The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  They emerged into sunlight that was far too much for his eyes; he opened them once, and shut them again, quickly. The Companion suddenly stepped away from him, and he literally fell into the arms of a strange Herald; and once out of contact with Yfandes there were dozens of voices in his head, all of them clamorous, all of them confusing. He whimpered, tried to pull away, and hid his head in his arms. They hurt, they hurt, and he couldn’t make out which were his own thoughts and which belonged to someone else.

  :Tell your fool Chosen to shield him, Delian!:

  That voice he recognized, although Yfandes had never spoken that sharply to him. The stranger bit off a curse and touched Vanyel’s forehead, and the voices cut off. Vanyel opened his eyes again, and wished he hadn’t; the world was spinning around with him as the center of the chaos. He shut them immediately, vowing not to reopen them.

  “Let me, Tantras.” The soft voice was that of yet another stranger.

  Two cool hands rested lightly on his head, and brought with them the promise of comfort and the peace of sleep. He took what they offered, falling into oblivion gratefully.

  With any luck, he’d never wake up.

  • • •

  The bed looked far too big for the boy; never tall, he seemed to have collapsed in on himself. He was as pale as the sheets and—it might have been his dark hair and naturally fair complexion, but it seemed to her that he looked worse than Tylendel had after his fit. That was something Savil had not thought possible until now.

  Tylendel. Oh, my ’Lendel, my poor, poor ’Lendel.

  Unshed tears made a hard knot in her throat and misted her eyes. So she missed the moment that Andrel took his hand away from the boy’s forehead and sagged back into his chair with a sigh of weariness, his graying red hair damp with sweat, his freckles twice as evident with his skin so washed out and pale.

  It was that sigh that brought her back to the urgent present.

  “Andrel?” she said softly. “Can you tell me anything?”

  “I did what I could for him—and more, I’ve got a line established,” the Green-robed Healer to the Heralds replied, without looking up. “I want you to follow it—or if you feel you can’t, find me a Herald-Mage your equal. I don’t believe what I Saw, to be frank, and I want a confirmation.”

  Savil tightened her jaw, and told herself again that none of this had been Vanyel’s fault. Besides, she was the only Herald-Mage at the Palace who was likely to have any feelings of charity toward the boy.

  “I’ll follow it. Have you got more to say, or—”

  “I want you in there first. What I have to say is going to depend on whether you think I’ve gone over the edge or not.”

  Savil raised one eyebrow in surprise, but moved in to stand beside the Healer. She reached out for Andrel’s soothing Presence as easily as she could have reached for his hand; they’d been lovers, once, and had worked together often, both before and since.

  They meshed auras exactly as hand would close on hand, and Savil followed the “line” the Healer had established down past the churning chaos of Vanyel’s sleeping surface mind to the dark, grief-stricken core of him. The measure of that grief would have reconciled her to him even had she felt him blameworthy; she’d known the depth of Tylendel’s feelings, but it seemed as if Vanyel’s had run at least as deep. Certainly his grief and loss were as profound as her own. More—

  Oh, gods—it’s just what I warned ’Lendel against. He’s lost, he’s utterly lost without ’Lendel—

  But that was not what rocked her back onto her heels with real shock.

  Savil had spent most of the past twenty years of her life as the one Herald-Mage most intimately involved in training young Herald-Mages, and the one most often set to identify youngsters with active Gifts and the potential of being Chosen. She had seen children with one, two, or (most commonly) no Gifts. Tylendel had been unusual in having Mindspeech, Fetching, Empathy, and the Mage-Gift, all at near-equal strength. Most Heralds or Herald-Mages had one or two strong Gifts—and few had as many as three.

  Vanyel had them all. Each channel she tested—with the sole exception of Healing—was open; most of them had been forced open to their widest extent. The boy had Mindspeech, Fetching, Farsight, Foresight, as much Empathy as Tylendel had shown, even enough Fire-starting to ensure he’d never need to use a tinderbox again, and the all-important Mage-Gift. His Mindspeech was even of both types, Thought-sensing and Projecting.

