“Milord Herald, an honor, a pleasure. How may this humble inn serve you, milord?”
“Please—” Vanyel flushed at his effusiveness. “Just dinner, a room if you’ve one to spare, use of your bathhouse, food for my Companion—I took the liberty of turning her loose with Companion Gavis.” Now his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see what he was doing; he fumbled in his belt-pouch and pressed coins into the innkeeper’s hand. “Here; I’m on leave, not on duty. This should cover everything.” Actually it was too much, and he knew it—but what else did he have to spend it on? The man gaped at the money, and began babbling about the room: “Royalty slept there, indeed they did, King Randale himself before his coronation—” Vanyel bore with it as patiently as he could, and when the man finally wound down, thanked him in a diffident voice and entrusted everything but the lute to the hands of one of the servants to be carried away to the rented room.
Now he could make out Herald Sofya in the corner; a dark, pretty woman, quite young, quite lean, and not anyone he recognized. She was paying studious, courteous attention to her jack of ale; Vanyel drifted over to her table when the innkeeper finally fled to the kitchen vowing to bring forth a dinner instantly, which—from the description—would have satisfied both the worst gourmand and the fussiest gourmet in the Kingdom.
“Herald Sofya?” he said quietly, and she looked at him in startlement. He surmised the cause, and smiled. In all probability her Companion had been so taken up with Yfandes that he’d neglected to tell his Chosen Vanyel’s identity. Or else she wasn’t much of a Mindspeaker, which meant Gavis wouldn’t be able to give her more than images. She had probably assumed the same was true for him. “Your Gavis Mindspoke my Yfandes on the road, and she told me both your names before we arrived. Might I join you?”
“Certainly,” she replied, after swallowing quickly.
He sat on the side of the table opposite her, and saw the very faint frown as she took in the state of his Whites. “I apologize for my appearance.” He smiled, feeling a little shy. “I know it won’t do much for the Heraldic reputation. But I only just got leave, and I didn’t want to wait for replacement uniforms. I was afraid that if I did, they’d find some reason to cancel my leave!”
Sofya laughed heartily, showing a fine set of strong, white teeth. “I know what you mean!” she replied. “It seems like all we’ve done is wear out saddle-leather for the past three months. There’re four of us on this route, and the farmers are beginning to count on us like a calendar; one every three days, out to the Border and back.”
“To Captain Lissa Ashkevron?”
“The same. And let us hope the Linean Border doesn’t heat up the way the Karsite Border did.”
Vanyel closed his eyes, as a chill crawled up his backbone and shivered itself along all of his limbs. “Gods spare us that,” he said, finally.
When he opened his eyes again, she was staring at him very oddly, but he was saved from having to say anything by the appearance of the innkeeper with his dinner.
Vanyel started in on the smoked-pork pie with an appetite he didn’t realize he’d had until the savory aroma of the gravy hit him. Sofya leaned back against the wall and continued to nurse her drink, giving him an odd and unreadable glance from time to time.
He’d been too numb from the long, grueling ride to appreciate his meal yesterday. He’d stowed it away without tasting it, as if it had been the iron rations or make-do of the combat zone. But this morning—and now—the home fare seemed finer than anything likely to be set before Randale.
“I hope you don’t mind my staring,” Sofya said at last, as he literally cleaned the plate of the last drop of gravy, “but you’re going after that pie as if you hadn’t seen food in a week, and you’re rather starved-looking, and that seems very odd in a Herald—unless you’ve been standing duty somewhere extraordinary.”
He noticed then the “blank” spot in the back of his mind that meant ’Fandes was keeping her promise and shielding him out. He grinned a little to himself; that probably meant that Gavis was doing the same, so Sofya’s curiosity about him must be eating her alive.
