The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Never saw m’lord set so on his rump before,” Garth agreed, speaking slowly. “Ain’t never seen him taken down like that by a lord, much less a grass-green youngling. An’ never saw that boy do anythin’ like it before, neither. Boy’s got sharp a’sudden; give ’im that. Too sharp?”

  “Hmm. No—” the other said. “No, I reckon in this case, he be right.” Silence for a moment, then a laugh. “Y’know, I ’spect his Majesty just don’t want to have t’ lissen t’ us gabbin’ away at each other. Mebbe we bore ’im, eh? What th’ hell, I could stand a beer. You?”

  “Eh, if you’re buyin’, Erek—”

  Their voices faded as the door to the hall beyond scraped open, then closed again.

  Vanyel sighed out the breath he’d been holding in, and took the two steps he needed to reach the table, sagging down into the hard, wooden chair beside it.

  Tired. Gods, I am so tired. This farce is taking more out of me than I thought it would.

  He stared numbly at the candle flame, and then transferred his gaze to the bright, flickering reflections on the brown earthenware bottle beside it.

  It’s awful wine—but it is wine. I suppose I could get good and drunk. There certainly isn’t anything else to do. At least nothing they’ll let me do. Gods, they think I’m some kind of prig. “His Majesty” indeed.

  He shook his head. What’s wrong with me? Why should it matter what a couple of armsmen think about me? Why should I even want them on my side? Who are they, anyway? What consequence are they? They’re just a bare step up from dirt-grubbing farmers! Why should I care what they think? Besides, they can’t affect what happens to me.

  He sighed again, and tried to summon a bit more of the numbing disinterest he’d sustained himself with this whole, filthy day.

  It wouldn’t come, at first. There was something in the way—

  Nothing matters, he told himself sternly. Least of all what they think about you.

  He closed his eyes again, and managed this time to summon a breath of the chill of his dream-sanctuary. It helped.

  After a while he shifted, making the chair creak, and tried to think of something to do—maybe to put the thoughts running round his head into a set of lyrics. Instead, he found he could hear, muffled, and indistinct, the distracting sounds of the common room somewhere a floor below and several hundred feet away.

  The laughter, in particular, came across clearly. Vanyel bit his lip as he tried to think of the last time he’d really laughed, and found he couldn’t remember it.

  Dammit, I am better than they are, I don’t need them, I don’t need their stupid approval! He reached hastily for the bottle, poured an earthenware mug full of the thin, slightly vinegary stuff, and gulped it down. He poured a second, but left it on the table, rising instead and taking his lute from the corner. He stripped the padded bag off of it, and began retuning it before the wine had a chance to muddle him.

  At least there was music. There was always music. And the attempt to get what he’d lost back again.

  Before long the instrument was nicely in tune. That was one thing that minstrel—What was his name? Shanse, that was it—had praised unstintingly. Vanyel, he’d said, had a natural ear. Shanse had even put Vanyel in charge of tuning his instruments while he stayed at Forst Reach.

  He took the lute back to the bed, and laid it carefully on the spread while he shoved the table up against the bedstead. He curled up with his back against the headboard, the bottle and mug in easy reach, and began practicing those damned finger exercises.

  It might have been the wine, but his hand didn’t seem to be hurting quite as much this time.

  The bottle was half empty and his head buzzing a bit when there was a soft tap on his door.

  He stopped in mid-phrase, frowning, certain he’d somehow overheard something from the next room. But the tapping came a second time, soft, but insistent, and definitely coming from his door.

  He shook his head a little, hoping to clear it, and put the lute in the corner of the bed. He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts, uncurled his legs, rose, and paced (weaving only a little) to the door.

  He cracked it open, more than half expecting it to be one of his captors come to tell him to shut the hell up so that they could get some sleep.

  “Oh!” said the young girl who stood there, her eyes huge with surprise; she was wearing the livery of one of the inn’s servants. He had caught her with her hand raised, about to tap on the door a third time. Beyond her the armsmen’s room was mostly dark and quite empty.

