“Who blacked your eyes, broke your nose, and nearly fractured your ankle?”
“Well, that proves it, doesn’t it?” Vanyel retorted, trying to make a feeble joke. “They say if you don’t hurt, you don’t love.”
Tylendel shook his head. “I—gods, don’t let me go all to pieces again. Vanyel-ashke, I could never hope to do this without you. There’s no one else that I would trust in this that could help me with a Gate-spell—and Van, I should warn you, you’re going to feel damn seedy afterward, like you’ve had a case of backlash to match mine.”
“Can you borrow this stuff?” Vanyel interrupted dubiously. “I mean, I don’t have any Mage-Gifts or anything.”
“Not active; you’ve got something, you’ve got the potential, but it’s locked. I wouldn’t have known, but I think we’re linking a little, on a deeper level than Savil and I have—or even Gala and I. It’s more like what I had with my twin; it isn’t conscious, but—I know you know when I’m—”
“—unhappy,” Vanyel finished for him, thoughtfully. “And other things. Uh-huh, I think you’re right. I thought it might just be because I’m worried about you, but it seems to be going further than that. Like last night, when I woke you up before you’d barely started to have a nightmare.”
Tylendel nodded. “So I think we’re linking. I think it happened sometime between when I started the fit and when I came out of the backlash coma. I can feel—something—in you. Something very deep, but very strong. That’s when I thought about the Gate-spell, and I used Othersight on you. I sort of felt the link, and then I saw you had Mage-energies I could tap into using that link.”
“Gods—’Lendel, don’t tell me I’m going to turn into a Herald-Mage,” he said, alarmed by the very idea.
“If you haven’t by now, it isn’t too bloody likely,” Tylendel replied, to Vanyel’s profound relief. “Savil says a lot of people have the potential, but nothing ever triggers it. You’ve just got the potential.”
“So don’t trigger it,” Vanyel replied, shivering with an unexplained chill. “I don’t want to be a Herald or a Herald-Mage, or anything like them.”
Tylendel gave him an odd look, but only said, “I doubt I could, even if you wanted it. There’s stories that there’s a couple of Mage-schools that know how to trigger potential, but nobody I know has ever seen it done, so even if it’s possible, the people that can do it are keeping the means a deep secret.”
“Good,” Vanyel replied, still fighting down his chill of apprehension. “That’s exactly the way I want it. So—you make this Gate thing. Then what?”
“When we get to the other side of the Gate, we’ll be on Leshara land; right on top of the keep, if I can manage it. I’ll use the other spell I’m looking for—and that will be the end of it.”
Vanyel suddenly knew, without knowing how he knew, that he did not want to know what this “other spell” was.
“Fine,” he replied shortly, turning another page. “You keep looking. Just tell me when to stop.”
CHAPTER 8
VANYEL STARED NERVOUSLY at his own reflection in the window—a specter, pale and indistinct; ghostlike, with dark hollows for eyes. Beyond the glass, night blanketed the gardens; a moonless night, a night of wind and cloud and no light at all, not even starlight.
Sovvan-night; the night of celebration of the harvest, but also the night set apart for remembering the dead of the year past. The night when—so most traditions held—the Otherworld was closer than on any other night. A night of profound darkness, like the one a moon ago when Staven had been slain.
Savil was with the rest of the Heralds, mourning their dead of the year. Donni and Mardic, having no one in need of remembrance, were with some of the other trainees at a Palace fete, indulging in a certain amount of the superstitious foolery associated with Harvestfest that was also a part of Sovvan-night, at least for the young.
Lord Evan Leshara had gone home to Westrel Keep. Presumably well satisfied with himself. There was no doubt in Vanyel’s mind that Lord Evan had somehow extracted enough good information from what had been fed to him to deduce exactly what bait would serve best to lure Staven to his death. They had tried to use him—and had ended up being used by him.
And that was a blackly bitter thought.
Tylendel and Vanyel had been left alone in the suite—
Tylendel and Vanyel would not be mewed up in the suite much longer.
