The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I’d heard that,” Stefen said, dismounting carefully. “But I’d also heard some tales that were pretty wild.” The autumn wind tossed his hair and Melody’s mane as he handed her reins to the Guardsman.

  “They ain’t wild, m’lord Bard. The men as we found—stuck right through with branches, or even icicles, up t’ their waists in frozen ground—they was spooky enough. But Lor’ an’ Lady! There was some tore t’little bits by somethin’, and more just—dead. No mark on ’em, just dead—and the awfullest looks on their faces—” The boy shivered. “Been like that ever since. Once in a while we go in there, have a look around, sure enough, we’ll find some bandit or other th’ same way.”

  “They say the Forest is cursed,” Stef said absently, shading his eyes with his hand, and peering into the shadows beneath the trees beyond the Guard barracks. “It sounds more like a blessing to me.”

  “Blessed or cursed, ’tis a good thing for Valdemar, an’ we reckon Herald Vanyel done it.”

  Stefen slung his gittern-bag over one shoulder, his near-empty pack over the other, and headed, not for the Guard post, but the Forest.

  “Hey!” the boy protested. Stef ignored him, ignored the shouts behind him, and began his solitary trek into the Forest they now called “Sorrows.”

  Near sunset he finally stopped. Near enough, he thought, looking around. I don’t need to be in the Pass to do this. And this is where we were last happy together. This, or a place very like this.

  He was at the foot of a very tall hill—or small mountain; the sun was setting to his left, the moon rising to his right, and there was no sign of any living person. Just the hill, with a shallow cave under it, the trees, and the birds.

  He gathered enough wood for a small fire, started it, and took out his gittern. He played until the sun just touched the horizon; all of Van’s favorites, all the music he’d composed since—even the melody of the song for the kyree, and the song he’d left a copy of back at Bardic Collegium, the one he’d never performed in public—the one he had written for Vanyel, that he called “Magic’s Price.”

  And then he put the gittern down, carefully. He’d thought about breaking it, but it was a sweet little instrument, and didn’t deserve destruction for the sake of an unwitnessed dramatic scene. He settled on wrapping it carefully and stowing it in the back of the cave. Perhaps someone would find it.

  The ache in his soul had not eased in all these months. People kept telling him that time would heal the loss, but it hadn’t. They’d kept a close watch on him for months after he returned from the Pass, but lately they hadn’t been quite as careful.

  But then, lately there had been other things to think about than one young Bard with a broken heart.

  He’d taken the opportunity offered by the confusion of King Randale’s death and King Treven’s coronation to escape them and make his way up here.

  It hadn’t been easy to get that vial of argonel, and finally he’d had to buy it from a thief. He took it out of the bottom of his pack, and weighed the heavy porcelain vial in his hand.

  A lethal dose for ten or so he said. Should be enough for one skinny Bard.

  He set it down in front of him, staring at it in the fading, crimson light. You drift into sleep. Not so bad. Easier death than he had. Easier than Randi’s. A lot easier than Shavri’s—

  Finally he reached for it—

  A shower of stone fragments shook themselves loose from the roof of the cave, and one struck the bottle of poison. It tipped over and rolled out of his reach, then the cork popped out and it capriciously poured its contents into the dust. He scrambled after it with a cry of dismay, glancing worriedly at the ceiling of the cave—

  :Go through with it, you idiot,: said a cheerful voice in his mind, :and I’ll never forgive you.:

  That voice—Stef froze, then turned his head, very slowly.

  Something stood there, between him and the forest.

  Van.

  A much younger-looking Vanyel. And a very transparent Vanyel. Stef could see the bushes behind him quite clearly—

  Before he had a chance to feel even a hint of fear, Van smiled—the all-too-rare, sweet smile Stef had come to cherish in their time together—a smile of pure love, and real, unshadowed happiness.

  “Van?” he said, hesitantly. It can’t be—I’m going mad—oh, dear gods, please let it be—

  Tears began to well up, and he shook them out of his eyes as he reached out with a trembling hand. “Van? Is that really—”

  Van reached out at the same time; his hand—and just his hand—grew solid momentarily. Solid enough that Stef was able to touch it before it faded to transparency again.

  It was real; real, and solid and warm.

  It is. Oh, gods, it is—

  “How?” Stef asked, through the tears. “What happened?”

  Vanyel shrugged—a completely Van-like shrug. Something happened, after I took Leareth out with the Final Strike. I had a choice. Most Heralds have a couple of choices; they can go on to the Havens, or come back, like the Tayledras say people come back—I was given another option.:

  “Another option? This?”