“I’ve seen nearly no food for a week,” he replied quietly, and paused for a moment when the serving girl took the plate away and replenished his mug of cider. “I don’t know if you’d call my duty extraordinary, but it was harder than I expected. I’ve been on the Karsite Border for the last year. Meals weren’t exactly regular, and the food was pretty awful. There were times I shared ’Fandes’ oats because I couldn’t even attempt eating what they gave me; half-rotten meat and moldy bread aren’t precisely to my taste. All too often there wasn’t much to go around. And, to tell you the truth, sometimes I just forgot to eat. You know how it is, things start happening, and the next thing you know, it’s two days later. That’s why—” He gestured at his too-large uniform, and grinned wryly. “The situation was harder on clothing than on stomachs.”
Her sable eyes widened, and softened. “You were on the Karsite duty? I don’t blame you for running off,” she replied, with a hint of a chuckle. “I think I would, too, Herald—you never did give me your name.”
“Vanyel,” he said. “Vanyel Ashkevron. Lissa’s brother. I know, we don’t look at all alike—”
But her reaction was not at all what he had expected. Her eyes widened even further, and she sat straight up. “Herald-Mage Vanyel?” she exclaimed, loud enough that the farmers and traders who’d begun trickling in while Vanyel was eating stopped talking and turned to look with their mouths dropping open. “You’re Vanyel?” Her voice carried embarrassingly well, and rose with every word. “Vanyel Demonsbane? The Shadow Stalker? The Hero of—”
“Please—” Vanyel cut her off, pleadingly. “Please, it—yes, I’m Vanyel. But—honestly, it wasn’t like you think.” He groped for the words that would make the near-worship he saw on her face go back to ordinary friendliness. “It wasn’t like that, it really wasn’t—just—things had to get done, and I was the only one to do them, so I did. I’m not a hero, or—I’m just—I’m just—another Herald,” he finished lamely.
He looked around the common room, and to his dismay saw the same worship in the expressions of the farmfolk around him. And something more.
Fear.
An echo of that fear was in Sofya’s eyes as well, before she looked down at her ale.
He closed his eyes, settling his face into a calm and expressionless mask, that belied the ache that their fear called up in him. He’d wanted—acceptance, only that.
Tran, Tran, you were right, I was wrong. “Be careful what you ask for, you may get it.” Gods, I asked for signs that Tran was right. And now I have them. Don’t I?
He opened his eyes again, but the reverence and adulation hadn’t vanished. There was a palpably clear space around him where the “common folk” had moved a little away, as if afraid to intrude too closely on him.
Even Sofya.
And the room had taken on the silence of a chapel.
I’m about to ruin their evening as well as mine. Unfair, unfair—there must be something I can do to salvage this situation, at least for them.
“You know,” he said, with forced lightness, “if there was one thing I missed more than anything, it was a chance for a little music—”
He reached blindly down beside him for the lute he’d left leaning against the wall, stripped the case off it and tuned it with frantic speed. “—and I hate to sing alone. I’ll bet you all know ‘The Crafty Maid,’ don’t you?”
Without waiting for an answer, he launched into the song. He sang alone on the first verse—but gradually other voices joined his on the chorus; Sofya first, with a kind of too-hearty determination, then a burly peddler, then three stout farmers. The local folk sang timidly to begin with, but the song was an old and lively one, and the chorus was infectious. By his third song the whole room was echoing, and they were no longer paying muc
h more attention to him than they would have to a common minstrel.
Except between songs.
And except for Sofya, who worshiped him with eyes that sent a lump of cold to live in the bottom of his throat. She waited on him herself, as if he was some kind of angel, to be adored, but not touched.
He slipped out of the room early, when she was getting something; another musician had joined the crowd, a local, and he used the lad’s talent as a screen to get out during a particularly rowdy song. He thought he’d gotten away without anyone noticing, but the innkeeper intercepted him in the hallway.