“Are you ready?” Tylendel asked from the door behind him.
Vanyel nodded, and pulled the hood of his dark blue cloak up over his head, trying not to shiver at his own reflection. With the hood shrouding his face, he looked like an image of Death itself. Then Tylendel moved silently to his side, and there were two of the hooded figures reflected in the clouded glass: Death, and Death’s Shadow.
He shook his head to free it of such ominous thoughts, as Tylendel opened the door and they stepped out into the cold, blustering night.
This morning he had slipped out into Haven and bought a pair of nondescript horses from a down-at-the-heels beast-trader, using most of the coin he and Tylendel had managed to scrape together over the past three weeks. He’d taken them off into the west end of the city and stabled them at an inn just outside the city wall.
Tylendel had told Vanyel that before he worked the spell to take them within striking distance of the Leshara holding, he wanted to be out of the easy sensing range of the Herald-Mages. They needed transportation, but it didn’t matter how broken-down the beasts were; their horses only needed to last long enough to get them an hour’s ride out of the city. After that it wouldn’t matter what became of them.
Obviously, riding Gala was totally out of the question. They weren’t taking Star or “borrowing” any of the true horses from the Palace stables, because if their absence were noticed, Tylendel didn’t want any suspicions aroused until it was too late to stop them. Vanyel had concurred without an argument; if they couldn’t force their mounts through Tylendel’s Gate—and the trainee had indicated that they might not be able to or might not want to—they were going to have to turn them loose to fend for themselves. He didn’t want to lose Star, and he didn’t want to be responsible for the loss of anyone else’s prized mount, either.
The ice-edged wind caught at their cloaks, finding all the openings and cutting right through the heavy wool itself. Vanyel was shivering long before they slipped past the Gate Guard at the Palace gates and on out into the streets of the city. The Guard was preoccupied with warming himself at the charcoal brazier beside the gate; he didn’t seem to notice them as they hugged the shadows of the side of the gate farthest from him and took to the cobblestoned street beyond.
Now they were out in the wealthiest district of the city. The high buildings on either side of them served only to funnel the wind right at them, or so it seemed. Tylendel, who was still not entirely steady on his feet, grabbed Vanyel’s arm and hung on. Vanyel could feel him shivering, partly with cold, but from the way his eyes were gleaming in the shadows of his hood, partly also with excitement.
These mansions of the wealthy and highborn were mostly dark tonight; the inhabitants were either at Temple services or attending the Harvestfest gathering at the Palace. Vanyel had not received an invitation—and although he was anything but displeased, he wasn’t entirely certain why he had not. His apparent about-face with regard to Tylendel had confused not only his own little circle, but the trainees and Heralds as well. And no one had enlightened them; Savil had reckoned that keeping the rumormongers confused would keep the real story from reaching Withen for a while and buy them additional time.
Assuming Lord Evan hadn’t told him, just for the pure spite of making things difficult for Tylendel and Tylendel’s lover. It would suit the man’s character.
Vanyel thought briefly of the Sovvan-fete he was missing. It was possible that those in charge of the festivities had assumed he would
be staying at Tylendel’s side, especially tonight. It was also possible that they blamed him for Tylendel’s condition (Mardic had reported several stories to that effect) and were “punishing” him for his conduct.
Whatever the reason, this had proved to be too good an opportunity to slip out undetected to let pass by.
They turned a corner, and the buildings changed; now they were smaller, crowded closer together, and no longer hidden behind walls. Each had candles in the otherwise darkened windows—another Sovvan-custom. It was by the light of these candles that the two were finding their way; the torches that usually illuminated the street by night had long since blown out.