  And—irony of ironies—as if the gods were taking with one hand and offering a pittance as compensation—the Bardic Gift.

  This boy had more Gifts than any five full Heralds—and all of them had come into full activity in less than a day.

  To her horror she could See that all the channels were as raw and sensitive as so many open wounds. The channels had not been “opened,” they’d been blasted open. It was a wonder the boy wasn’t mad with the pain alone.

  Savil came up out of Vanyel’s mind with a rush like a startled fish jumping out of a stream, and looked from the boy to the Healer and back in a state of surprise that closely resembled shock.

  “Great good gods,” she said. “What the hell happened to do that?”

  Andrel shook his head. “Your guess would be better than mine. I never cared much where our powers came from, I was just concerned with learning to use them effectively. But do you see what I’m up against with this boy?”

  “I think so,” Savil replied, groping for the bedpost and sitting down carefully on the foot of the bed. “Let me add this up. You’ve got backlash trauma from when the Gate-energy got pulled from him, and more trauma from when we sent it back into him; you’ve got the problems inherent when you wake Gifts late or early. You’ve got the problems with them being at full power from the moment they woke. Worst of all, you’ve got channels that were burned open or torn open instead of opening of themselves.”

  “That, and more mundane emotional trauma and physical shock. I hope to the Havens that he doesn’t come down with pneumonia on top of it all. I already fought off one fever, one his own body produced when it couldn’t handle the energy-overload.” Andrel touched the back of his hand to the boy’s waxen cheek, checking his temperature. “So far, so good, but it’s a real possibility. And I’m fighting off the effects of exposure, too. Savil, the child is a mess.”

  “Lover, you have a talent for understatement.” Savil contemplated Vanyel’s pinched, grief-twisted face.

  Even in sleep he doesn’t lose his pain.

  “Now I see why Yfandes was so reluctant to let him out of her care. Until she gets him firmly bonded to her, he’s going to have to be in physical contact with her for her to protect him. But what can we do? I can’t fit her in here, I can’t put him in the stables, not with the weather being what it is.”

  “Try, and I’ll call you up on charges,” Andrel replied, and Savil could tell that he was not joking. “Do that in this chill, and you’ll kill him. It’s going to be touchy enough with him tucked up in a warm bed.”

  “Well, how in hell do I protect him from his own powers?”

  “Put your own shields on him, and hope nothing gets through.”

  “I can’t keep them up forever,” Savil reminded him acidly. “I’m fairly well fagged out myself. A couple of hours is about all I can manage at this point.”

  “Then go order two graves, dammit!” the Healer snarled in sudden frustration. “Because you’re going to lose this one, too, if you don’t do everything right with him!”

  Savil pulled back, taken very much aback by the sudden explosion of temper. “I,” she faltered, then as his words penetrated, and she thought of what was lying in the Grove Temple at this moment, lost her own precarious hold on calm.

  She got up, stumbling a little; turned away from him and leaned against the doorframe, her shoulders shaking with her silent weeping.

  “Savil—�
��

  Strong but trembling hands on her shoulders turned her back to face the room, and pulled her into an embrace against a bony chest covered in soft, green wool. “Savil, I’m sorry,” Andrel murmured into her hair. “I shouldn’t have said that. You’re exhausted, I’m exhausted, and neither of us are up to facing the problem this boy represents. Is there anyone you can turn him over to, for a day, at least? Long enough for you to get some rest and a chance to think?”

  A white square of linen appeared just when she needed it. She mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief he offered, and blew her nose. “Under any other circumstances I’d just let any of the others spell me—but I don’t know, Andy. A lot of them still think he’s responsible for all this. Even if they shield—with Gifts like his, what’s he going to pick up? You of all people should know how leaky we all are to a new, raw Gift, even when we aren’t stressed.”