  “Yes?” he said, blinking his eyes, which were not focusing properly. When he’d gotten up, the wine had gone to his head with a vengeance.

  “Uh—I just—” The girl was not as young as he’d thought, but fairly pretty; soft brown eyes, curly dark hair. Rather like a shabby copy of Melenna. “Just—ye wasn’t down wi’ th’ others, m’lord, an’ I wunnered if ye needed aught?”

  “No, thank you,” he replied, still trying to fathom why she was out there, trying to think through a mist of wine-fog. Unless—that armsman Garth might well have sent her, to make certain he was still where he was supposed to be.

  The ties of the soft yellow blouse she was wearing had come loose, and it was slipping off one shoulder, exposing the round shoulder and a goodly expanse of the mound of one breast. She wet her lips, and edged closer until she was practically nose-to-nose with him.

  “Are ye sure, m’lord?” she breathed. “Are ye sure ye cain’t think of nothin’?”

  Good gods, he realized with a start, she’s trying to seduce me!

  He used the ploy that had been so successful with his mother’s ladies. He let his expression chill down to where it would leave a skin of ice on a goblet of water. “Quite certain, thank you, mistress.”

  She was either made of sterner stuff than they had been, or else the subtler nuances of expression went right over her head.

  Or, third possibility, she found either Vanyel or his presumably fat purse too attractive to let go without a fight.

  “I c’d turn yer bed down fer ye, m’lord,” she persisted, snaking an arm around the door to glide her hand along Vanyel’s buttock and leg. He was only wearing a shirt and hose, and felt the unsubtle caress with a startlement akin to panic.

  “No, please!” he yelped in shock; the high-pitched, strangled shout startled her enough that she pulled back her arm. He slammed the door in her face and locked it.

  He waited with his ear pressed up against the crack in the door; waited for an explosion of some kind. Nothing happened; he heard her muttering to herself for a moment, sounding very puzzled, then finally heard her retreating footsteps and the sound of the outer door opening and closing again.

  He staggered back to the bed, and sat down on it, heavily. Finally he reached for the lute, detuned it, and put it back in its traveling case.

  Then he reached for the bottle and gulped the wine as fast as he could pour it down his throat.

  Oh, lord—oh, gods. A fool. After everything this morning, after I start to feel like I’m getting a grip on things, and I go and act like a fool. Like a kid. Like a baby who’d never seen a whore before.

  He burned with humiliation as he imagined the girl telling his guards what had just passed between them. And drank faster.

  He did remember to unlock his door and blow out the candle before he passed out. If Sun and Shadow out there decided to take it into their heads to check on him, he didn’t want them breaking the door down. That would be even more humiliating than having them follow him to the privy, or laughing at him with the girl.

  I’ve never been this drunk before, he thought muzzily, as he sank back onto the bed. I bet I’ll have a head in the morning. . . .

  He snorted then, a sound with no amusement in it. At least if I’m hung over, it’ll make Trusty and Faithful happy. If they can’t report to Father that
I tried to escape, at least they can tell him I made a drunken sot of myself at the first opportunity. Maybe I should have let the girl in after all. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve bedded something I didn’t much care for. And it would have given them one more story to tell. Oh, gods, what’s wrong with me? Mekeal would have had her tumbled before she blinked twice! What is wrong with me?

  He rolled over, and it felt a lot like his head kept on rolling after he’d stopped moving.

  Then again—I don’t think so. Not even for that. The wine’s bad enough here. I hate to think where the girls come from . . . or where they’ve been.

  But why can’t I react the way everyone else seems to? Why am I so different?

  • • •

  His head hurt, but not unbearably. His stomach was not particularly happy with him, but he wasn’t ready to retch his guts up. In short, he was hung over—though less than he’d expected. In an odd sort of way, he was feeling even more detached than before. Perhaps his intoxication had purged something out of him last night; some forlorn hope, some last grasping at a life no one would ever let him have.