Tylendel had been growing increasingly strange and withdrawn in the past several days since Vanyel had purloined Savil’s magic books for him. Vanyel would wake up in the middle of the night to find him huddled in the chair, studying his handwritten copies of the two spells with fanatic and feverish concentration. During waking hours he would often stare for hours at nothing, or at a candleflame, and his conversation had become monosyllabic. The only time he seemed anything like his old self was when he’d begin a nightmare and Vanyel would wake him from it; then he would cry for a while on Vanyel’s shoulder, and afterward talk until they both fell asleep again. Then he sounded like the old Tylendel—not afraid to share his grief or his fears with the one he loved. But when day arrived, he would be back inside his shell, and nothing Vanyel could do or say seemed to crack that barrier.
Vanyel had long since begun to think that he would never be his old self again until his revenge had been accomplished, and he had begun to long for that moment with a fervor that nearly equaled his lover’s.
They reached the sector of shops and inns long before they saw another human out on the streets, and that was only the Nightwatch. The patrol of two men gave them hardly more than a passing glance; they were obviously unarmed except for knives, were too well-dressed to be street-toughs, and not flashy enough to be young highborns out to find some trouble. The two men of the Watch gave them nearly simultaneous nods, curt and preoccupied, nods which they returned as the light from the Watchlantern in the hands of the rightmost one fell on them. Satisfied by what they saw, the Watch passed on, and so did they, boot-heels clattering on the cobbles.
Here the buildings were only one or two stories tall, and the wind howled and ramped about them unimpeded. The quality and state of repair of these buildings—mostly shops, inns, lodging-houses, and workshops—declined steadily and rapidly as they neared the west city-wall of Haven.
The Guards on the great gates of Haven were not in evidence tonight, although there was a viewport in the wall, and Vanyel could almost feel eyes on him as they passed below it. Obviously the Guards found as little to alarm them in the two younglings as the Watch had; they passed out under the wall with no challenge whatsoever.
Once outside the west wall, they were in the lowest district in the city. Vanyel led the way to the ramshackle inn where he’d left their sorry nags; fighting the wind every inch of the way, as it nearly tore the edges of his cloak out of his half-frozen hands.
The Red Nose Inn was brightly lit and full to bursting with roisterers; Vanyel heard their out-of-tune singing and hoarse laughter even over the moaning of the wind as they passed by the open door. Smoke and light alike spilled out that door, and the wind carried a random puff of the smoke into their eyes as they passed, a noisome smudge that made them cough and their eyes water for a moment before cleaner air whipped it out of their faces again. They ignored that open door and passed around the side of the inn to the dirty courtyard and the stabling area.
There was a single, half-drunk groom on duty, slumped on a stack of hay bales by the stable door, illuminated by a feebly burning lantern. His head lolled on his chest as he snored, smelling, even in this wind, as if he’d fallen into a vat of cheap beer. Tylendel waited in the shadows beyond reach of the light from the smoking lantern that had been hung in the lee of the stable door, while Vanyel shook the man’s shoulder until he roused.
“Eh?” the man grunted, peering into the shadows under Vanyel’s hood in an unsuccessful attempt to make out his features. His breath was as foul as his clothing; his face was filthy and unshaven, and his hair hung around his ears in lank, greasy ringlets. “What ye want, then? Where be yer nags?”
“Already here,” Vanyel replied, in a tone as adult, brusque, and gruff as he could manage. “Here—” He shoved the claim-chits at the groom, together with two silver pieces. The man stared stupidly at them for a moment, blinking in surprise, as if he were having trouble telling the chits from the coins. Then he grinned in sudden comprehension, displaying a mouthful of half-rotten teeth, and nodded.
“’Nuff celebratin’, eh, master? Just ye wait, just ye wait right here.” He shoved the coins and chits together into the pocket in the front of his stained, oily leather apron, heaved himself up off his couch of hay bales, and staggered inside the stable door. He emerged a great deal sooner than Vanyel would have thought possible, leading a pair of scruffy-looking, nondescript brown geldings that were already saddled and bridled with patched and worn tack. Vanyel squinted at them in the smoky light, trying to make out if they were the same ones he’d bought this morning, then realized that it didn’t matter if they were or not. It wasn’t as if the horses he’d purchased were any kind of prize specimens—in fact, if these weren’t “his” horses, they were likely as not to be an improvement over the ones he’d bought!
