“Better than well. I think that’s the reason Melenna decided to take that Castelaine position. I think she’s startin’ to look at being something other than ‘Somebody’s lady’ or ‘Somebody’s momma.’ I think maybe she wants to take a shot at being Somebody, herself.”
“Good,” Vanyel said, and meant it.
“You know,” Jervis raised one eyebrow, “your father still don’t half believe but what you were after Tashir’s tail the whole time. Aye, and Medren, too.”
Vanyel snorted.
“In fact,” Jervis continued, “to hear him in his cups, you’ve had half the boys in Valdemar.”
Vanyel put his mug down. “If that’s a question,” he replied acidly, “you can tell him from me that it’s been so damned long that both you and those damned sheep in Long Meadow are starting to look good!”
Jervis gave him a long, thoughtful look, and Vanyel wondered if he’d said too much, too freely. He tried to ready an apology—when Jervis gave him a long, slow grin.
“Stick to the sheep,” the armsmaster advised impudently. “They don’t snore.”
MAGIC’S
PRICE
To
Russell Galen
Judith Louvis and Sally Paduch
and everyone who dreams of wearing Whites
CHAPTER 1
SWEAT RAN DOWN Herald Vanyel’s back, and his ankle hurt a little—he hadn’t twisted it, quite, when he’d slipped on the wooden floor of the salle back at the beginning of this bout, but it was still bothering him five exchanges later.
A point of weakness, and one he’d better be aware of, because his opponent was watching for such signs of weakness, sure as the sun rose.
He watched his adversary’s eyes within the shadows of his helm. Watch the eyes, he remembered Jervis saying, over and over. The eyes will tell you what the hands won’t. So he studied those half-hidden eyes, and tried to hide his entire body behind the quillons of his blade.
The eyes warned him, narrowing and glancing to the left just before Tantras moved. Vanyel was ready for him.
Experience told him, just before their blades touched, that this would be the last exchange. He lunged toward Tantras instead of retreating as Tran was obviously expecting, engaged and bound the other’s blade, and disarmed him, all in the space of a breath.
The practice blade clattered onto the floor as Tantras shook his now-empty hand, swearing.
“Stung, did it?” Vanyel said. He straightened, and pulled at the tie holding his hair out of his eyes, letting it fall loose in damp strands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get quite so vigorous. But you are out of shape, Tran.”
“I don’t suppose you’d accept getting old as an excuse?” Tantras asked hopefully, as he took off his gloves and examined the abused fingers.
Vanyel snorted. “Not a chance. Bard Breda is old enough to be my mother, and she regularly runs me around the salle. You are woefully out of condition.”
The other Herald pulled off his helm, and laughed ruefully. “You’re right. Being Seneschal’s Herald may be high in status, but it’s low in exercise.”
“Spar with my nephew Medren,” Vanyel replied. “If you think I’m fast, you should see him. That’ll keep you in shape.” He unbuckled his practice gambeson while he spoke, leaving it in a pile of other equipment that needed cleaning up against the wall of the salle.
“I’ll do that.” Tantras was slower in freeing himself from the heavier armor he wore. “The gods know I may need to face somebody using that cut-and-run style of yours some day, so I might as well get used to fights that are half race and half combat. And entirely unorthodox.”
“That’s me, unorthodox to the core.” Vanyel racked his practice sword and headed for the door of the salle. “Thanks for the workout, Tran. After this morning, I needed it.”
The cool air hit his sweaty skin as he opened the door; it felt wonderful. So good, in fact, that between his reluctance to return to the Palace and the fresh crispness of the early morning, he decided to take a roundabout way back to his room. One that would take him away from people. One that would, for a moment perhaps, take his mind off things as well as his bout with Tantras had.
He headed for the paths to the Palace gardens.