  He pulled on his riding leathers and groomed himself as impeccably as he could manage without a mirror, leaving only the tunic off, since he intended to soak his aching head in cold water before he mounted Star—in the horse trough if he had to. He walked out into the morning light pouring in through the outer room, surveying the pathetic wrecks that had been his alert and vigilant guardians only the night before with what he hoped was cool, distant impassiveness.

  And he spared a half a moment to hope that the girl hadn’t told them—

  His guards were in far worse case than he was, having evidently made a spectacular night of it. Quite a night, judging by their bleary eyes, surly, yet satiated expressions, and the rumpled condition of the bedding. And Vanyel was not such an innocent as to be unable to recognize certain—aromas—when he detected them in the air before Garth opened the window. He was just as pleased to have been so drunk as to be insensible when they had been entertaining their temporary feminine acquaintances. Could be the chambermaid had found what she’d sought in the company of Garth and Erek after being rebuffed by Vanyel.

  They weren’t giving him the kind of sly looks he’d have expected if the girl had revealed his panicked reaction.

  Well—maybe she was too busy. Thank you, gods.

  He managed to deal with his hangover in a fairly successful fashion. Willowbark tea came for his asking, hot from the kitchen; on the way to the privy, with the faithful Garth in queasy attendance, he managed to divert long enough to soak his head under the stable pump until his temples stopped pounding. The water was very cold, and he saw Garth wincing when he first stuck his head beneath it.

  That dealt with the head; the stomach was easier. He drank nothing but the tea and ate nothing but bread, very mild cheese, and fruit.

  He was perfectly ready to ride out at that point. His guards were not so fortunate. Or, perhaps, so wise, since their remedies seemed to consist of vile concoctions of raw eggs and the heavy imbibing of the ale that had caused their problem the night before.

  As a result, their departure was delayed until midmorning—not that this disturbed Vanyel a great deal. They’d be outside the bounds of the forest before dark; at least according to what the innkeeper told Garth. That was all Vanyel cared about.

  Garth and Erek were still looking a bit greenish as they mounted their cobs. And neither seemed much inclined toward talk. That suited Vanyel quite well; it would enable him to concentrate on putting just a bit more distance between himself and the world. And it would allow him to do some undisturbed thinking.

  The forest did not seem quite so unfriendly on the eastern side of the inn—perhaps because it was hunted more frequently on this side. The underbrush certainly wasn’t as thick. The boughs of the trees overhead weren’t, either, and Vanyel got a bit of nasty satisfaction at seeing Garth and Erek wincing out of the way of sunbeams that were much more frequent on this side of the woods.

  But it was hotter than yesterday, and Vanyel finally stripped off his leather tunic and bundled it behind him.

  Seeing no lurking shadows beneath the trees, he felt a bit easier about turning his attention inward to think about just what, exactly, he was heading toward.

  I can guess at what Father’s told the old bat. That’s easy enough. The question is what she’s likely to do about it.

  He tried to dig everything he could remember out of the dim recesses of memory—not just about his aunt in particular, but about Heralds in general.

  He’ll tell her I’m to be weapons-schooled, that’s for certain. But how—that’s up to her. And now that I think of it—damn if it wasn’t a Herald that wrote that book that got me in such trouble! I may, I just might actually be better off in that area! Huh—now that I think about it, I can’t see any way I’d be worse off.

  A bird called overhead, and Vanyel almost felt a bit hopeful. No matter who I get schooled under, he can’t possibly be worse than Jervis—because whoever he is, he won’t have a grudge against me. The absolute worst I can get is a Jervis-type without a grudge. That might just be survivable, if I keep myself in the background, if I manage to convince him that I’m deadly stupid and clumsy. Stupid and clumsy are not possible to train away, and even Jervis knew that.

  Another bird answered, reminding him that there was, however, the matter of music.