He took the reins away from the groom without another word, turned, and led them across the dirt court to where Tylendel was waiting, huddled against the inn wall in a futile attempt to avoid the biting wind. When he looked back over his shoulder, he could see that the groom had already flopped down on the straw bales and resumed his interrupted nap.
He handed Tylendel the reins of the better of the two mounts, and scrambled into his own saddle. His flea-bitten beast skittered sideways in an attempt to avoid being mounted, and gave a half-hearted buck as Vanyel settled into his seat. Vanyel made a fist and gave it a good rap between the ears; the nag stopped trying to rid itself of its rider and settled down.
The spine of his saddle was broken; the horse itself was swaybacked, and its gait was as rough as he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. He hoped, as Tylendel took the lead and they headed down Exile’s Road into the west, that they wouldn’t be riding for too very long.
• • •
The wind had died down—at least momentarily—when Tylendel finally stopped. It was so dark that the only way he really knew that Tylendel had pulled up was because the sound of hooves on the hard surface of the road ahead of him stopped. They’d trusted to the fact that Exile’s Road was lined on either side with hedges to keep their sorry beasts on the roadway. He kicked at his own mount and forced it forward until he could feel the presence of Tylendel and his horse bulking beside him.
There was a flare of light; Vanyel winced away from it—it was quite painful after the near-total darkness of the last candlemark or so. When he could bear to look again, he saw that Tylendel had dismounted and was leading his horse, a red ball of mage-light bobbing along above his head.
He scrambled off of his own mount, glad enough to be out of that excruciatingly uncomfortable saddle, snatched the reins of the beast over its head, and hastened to catch up.
“Are we far enough away yet?” he asked, longing for even a single word from the trainee to break the silence and tension. Tylendel’s face was drawn and fey, strained; Tylendel’s attention was plainly somewhere else, his whole aspect wrapped up in the kind of terrifying concentration that had been all too common to him of late.
“Almost,” he replied, after a long and unnerving silence. His voice had a strange quality to it, as if Tylendel was having to work to get even a single word out past whatever it was he was concentrating on. “I’m—looking for something. . . .”
Vanyel shivered, and
not from the cold. “What?”
“A place to put the Gate.” They came to a break in the hedge. No—not a break. When Tylendel stopped and led his horse over to it, Vanyel could see that it was the remains of a gated opening in the hedge, long since overgrown. Beyond the gap something bulked darkly in the dim illumination provided by the mage-light. Tylendel nodded slightly. “I thought I remembered this place,” he muttered. He didn’t seem to expect a response, so Vanyel didn’t make one.
It was obvious that the horses were not going to be able to force themselves through so narrow a passage; Tylendel stripped the bridle from his, hung it on the saddlebow, and gave the gelding a tremendous slap on the hip that made it snort with surprise and sent it cantering off into the darkness. Vanyel did the same with his, not sorry to see it go, and turned away from the road to see that Tylendel had already forced his way past the gap in the hedge and was now out of sight. Only the reddish glow of the mage-light through the leafless branches of the hedgerow showed where he had gone.
Vanyel shoved his way past the branches, cursing as they caught on his cloak and scratched at his face. When he emerged, staggering, from the prickly embrace of stubborn bushes, he found that he was standing knee-deep in weeds, in what had been the yard of a small building. It could have been anything from a shop to a cottage, but was now going to pieces; the yard was as overgrown as the gate had been. The building seemed to be entirely roofless and the door and windows were mere holes in the walls. Tylendel was examining the remains of the door with care.
The gap where the door had been was a large one, easily large enough for a horse and rider to pass through. Tylendel nodded again, and this time there was an expression of dour satisfaction on his face. “This will do,” he said softly. “Van, think you’re ready?”
Vanyel took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little. “As ready as I’m ever likely to get,” he replied.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 21