“Milord—Vanyel—” The tallow candles lighting the hall smoked and flickered and made the shadows move like the Shadows he’d once hunted. The memory knotted his stomach. He concentrated on the innkeeper, but the man gulped and would not meet his eyes. A breath of cooked onions drifted up the hall from the common room. “Milord, if I’d known who it was I was serving, I’d have made you special fare, and I’d not have accepted your coin.”
“Please,” Vanyel interrupted, trying to conceal his hurt. The innkeeper jumped back a pace. “Please,” he said, softly this time. “I told you, I’m not on duty, I’m on leave. I’m just another traveler. You fed me the best meal I’ve had in months, truly you did. You’ve earned every copper I paid you, and honestly.”
“But milord Vanyel, it was nothing, it was common plowman’s pie—surely you’d have preferred wine to cider; venison or a stuffed pheasant—and you paid me far too much—”
Vanyel felt a headache coming on. “Actually, no, innkeeper. The truth is I’ve been on iron-rations for so long anything rich would likely have made me ill. And venison—if I never have to see another half-raw deer—Your good, solid fare was feast enough for me. I’ll tell you what—” He decided on the lie quickly. “I’ve been too long within walls. I have a fancy for trees and sky tomorrow; if you’ll have your excellent cook make me up a packet for breakfast and lunch, I’ll consider us more than even. Will that serve your honor, good sir?”
The innkeeper stared, chewing his mustache ends nervously, as if he thought Vanyel might be testing him for some reason, and then nodded agreement.
“Now I—I’m just a little more tired than I thought. If I could use the bathhouse, and get some sleep, do you think?”
To the man’s credit, he supplied Vanyel with soap and towels and left him alone. In the steamy quiet of the bathhouse Vanyel managed to relax again. But the cheer of this morning was gone.
He sought release in sleep, finally, in what must have been the finest room in the inn—a huge bed wide enough for an entire family, two featherbeds and a down comforter, and sheets so fresh they almost crackled, all of it scented with orris and lavender. Far below he could still hear the laughter and singing as he climbed into the enormous bed. He blew out the candle then, feeling as lonely as he had ever been in his life, and prayed that sleep would come quickly.
For once his prayers were answered.
• • •
“I wish I dared Gate,” he mused aloud, carefully examining, then peeling a hard-boiled egg. Yfandes had not said anything about his early-morning departure from the inn, or the fact that he had not waited for breakfast. It was chilly enough that he needed his cloak, and there was a delicate furring of frost on some of the tall weeds beside the roadway. “Gating would shorten this trip considerably.”
:You try and I’ll kick you from here to Haven,: Yfandes replied sharply, the first time she’d spoken to him this morning. :That is absolutely the stupidest thing you’ve said in months!:
He bit into the egg and looked at her backward-pointing ears with interest. “Havens, ladylove—didn’t your tryst go well?”
:My “tryst” went just fine, thank you,: she replied, her mind-voice softening. :I just get sick every time I think about what happened the last time.:
“Oh, ’Fandes, it wasn’t that bad.”
:Not that bad? When you were unconscious before you crossed the threshold? And hurting so badly I nearly screamed?:
“All right, it was bad,” he admitted, popping the rest of the egg into his mouth and reaching into the “breakfast packet.” “And I’m not stupid enough to Gate without urgent need.” He studied a roll, weighing it in his hand. It seemed awfully heavy. As good as the food had been so far, it didn’t seem likely that it was underbaked, but he was not in the mood to choke down raw dough. He nibbled it dubiously, then bit into it with a great deal more enthusiasm when it proved to have sausage baked into the middle of it. “It would just be very convenient to not have to stop at inns.”
:Don’t tell them your real name,: she interrupted.
“What?”
