The globes of softly glowing light showed Stef wonders he’d have been glad to stop and examine more closely, if he hadn’t been so worried about Van. Stone icicles grew toward stone tree trunks; stone pillars flowed toward the ceiling on either hand. Stone curtains, as rippling and fluid as real fabric, cloaked off farther chambers—light from globes behind them showed that, and the light passing through them made Stef catch his breath in wonder at their beauty.

  And it was warm down here, and getting warmer.

  “What’s making it so warm?” Stef asked, throwing his cloak back and taking off his scarf.

  :The springs,: Aroon told him. :We have both hot and cold springs here. I shall ask you while you stay here that you light no fires—the smoke will be trapped, you see, and cause us difficulties. But do not fear the winter’s cold, or that you must eat your food raw. There is one spring fully hot enough that you may cook meat in it. And as for the white sister, I think we can provide—:

  :I’d worried about that,: she admitted.

  :Tubers, grain that we shall Fetch from those humans greedy enough to deserve being robbed, and mushrooms that we grow ourselves.: He laughed silently. :We are not wholly carnivores.:

  :I’m relieved to hear it,: Yfandes began, when they passed beneath a smooth, nearly circular arch and into an enormous cavern centered with a stone formation so incredible Stef could hardly take it in. The kyree apparently appreciated it as well, for it was surrounded by glowing lights, placed to display it best. The thing looked like some kind of incredible temple, but one that had grown rather than been built. . . .

  At the foot of this enormous structure lay a snow-white kyree, one with eyes as blue as Yfandes’, Stef saw when they approached her closely.

  :Forgive me for not rising,: the kyree whispered into their thoughts, :But I am fatigued from cloaking your arrival.: She chuckled. Something I am sure you appreciate. I am Hyrryl, the shaman of the Hot Springs Clan. Be welcome.:

  Yfandes bowed as deeply as she could without dislodging Van.

  “Our thanks, gracious Lady,” Stef said for them both.

  :My thanks for your honesty with Aroon. I think that first, to warm you from your journey and to cleanse you, the springs would be the best place for all of you.: She looked up at the semi-conscious Herald appraisingly. :You have one deeply hurt; the Healing will not be easy.:

  Stef finally blurted out what he’d been thinking since they met Aroon. “Lady—I don’t think I can! I’m just a Bard, I don’t know anything about—about Healing something like this! I—”

  :You are one who loves, and is beloved,: she replied gravely. :That is not the answer to everything, but it will give you a beginning. You are a Bard, and you are practiced with words. Use that. Words can Heal—words and love together can more often achieve what magic cannot.:

  Aroon bowed and moved away then; Yfandes followed, and Stef had no choice but to go along. As they left that cavern for another, Stef noticed it was getting hotter—and there was a great deal of moisture in the air. Shortly after that, he knew why, as they emerged into a cave filled with multileveled hot springs.

  Yfandes stopped beside one that steamed invitingly, lit from above by a globe as yellow as sunshine. :Get him down, Stef. Strip him, and get him into the water. And get into there yourself. Then—do what seems best.:

  “Why?” he asked, doing as he was told.

  :I’m going with Aroon. Hyrryl is a Healer, and I need that Gift right now. Don’t worry, I’ll be back—and if Van starts having problems, I’ll be there in a blink.:

  He stripped Vanyel of his boots, shirt, and tunic—hesitated over the underbreeches, and decided to leave them on. Yfandes turned and headed wearily back toward the cavern entrance, and Stef saw h
ow she limped—the cuts he hadn’t noticed before in his anxiety for Van—how worn and exhausted she looked, and decided not to ask her to stay, even though he felt badly in need of her support.

  “All right, ashke,” he said quietly, as he slipped Van down into the hot water, and the Herald started to revive from the stupor he’d been in. “Let’s see if words and love really are enough.”

  • • •

  Life in the kyree caverns had a curious, dreamlike quality to it. Stef ate when he was hungry, slept when he was weary, and forced himself to put all thoughts of time and urgency out of his mind. Any weakness in Vanyel would be fatal once he left the caverns—Master Dark would surely be eager to have them in his hands, and sooner or later, they had to leave the protection and hospitality the kyree Clan was providing them. Yfandes helped, helped a great deal, in fact—but it became very obvious that since most of Van’s mental and emotional trauma stemmed from the brutal serial rape he’d suffered, it was his lover that would have to be the prime mover in helping him become whole again.

  Stef discovered a patience in himself that he had never once suspected. He took things so slowly that it was frequently Yfandes who fretted at the pace he was setting. Sometimes Van needed to be alone more than he needed either of them—when that happened, Stef took himself off to some other cavern, and made Yfandes come with him. There he usually found himself surrounded by kyree, all as hungry for music as any group of humans he’d ever encountered. He didn’t have an instrument, but they considered his voice instrument enough. They’d accompany him with surprisingly complex rhythms tapped out on skin drums made for the use of paws and tails, and a low crooning drone they sang deep in their chests. Their sound was so unique, it filled him with a compulsion he would never have expected: it made him want to compose something for them, something to use their distinct sound.