  :I know it doesn’t look like much—: Vanyel smiled again, then sobered. :The problem is that I was the last Herald-Mage. Valdemar needs a guardian on this Border, a magical one—Master Dark wasn’t alone, and he left apprentices. So—that was my choice, to stay and guard. Yfandes, too. ’Fandes and I are part of the Forest now—:

  He hesitated a moment. :Stef—I asked for something before I agreed, and you get the same choice. You can join me—but—:

  “But?” Stefen cried, leaping to his feet, stirring the dust from the now-forgotten pebble attack. “But what? Anything, ashke—whatever I have to do to be with you—”

  Vanyel moved closer, and made as if to touch his cheek. :You can join me, but there are conditions. You can only come when it’s time. There are things I can’t tell you about, but you have to earn your place. There’s something that needs to be done, and you are uniquely suited to do it. I won’t lie to you, beloved—it’s going to take years.:

  “What is it?” Stef demanded, his heart pounding, his throat tight. “Tell me—”

  :You remember how worried I was, about people thinking that Heralds were somehow less than Herald-Mages?:

  Stef nodded. “It’s gotten worse since you—I mean, you were the last. There’s no one to replace you, no one to train new ones, no way to find new ones. I mean, now you’re a legend, Van, and the people tend to think of legends as being flawless. . . .”

  :That’s where you come in. You have to use your Gift to convince the people of Valdemar that the Gifts of Heralds are enough to keep them safe. You, and every Bard in the Circle. Which means that first you have to convince the other Bards, then the Circle has to convince the rest of the realm.: Vanyel held out both hands in a gesture of pleading. :The Bards are the only ones that have a hope of pulling this off, Stef. And you are the only one that has a hope of convincing the Bards.:

  “But that could take a lifetime!” Stefen cried involuntarily, dismayed by the magnitude of the task. Then, as Vanyel nodded, he realized what that meant in terms of “earning his place.”

  :Exactly,: Van said, his eyes mournful. :Exactly. Do you still love me enough to spend a lifetime doing the work I’ve left to you? A lifetime alone? I wouldn’t blame you if—:

  “Van—” Stef whispered, looking deeply into those beloved silver eyes. “Van—I love you enough to die for you—I still do. I always will. I guess—”

  He hesitated a moment more, then swallowed down his tears. “I guess,” he finished, managing to dredge up a shaky, tear-edged smile, “if I love you enough to die for you, it kind of follows that I love you enough to live for you. And there are worse ways to die for somebody than by old age—”

  :Tell me about it:. For one moment, all the starlight,
the moonlight, seemed to collect in one place, then feed into Vanyel. The figure of the Herald glowed as bright as the full moon for a heartbeat, and he solidified long enough to take Stefen into his arms—

  :Oh, ashke—: he murmured, and smiled lovingly.

  Then he was gone. Completely. And without the evidence of the spilled bottle and the dust in his hair, Stef would never have known Vanyel was there except in his mind.

  The Bard looked around frantically, but there was no sign of him. “Van, wait!” he shouted into the still air, “Wait! How will I know when I’ve earned my place?”

  :You’ll know,: came the whisper in his mind. :We’ll call you.:

  EPILOGUE

  HERALD ANDROS LEANED back in his saddle, and stretched, enjoying the warm spring sunshine on his back. He looked behind him to make sure his fellow traveler was keeping up all right.

  The old Bard was nodding off again; it was a good thing that Ashkevron palfrey had easy paces, or the poor old man would have fallen off a half dozen times.

  :Why on earth do you suppose he wants to visit Sorrows?: he asked Toril.

  His Companion shook her head. :Damned if I know,: she replied, amusement in her mind-voice. :The very old get pretty peculiar. He should be glad there’s been peace long enough that someone could be spared to ferry him up here.:

  :It still wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t on my way to the Temple in the first place,: he said. :Poor old man. Not that anyone is going to miss him—all of his old cronies are gone, and hardly anyone even knows he’s at Court anymore.:

  Toril tested the breeze for a moment. :Maybe he’s making a kind of memorial trip. Did you know he’s the Stefen? Vanyel’s lifebonded?:

  :No!: He turned in his saddle to stare back at the frail, slight old man, dozing behind him. :I thought Stefen was dead a long time ago! Well, I guess he deserves a little humoring. He’s certainly earned it.:

  She shook her head in silent agreement, and slowed until they were even with the Bard. “Bard Stefen?” he said, softly. The Bard’s hearing was perfectly good—and he didn’t want to startle the old man.

  The Bard opened his eyes, slowly. “Dozed off again, did I?” he asked, with a hint of a smile. “Good thing this old man has you to watch out for him, son.”

  “Do you have any idea of where you’re going?” Andros asked. “We’ve been inside the border of Sorrows for the last couple of candlemarks.”

  The Bard looked around himself with increased interest. “Have we now? Well—could be why I felt comfortable enough to go on sleeping. I wish you’d told me; I could have saved you a little riding.”

  He pulled his old mare to a halt, and slowly dismounted, then pointed at a little grove of goldenoak at the foot of a rocky hillside. “That’ll do, lad. All I want is to be left alone for a bit, eh? I know that sounds a bit touched, but the old get pretty peculiar sometimes.”

  Andros blushed at this echoing of his own thoughts, and obediently turned Toril away.

  :Well, my lady,: he said, :Where would you like to go?:

  :I’d like a good long drink of spring water,: she replied firmly, :And I can smell running water just over that ridge.:

  The water not only tasted good—it felt good. Andros became very much aware of how dusty and sweaty the trip had made him, and Toril allowed that she wouldn’t object to a bath, either. By the time the two of them were dry, it was late afternoon, and Andros figured the old man would be ready to continue his journey.