• • •
Full-throated birdsong spiraled up into the empty sky. Vanyel let his thoughts drift away, following the warbling notes, leaving every weighty problem behind him until his mind was as empty as the air above—
:Van, wake up! Your feet are soaked!: Yfandes’ mind-voice sounded rather aggrieved. :And you’re chilling yourself. You’re going to catch a cold.:
Herald-Mage Vanyel blinked, and stared down at the dew-laden grass of the neglected garden. He couldn’t actually see his feet, hidden as they were by the long, dank, dead grass—but he could feel them, now that ’Fandes had called his attention back to reality. He’d come out here wearing his soft suede indoor boots—they’d been perfect for sparring with Tran, but now—
:They are undoubtedly ruined,: she said acidly.
She sounded so like his aunt, Herald-Mage Savil, that he had to smile. “Won’t be the first pair of boots I’ve ruined, sweetheart,” he replied mildly. His feet were very wet. And very cold. A week ago it wouldn’t have been dew out here; it would have been frost. But Spring was well on the way now; the grass was greening under the dead growth of last year, there were young leaves unfolding on every branch, and a few of the earliest songbirds had begun to invade the garden. Vanyel had been watching and listening to a pair of them, rival male yellowthroats, square off in a duel of melody.
:Probably not the last article of clothing you’ll ruin, either,: she said with resignation. :You’ve come a long way from the vain little peacock I Chose.:
“That vain little peacock you Chose would still have been in bed.” He yawned. “I think he was the more sensible one. This hour of the day is positively unholy.”
The sun was barely above the horizon, and most of the Palace inhabitants were still sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, if not the just. This half-wild garden was the only one within the Palace grounds with its eastern side unblocked by buildings or walls, and the thin, clear sunlight poured across it, making every tender leaf and grass blade glow. Tradition claimed this patch of earth and its maze of hedges and bowers to be the Queen’s Garden—which was the reason for its current state of neglect. There was no Queen in Valdemar now, and the King’s lifebonded had more urgent cares than tending pleasure gardens.
An old man, a gardener by his earth-stained apron, emerged from one of the nearby doors of the Palace and limped up the path toward Vanyel. The Herald stepped to one side to let him pass and gave him a friendly enough nod of greeting, but the old man completely ignored him, muttering something under his breath as he brushed by.
His goal, evidently, was a rosevine-covered shed a few feet away; he vanished inside it for a moment, emerged with a hoe, and began methodically cultivating the nearest flowerbed with it. Van might as well have been a spirit for all the attention the old man gave him.
Vanyel watched him for a moment more, then turned and walked slowly back toward the Palace. “Did it ever occur to you, love,” he said to the empty air, “that you and I and the entire Palace could vanish overnight, and people like that old man would never miss us?”
:Except that we wouldn’t be trampling his flowers anymore,: Yfandes replied. :It was a bad morning, wasn’t it.: A statement, not a question. Yfandes had been present in the back of Vanyel’s mind during the whole Privy Council session.
“One of Randi’s worst yet. That’s why I was taking my frustration out with Tran.” Vanyel kicked at an inoffensive weed growing up through the cobbles of the path. “And Randi’s got some important things to take care of this afternoon. Formal audiences, for one—ambassadorial receptions. I won’t do, not this time. It has to be the King, they’re insisting on it. So
metimes I wish I didn’t have to be so politic, and could knock a few diplomatic heads together. Tashir, bless his generous young heart, handled things a bit better with his lot.”
Another gardener appeared, and looked at Vanyel oddly as he passed. Van suppressed the urge to call him back and explain. He must be new; he’ll learn soon enough about Heralds talking to thin air.
:What did Tashir do with his envoys? I was talking to Ariel’s Darvena while you were dealing with them. You know, I still can’t believe your brother Mekeal produced a child sensitive enough to be Chosen.:
“Neither can I. But then, illogic runs in the family, I guess. As for Tashir; his envoys have been ordered to accept me as the voice of the King—” Vanyel explained. “The trouble’s with the territories he annexed on Lake Evendim. This lot from the Lake District is touchy as hell, and being received by anyone less than Randi is going to be a mortal affront.”