  Andrel sighed. “Dearheart, I don’t think you have a real choice. You’ll just have to hope that if surface thoughts leak past, he won’t be able to understand them yet. If you don’t get some rest, you’re going to collapse, and even a novice Healer would be able to tell you that.”

  She bowed her head, feeling the weight of all her years and all her sorrows falling on her back. “All right,” she said, acting against her better judgment, but unable to see any other option open to her. “See if you can round up Tantras for me, will you? At least he didn’t know poor ’Lendel all that well.”

  • • •

  Vanyel woke from a dream in which Tylendel was alive again, and had teased him gently about how much he had been grieving. For a confused moment after waking, he wasn’t certain which had been the dream, and which the reality.

  Then he opened his eyes, and found that he was in his own bed, and his own room, now illuminated by carefully shaded candle-lanterns. And there was something odd about the room.

  After a long moment, he finally figured out what it was. The feeling of “Tylendel,” the sense of his being there even when he wasn’t physically present, was missing.

  That told him. He swallowed a moan of despair, and closed his eyes against the resurgence of tears—and just in time, for the door opened softly and closed again, and he felt a new presence in the room with him.

  He froze for a moment, then sighed, as if in sleep, and turned onto his side, hiding his face away from the light.

  He was hearing things—like someone talking to himself, only—only, inside his head, the way Yfandes’ voice had been inside his head. It hurt to listen, but he couldn’t stop the words from coming in. And from the feel of that mind-voice, he knew who it was that was sitting by his bedside, too; it was one of the Heralds that had been with Savil, the one called Jaysen.

  And Jaysen did not in the least care for Vanyel.

  :—gods—: Vanyel heard, a little garbled by the pain that came with the words. :—trade this arrogant little toad for Tylendel. Damn poor bargain.:

  Vanyel could feel brooding eyes on him, and the words in his head came clearer, more focused. :No matter what Savil said, I’ll never believe he didn’t have something to do with the boy’s death. If they’d been all that close, Tylendel would have listened to him, and even if ’Lendel was crazed on revenge, this one wasn’t. ’Lendel may have loved him, but he could never have cared for the lad in the same way, or he’d have stopped him. ’Lendel was just one more little addition to his stable of admirers. If he’d left ’Lendel alone, if he hadn’t played on his—weaknesses—:

  Vanyel cringed beneath the pitiless words, and the vision of himself that came with them: arrogant, self-centered, self-serving. Using Tylendel, not caring for him. And worse, worse than that, feeding him what he craved, like feeding a perpetual drunk the liquor he shouldn’t have.

  Without thinking about it, he reached beyond his room; it was a little like straining his ears to hear a conversation in the distance, and the pain that came with the effort felt like muscles pulling against a broken bone, but he found he could catch other snatches of—it must be thoughts—that touched on him.

  They could have been echoes of Jaysen’s thoughts.

  He pulled his awareness back, as a child pulls its singed hand from the fire that has burned it. There were only two creatures in all the world that he could be certain cared for him despite what he was; Tylendel and Yfandes. Neither were to be trusted to know the truth about him. The second was besotted by whatever magic had made her Choose him; the first was—

  The first was dead. And it was his fault. Jaysen was right; if he’d really cared for ’Lendel, he’d have stopped him. It wouldn’t even have been hard; if he hadn’t agreed to get those books, if he hadn’t agreed to help with that spell, Tylendel would be alive at this moment. And if he hadn’t seduced ’Lendel with his own needs, none of this ever would have happened.

  Bad on top of worst; now he was a burden on the Heralds, who hated him, but felt honor-bound to take him in Tylendel’s place. And he could never replace Tylendel, not ever; even he knew that. He had none of Tylendel’s virtues, and all of his vices and more.