  When he returned to the grove, the old man was gone.

  The gittern was there, though, and the mare—so Andros just sighed, and assumed he’d gone off for a walk. He began a search for the Bard, growing more and more frantic when not even a footprint turned up—

  Toril imposed herself in front of him, waiting for him to mount. He blinked at her, wondering what on earth he was doing, wandering around in the woods like this.

  :I must have had sun-stroke,: he told her, shaking his head in confusion. :What am—what was I doing?:

  :I wondered,: she replied with concern, :You wanted to see the battle site, and I tried to tell you it wasn’t here, but you insisted it was. Don’t you remember?:

  :No,: he replied ruefully. :Next time knock me into a stream or something, would you?:

  He caught a twinkle in her eye, but she replied demurely enough, :If it’s necessary. It’s just that now we’re late, and they really need a Herald out here for relay work. Every moment we’re not there is trouble for the Healers. It’s just a good thing there’s a full moon tonight.:

  “Oh, horseturds,” Andros groaned aloud. “You don’t expect me to ride all night, do you?”

  :Why not? I’m the one doing all the work. Now get the packmare and let’s get going.:

  “Why is there a saddle on this mare?” he asked, frowning, as he approached the palfrey. “And why isn’t she fastened to your saddle already?”

  :The second—because you unfastened her. You’d better have the Healers look at you when you get there.: Her mind-voice was dense with concern. :I think you really must have had a serious sunstroke. She’s got a saddle because she’s a present from Joserlyn Ashkevron to his sister, and saddles don’t grow on trees, not even this close to the Pelagirs.:

  “You’re right,” Andros said, rubbing his head, then mounting. “I’d better talk to them. Well, let’s get going.”

  They rode off, leaving a gittern behind them, propped up against a tree. When they were quite out of sight—and hearing-distance—the strings quivered for a moment.

  A knowledgeable listener might have recognized a ballad popular sixty or seventy years earlier—a love-song called “My Lady’s Eyes.”

  And a very keen-eared listener might have heard laughter among the trees; young male laughter, tenor and baritone, making a joyful music of their own.

  • • •

  To this day, that gittern is grown into the tree it leaned against then, the goldenoak’s roots entwined around its strings in a gentle embrace, and there are bright days, when the winds whispers through the trees, that the Forest of Sorrows seems the most inappropriate name possible.

  APPENDIX

  Songs of Vanyel’s Time

  Nightblades

  They come creeping out of darkness, and to darkness they return.

  In their wake they leave destruction; where they go, no one can learn.

  For they leave no trace in passing, as if all who watched were blind.

  Like a dream of evil sending,

  Nightblades passing, nightblades rending,

  Into darkness once more blending

  Leaving only dead behind.

  First a threat—and then a death comes in the darkness of the night

  And a dozen would-be allies have begun to show their fright.

  When the nightblades strike unhindered, and can take a life at will,

  There’s no safety in alliance

  And much peril in defiance,

  It is best to show compliance

  And the Karsite ranks to fill.

  The chief envoy summons Vanyel, for one ally still seems brave

  And the treaty may be salvaged if Vanyel this life can save.

  Herald Vanyel feigns refusal, senses one would play him fool;

  Thinks of treachery in hiding,

  Lets his instincts be his guiding.

  His own counsel he is biding,

  He’ll be no unwitting tool.

  Garbed in black slips Herald Vanyel to their last lone ally’s keep;

  Over wall and into window, past all gates and guards to creep.

  Past all gates and guards—no magic has them wrapped in deadly spell—

  They are drugged, and they are dreaming.

  Some foe strikes in friendly seeming—

  See—a metal dart there gleaming!

&
nbsp; Vanyel knows the symptoms well.

  Now he hears another’s footstep soft before him in the dark

  And he hastes to lay an ambush while the nightblade seeks his mark.

  Now he waits beside the doorway of the ally’s very room

  And the nightblade, all unknowing,

  With a single lamp-beam showing,

  To a confrontation going,

  Not to fill another tomb.

  Out of shadow Vanyel rises and he bars the nightblade’s way.

  He has only that slim warning—Vanyel has him soon at bay.

  When the guards have all awakened, then he bares the nightblade’s face—

  And all minds but his are reeling

  When he tears off the concealing—

  And the envoy’s face revealing—

  Brings the traitor to disgrace.

  My Lady’s Eyes

  (This is drivel. It’s supposed to be. It’s Vanyel’s mother’s favorite song. Van puts up with it because he can show off his fingering.)

  My Lady’s eyes are like the skies

  A soft and sunlit blue,

  No other fair could half compare

  In sweet midsummer hue.

  My Lady’s eyes cannot disguise

  Her tender, gentle heart,

  She cannot feign, she feels my pain

  Whenever we must part.

  (Instrumental)

  Now while I live I needs must give

  Her all my love and more,

  That she may know I worship so

  This one that I adore.

  And while away, I long and pray

  The days may speed, and then,

  I heartward hie, I flee, I fly,

  To see her eyes again.

  (Instrumental)