  He’s bound to have issued orders that I’m not to be allowed anywhere near the Bards except right under Savil’s eye—and if she’s like Father, she has no ear at all. Which means she’ll never go to entertainments unless she has no choice. He sighed. Oh, well, there’s worse. I won’t be any worse off than I was at home, where I saw a real, trained Bard once in my entire lifetime. At least they’ll be around. Maybe if I can get my fingering back and play where one is likely to overhear me—

  He sternly squelched that last. Best not think about it. I can’t afford hope anymore.

  Star fidgeted; she wanted her usual early-morning run. He reined her in, calmed her down, and went back to his own thoughts. One thing for sure, Father is likely to have told Savil all kinds of things about how rotten I am. So she’ll be likely looking for wrong moves on my part—and I’ll bet she’ll have her proteges and friends watching me, too. It’s going to be hell. Hell, with no sanctuary, and no Liss.

  He studied Star’s ears as he thought, watching her flick them back with alert interest when she heard him sigh.

  Well, everyone else is going to hate me, but you still love me. He patted Star’s neck, and she pranced a little.

  To the lowest hells with all of them. I do not need them, I don’t need anybody, not even Liss. I’ll do all right on my own.

  But there was one puzzle, one he was reminded of later, when they passed one of the remote farms, and Vanyel saw the farmer out in the field, talking with someone on horseback who was likely his overlord. Huh—he thought, I can’t figure how in Havens Father expects Savil to train me in governance. . . .

  Then he felt a cold chill.

  Unless he doesn’t really expect me to ever come home again. Gods—he could try to work something out in the way of sending me off to a temple. He could do that—and it bloody wouldn’t matter if Father Leren could find him a priest he could bribe into accepting an unwilling acolyte. It would work—it would work. Especially if it was a cloistered order. And with me out of the way in Savil’s hands, he has all the time he needs to find a compliant priest. He doesn’t even have to tell Savil; just issue the order to send me back home again when it’s all arranged. Then spirit me off and announce to anyone who asks that I discovered I had a vocation. And I would spend the rest of my life in a little stone cave somewhere—

  He swallowed hard, and tried to find reasons to dismiss the notion as a paranoid fantasy, but all he could discover were more reasons why it was a logical move on Lo
rd Withen’s part.

  He tried to banish the fear, telling himself that it was no good worrying about what might only be a fantasy until it actually happened. But the thought wouldn’t go away. It kept coming back, not only that day, but every day thereafter. It wasn’t quite an obsession—but it wasn’t far off.

  It was quite enough to keep him wrapped in silent, apprehensive thought for every day of the remainder of the journey, and to keep him sleepless for long hours every night. And not even dreams of his isolated snow-plain helped to keep it from his thoughts.

  CHAPTER 4

  “ALL RIGHT, TYLENDEL, that was passable, but it wasn’t particularly smooth,” Herald-Mage Savil admonished her protege, tucking her feet under the bottom rung of her wooden stool, and absently smoothing down the front of her white tunic. “Remember, the power is supposed to flow; from you to the shield and back again. Smoothly, not in spurts. You tell me why.”

  Tylendel, a tall, strikingly attractive, dark blond Herald-trainee of about sixteen, frowned with concentration as he considered Savil’s question. She watched the power-barrier he had built about himself with her Mage-Sight, and Saw the pale violet half-dome waver as he turned his attention to her question and lost a bit of control over the shield. She could feel the room pulsing as he allowed the shield to pulse in time with his heartbeat. If he let this go on, it would collapse.

  “Tylendel, you’re losing it,” she warned. He nodded, looked up and grimaced, but did not reply; his actions were reply enough. The energy comprising the half-dome covering him stopped rippling, firmed, and the color deepened.

  “Have you an answer to my question yet?”

  “I think so,” he answered. “If it doesn’t flow smoothly, I’ll have times when it’s weak, and whatever I’m doing with it will be open to interruption when it weakens?”