  He listened to the mind-voice of the one beside him with all his strength, ignoring the pain it cost, hoping beyond hope that the Herald would somehow give him the chance to get away—get away and do something to make this right. If the Herald would just—go away for a moment, or—or better yet, fall asleep—

  Jaysen was tired; though he’d done less magic than Savil, and had more time to rest, he was still very weary. He’d set himself up in the room’s really comfortable chair, the one Tylendel had sometimes fallen asleep in. Vanyel could feel Jaysen’s mind drifting over into slumber, and held his breath, hoping he’d drift all the way.

  Because he’d gleaned something else from those minds out there—

  Because the Death Bell had rung for him, despite what he’d done, Tylendel was being accounted a full Herald and tomorrow would be buried with all the honors.

  Tomorrow. But tonight—he was in the Temple in the Grove. And if he could get that far, Vanyel was going to try to right the wrongs he had done to all of them, atoning with the only thing he had left to give.

  Jaysen’s thoughts slipped into the vague mumbles of sleep, and in the next moment a gentle snore from the chair beside the bed told Vanyel that he was completely gone.

  Vanyel turned over, deliberately making noise.

  Jaysen continued to snore, undisturbed.

  Vanyel sat up, slowly, taking stock of himself and his surroundings.

  About a candlemark later, he was dressed; even if he had not needed to move slowly for fear of waking the Herald, he would have had to for weakness. He had even needed to hold onto the furniture at first, because his legs were so unsteady. Even now his legs trembled with every step he took, but at least he was moving a bit more surely.

  He stole soundlessly across the floor and unlatched the door, opened it just enough to squeeze himself through, and shut it again. It was dark out here, a still, cloudless night. He wouldn’t be seen, but it was a long way to the Grove.

  He steeled himself and stepped shakily onto the graveled path that ran from his door through the moonlit garden.

  But someone had been waiting for him.

  Yfandes glided out of the darkness to his side almost before he had made five steps along that path.

  :No—: she said, sternly, barring his way. :You are ill; you should be in bed.:

  For a moment he was ready to collapse right where he stood.

  —gods, she’s going to stop me—

  Then he saw a way to get Yfandes to help him—without her knowing she was doing so.

  :Please—: He directed everything he could on part of the truth. He couldn’t lie mind-to-mind, he knew that, but he didn’t have to reveal everything unless Yfandes should ask a direct question about it. And besides that, the link to her was fading in and out (and it hurt, like everything else) and
he would bet she wouldn’t want to force anything. :Please, Yfandes, I have to—: he faltered :—to say—good-bye.:

  She bowed her head almost to the earth as he let his grief pour out over her. :Very well,: he heard, the mind-voice heavy with reluctance. :I will help you. But you must rest, after.:

  :I will,: he promised, meaning it, though not in the way she had intended.

  She went to her knees so that he could mount; he, once the best rider at Forst Reach, could not drag himself onto her back without that help. His arms and legs trembled with weakness as he clung to her back, and if it had not been that she could have balanced a toddler there and not let it fall, he would have lost his seat within the first few moments.

  He concentrated on his weariness, on how physically miserable he was feeling, and spent not so much as an eyeblink on his real intentions. He closed his eyes, both to concentrate, and because seeing the ground move by so fast in the moonlight was making him nauseated and disoriented again.

  He had had no notion of how fast the Companions could travel at a so-called walk. She was stepping carefully up to the porch of the Grove Temple long before he had expected her to get there; the clear ringing of her hooves on the marble surprised him into opening his eyes.

  :We are here,: she said, and knelt for him to dismount.

  The marble of the Temple porch glistened wetly in the moonlight, and he could see candlelight shining under the door. He slid from Yfandes’ back, and “listened” with this new, mental ear for other minds within the Temple.

  None.

  He shivered in the cold wind; he’d dressed carefully, in the black silk tunic and breeches Tylendel had thought he looked best in, and once off Yfandes’ warm, broad back, the wind cut right through his clothing.

  :Not for long,: she admonished, as he clung to the doorframe and negotiated unlatching the door into the Temple itself.