:If reactions like last night bother you, you don’t have to tell them your real name. Tell them you’re Tantras. Tran won’t mind.:
“’Fandes, that’s not the point—never mind.” He finished the last of his breakfast and dusted his hands off. A skein of geese flew overhead, honking. The farmers already out in the fields beside the road, scything down the grain and making it into sheaves, paused a moment and pointed at the “v” of birds. “Tran was right, and I’m going to have to get used to it, I guess. And I can’t do that hiding behind someone else’s name.” He managed a wan smile. “It could be worse. They could be treating me like a leper because I’m shay’a’chern, instead of treating me like a godlet because I’m Herald-Mage Vanyel Demonsbane.” He grimaced. “Gods, that sounds pretentious.”
She slowed her pace a trifle. :It isn’t that important—is it?:
“It’s that important. I’m a very fallible mortal, not an Avatar. Magic is a force—a force I control, no more wonderful than a Mindspeaker’s ability, or a Healer’s. But they don’t see it that way. To them it’s something beyond anything they understand, and they’re not sure it can be controlled.” He sighed. “Or worse, they think magic can solve every problem.”
:You thought that, once.:
“I know I did. When I was younger. Magic seemed to offer solutions to everything when I was nineteen.” He shook his head, and stared out at the horizon. “For a while—for a little while—I thought I held the world. Even Jays respected me, came to be a friend. But magic couldn’t force my father to tell me I’d done well in his eyes—or rather, it could force him, when I wanted the words to come freely from him. It couldn’t make being shay’a’chern any easier. It couldn’t bring back my Tylendel. It was just power. It’s dividing me from ordinary people. Worse than that—it seems to be doing the same between me and other Heralds—and ’Fandes, that scares the hell out of me.”
:You won’t be getting any of the godlet treatment from your kin, I can promise you that.:
“I suppose not.”
It was getting warmer by the moment. He bundled his cloak, and wondered if he should get out his hat. Gods! Change the subject—before you brood yourself into depression again. “Do you think Father will be able to keep Mother off my back?”
:Not to put too fine a point upon it, no.:
“I didn’t think so.” His shoulders were beginning to hurt again. He clasped his arms behind him and arched his back, looking up at the blue, cloudless sky. “Which means she’ll keep trying to cure me by throwing every female above the age of consent within leagues at me. I could almost feel sorrier for the girls than I do for myself.”
:You ought to, Van.:
He looked down at Yfandes’ ears in surprise.
:Did it ever occur to you that you could well have broken a fair number of susceptible young hearts?:
He raised an eyebrow, skeptically. “Aren’t you exaggerating?”
:Think! What about the way you charmed that poor little kitchen girl back at the Palace?:
He winced a little, recalling the romance in her eyes, but then irritation set in. “’Fandes, I’ve never done anything other than be polite to any of them.”
She snorted. :Exac
tly. Think about it. You’re polite to them. Gallant. Occasionally even attentive. Think about the difference in your station and that kitchen maid’s. What in Havens do you think she was expecting when you were polite to her? What does any young man of rank want when he notices a servant or a farmer’s daughter?:
Now he was something more than irritated. “I don’t suppose it’s occurred to you that it might just be the simple fact that I’m a Herald, a safe sort of romance object? Great good gods, ’Fandes, I doubt she had any notion of my rank!”
:Well, what about all those young women your mother parades before you—telling them they’re prospective brides? What do they think that gallantry is?:
“I would imagine that Mother tells them plenty,” he replied with heat, beginning to flush, and very glad there was no one about to overhear this conversation.
:Well, you imagine wrong. Talking to servants is beneath her. As for the others, all she ever tells them is that you—and I quote—“lost your first love tragically.” Now what in the Lady’s name do you think that makes them want to do?:
“Gods, ’Fandes, is that somehow my fault? Was I supposed to interrogate them while they were chasing me?”
:You,: she said, ice dripping from every word, :never asked. Or bothered to ask. Or wanted to ask. It never occurred to you that Withen might not want it spread about the neighborhood that his first-born son prefers men?:
“’Fandes,” he replied, after a long, bitter moment of silence. “I don’t see where it’s any of your business. It has nothing to do with my duties as a Herald.”
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 45