:Where did you pick that tidbit up?:
“Last night. After you decided that stallion from up North had a gorgeous—”
:Nose,: Yfandes interrupted primly. :He had a perfectly lovely nose. And you and Joshe were boring me to tears with your treasury accounts.:
“Poor Joshe.”
He meant that. Less than a year in the office, and trying to do the work of twenty. And wishing with all his soul he was back as somebody’s assistant. And unfortunately, Tran knows less about the position than he does.
:He’s not comfortable as Seneschal.:
“In the black, love. He’s young, and he’s nervous, and he wanted somebody else to go over his figures before he presents them to the Council.” Vanyel sighed. “The gods know Randi can’t. He’ll be lucky to make it through this afternoon.”
:Esten will help. He’ll do anything for Randi.:
“I know that, but—’Fandes, the pain-sharing a Companion can do and the strength a Companion can lend just aren’t enough anymore. And it’s time we all admitted what we know. Randi’s too sick for anything we know to cure—” Vanyel took a deep breath to steady his churning insides. “—and the very best we can hope for is to find some way to ease his pain so he can function when he has to. And hope we can get Treven trained soon in case we can’t.”
:Get Treven trained in time, you mean,: Yfandes replied glumly. :Because we’re running out of it. I hate this, Van. We can’t do anything, the Healers can’t do anything—Randale is just dying by inches, and none of us can do anything about it!:
“Except watch,” Van replied with bitterness. “He gets a little worse every day, and not only can’t we stop it, we don’t even know why! I mean, there are some things not even the Healers can cure, but we don’t even know what this illness that’s killing Randi is—is it inheritable? Could Treven have it, too? Randi didn’t show signs until his mid-twenties, and Trev is only seventeen. We could be facing the same situation we have now in another ten or fifteen years.”
Unbidden thoughts lurked at the back of his mind. A good thing Jisa isn’t in the line of succession, or people would be asking that about her, too. And how could I explain why she’s in no danger without opening a much bigger trouble-box than any of us care to deal with? Especially her. She takes on too much. It’s bad enough just being fifteen and the King’s daughter. To have to deal with the rest of this—thank the gods there are some difficulties I can spare her.
He stared down at the overgrown path as he walked, so deep in thought that Yfandes tactfully withdrew from contact. There were some things, or so she had told him, that even a Companion felt uncomfortable about eavesdropping on.
He walked slowly through the neglected garden. He took the winding path back to the door from the Palace, setting his feet down with exaggerated care, putting off his return to the confines of the building as long as he could. But his troubles had a tendency to pursue him beyond the walls.
“Uncle Van?” a breathless young female voice called from behind him. He heard the ache in the familiar voice, the unshed tears; he turned and opened his arms, and Jisa ran into them.
She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. He knew what brought her out here; the same problems that had driven him out into the unkempt maze of the deserted garden. She’d been with her mother and father all morning, right beside Van, doing what she could to ease Randale’s pain and boost Shavri’s strength.
Van stroked her long, unbound hair, and let her sob into his shoulder. He hadn’t known she was behind him—
Ordinarily that would have worried him. But not since it was Jisa. She was very good at shielding; so good, in fact, that she could render herself invisible to his Othersense. That was no small protection to her—since if she could hide her presence from him, she could certainly hide it from enemies.
Vanyel was tied to every other Herald alive, and was able to sense them whenever he chose, but since Jisa wasn’t a Herald, he wouldn’t “know” where she was unless he was deliberately Looking for her.
Jisa had not yet been Chosen, which Vanyel thought all to the good. To his way of thinking, she didn’t need to be. As an Empath she was getting full Healer’s training, and Van and his aunt Savil were instructing her exactly as they would have a newly-Chosen Herald. If people wondered why the child of two full Heralds wasn’t yet Chosen when every Companion at Haven loved her and treated her as one of their own, let them continue to wonder. Vanyel was one of the few who knew the reason. Jisa hadn’t been Chosen because her Companion would be Taver, and Taver was the Companion to the King’s Own, Jisa’s mother Shavri. So Jisa and Taver would not bond until Shavri was dead.
Not an event anyone cared to rush.
None of them, not Randale, Shavri nor Vanyel, were ready for even the Heraldic Circle to know why she hadn’t been Chosen. Jisa knew—Vanyel had told her—but she seldom said anything about it, and Van didn’t push her. The child had more than enough to cope with as it was.
Being an Empath and living in the household of your dying parent—
It was one thing to know that someone you loved was going to die; to share Randale’s pain as Jisa did must be as bad as any torture Van could think of.
Small wonder she came to Vanyel and cried on his shoulder. The greater wonder was that she didn’t do so more often.
He insinuated a tiny thread of thought into her mind as he stroked her tangled, sable-brown hair. Not to comfort; there was no comfort in this situation. Just something to let her know she wasn’t alone. :I know, sweetling. I know. I’d give my sight to take this from you.:
She turned her red-eyed, tear-smudged face toward his. :Sometimes I think I can’t bear it anymore; I’ll kill something or go mad. Except that there’s nothing to kill, and going mad wouldn’t change anything.:
He smoothed the hair away from her face with both hands, cupped her chin in one hand, and met her hazel eyes with his own. :You are much too practical for me, sweetling. I doubt that either of those considerations would hold me for a second in your place.: He pretended to think for a moment. :I believe, on the whole, I’d choose to go mad. Killing something is so very messy if you want it to be satisfying. And how would I get the blood out of my Whites?:
She giggled a little, diverted. He smiled back at her, and blotted the tears from her eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief he pulled from the cuff of one sleeve. :You’ll manage as you always do, dearest. By taking things one day at a time, and coming to me or Trev when you can’t bear it all on your own shoulders.:
She sniffled, and rubbed her nose with her knuckle. He pulled her hand away with a mock-disapproving frown and handed her his handkerchief.
:Stop that, little girl. I’ve told you a hundred times not to go out without a handkerchief. What will people think, to see the King’s daughter wiping her nose on her sleeve?:
:That she’s a barbarian, I suppose,: Jisa replied, taking it with a sigh.
:I swear, I’ll have your women sew scratchy silver braid
on all your sleeves to keep you from misusing them.: He frowned again, and she smiled.
:Now wouldn’t that be a pretty picture? Sewing silver braid on my clothing would be like putting lace on a horseblanket.: Jisa dressed plainly, as soberly as a priestly novice, except when coerced into something more elaborate by her mother. Take now; she was in an ordinary brown tunic and full homespun breeches that would not have been out-of-place on one of the Holderkin beyond the Karsite Border.
:Jisa, Jisa,: he sighed, and shook his head. Her eyes lit, and her pretty, triangular face became prettier with the mischief behind them. There were times he suspected her of dressing so plainly just to annoy him a little. :Any other girl your age in your position would have a closet full of fine clothing. My mother’s maids dress better than you do!:
Mindspeech with Jisa was easier than talking aloud; she’d been a Mindspeaker since she was six and use of Mindspeech was literally second-nature to her. On the other hand, that made it very difficult to keep things from her. . . .
:Then no one will ever guess you are my father, will they?: she replied impudently. :Perhaps you should be grateful to me, Father-Peacock.:
He tugged a lock of hair. :Mind your manners, girl. I get more than sufficient back-chat from Yfandes; I don’t need it from you. Feeling any better?:
She rubbed her right eye with the back of her hand, ignoring the handkerchief she held in it. :A bit,: she admitted.
:Then why don’t you go find Trev? He’s probably looking for you.: Van chuckled. Everyone who knew them knew that the two had been inseparable from the moment Treven stepped onto the Palace grounds. That pleased most of the Circle and Court—except those young ladies of the Court who cherished an infatuation with the handsome young Herald. Treven was a finely-honed, blond copy of his distant cousin Herald Tantras, one with all of Tran’s defects—not that there were many—corrected. He had half the girls of the Court trailing languidly after him.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 73
