The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Tell the Healers to go chase their shadows,” Medren ordered gruffly. “Horseturds, Stef, you’re exercising a Gift; that takes power, physical energy, and you’re using yours up faster than you can replace it! No wonder you’re tired!”

  “I am?” This was news to Stefen. He’d always just assumed using his Gift was a lot like breathing. You just did it. And he said as much.

  Medren snorted. “Good gods, doesn’t anybody in this place think? I guess not, or the Healers wouldn’t be stretching you to your limits. Or else nobody’s ever figured the Bardic Gift was like any other. I promise you, it is; using your Gift does take energy and you’ve been burning yours up too fast. If the blasted Healers want to study you any more, tell them that. Then tell them that from now on they can just wedge themselves into a corner behind the throne and study you from there. Idiots. Honestly, Stef, Healers can be so damned focused; give them half a chance and they’ll kill you trying to figure out how you’re put together.”

  Stefen laughed, his sense of humor rapidly being restored. “That’s why I was telling myself I was an idiot. I was letting them run me into the ground, but I couldn’t think of a way to get them to stop. They can be damned persuasive, you know.”

  “Oh, I know.” Medren took the other chair and sprawled in it gracelessly. “I know. Heralds are the same way; they don’t seem to think ordinary folks need something besides work, work, and more work. I’ve watched Uncle Van drive himself into the ground a score of times. Once or twice, it’s been me that had to go pound on him and make him rest. And speaking of Uncle Van, that brings me right back to the question I started with: what went wrong? You still haven’t really told me anything. Take it from the beginning.”

  Stefen gave in, and related the whole tale, his frustration increasing with every word. Medren listened carefully, his eyes darkening with thought. “Hmm. I guess—”

  His voice trailed off, and Stef snapped his fingers to get his attention. “You guess what?”

  “I guess he’s gotten really shy,” Medren replied with a shrug. “It’s the only thing I can think of to explain the way he’s acting. That and this obsession he has about not letting anyone get close to him because they’ll become a target.”

  Stefen felt a cold finger of fear run suddenly down his back. “He’s not wrong,” he told his friend solemnly, trying not to think of some of the things he’d seen as a street beggar. How during “wars” between street gangs or thief cadres, it was the lovers and the offspring who became the targets—and the victims—more often than not. And it was pretty evident from the Border news that a war between the nations and a war between gangs had that much in common. “It’s a lot more effective to strike at an emotional target than a physical one.”

  Medren shook his head. “Oh, come on, Stef! You’re in the heart of Valdemar! Who’s going to be able to touch you here? That’s even assuming Van is right, which I’m not willing to grant.”

  “I don’t know,” Stefen replied, still shivering from that odd touch of fear. “I just don’t know.”

  “Then snap out of this mood of yours,” Medren demanded. “Give over, and let’s see if we can’t think of a way to bring Uncle Van to bay.”

  Stefen had to laugh. “You talk about him as if he was some kind of wild animal.”

  Medren grinned. “Well, this is a hunt, isn’t it? You’re either going to have to coax him, or ambush him. Take your pick.”

  At that moment, one of the legion of Healers that had been plaguing Stefen appeared like a green bird of ill-omen in the doorway. “Excuse me, Bard Stefen,” the bearded, swarthy man began, “but—”

  “No,” Stef interrupted.

  The Healer blinked. “What?”

  “I said, ‘no.’ I won’t excuse you.” Stefen stood, and faced the Healer with his hands spread. “Look at me—I look like a shadow. You people have been wearing me to death. I’m tired of it, and I’m not going to do anything more today.”

  The Healer looked incensed. “What do you mean by that?” he snapped, bristling. “What do you mean, we’ve been ‘wearing you to death’? We haven’t been—”

  “I meant just what I said,” Stef said coolly. “I’ve been using a Gift, Healer. That takes energy. And I don’t have any left.”

  Now the Healer did look closely at him, focusing first on the dark rings under his eyes, then looking oddly through him, and the man’s weathered face reflected alarm. “Great good gods,” he said softly. “We never intended—”

  “Probably not, but you’ve been wearing me to a thread.” Stefen sat down again, feigning more weariness than he actually felt. The guilt on the Healer’s face gave him no end of pleasure. “In fact,” he continued, drooping a little, “if you don’t let me alone, I fear I will have nothing for the King. . . .”

  He sighed, and rested his head on the back of the chair as if it had grown too heavy to hold up. Through half-closed eyes he watched the Healer pale and grow agitated.

  “We can’t—I mean, King Randale’s needs come first, of course,” the man stammered. “I’ll speak to—I’ll see that you aren’t disturbed any more today, Bard Stefen—”

  “I don’t know,” Stefen said weakly. “I hope that will be enough, but I’m so tired—”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Medren with his fist shoved into his mouth, strangling on his own laughter.

  “Never mind, Bard,” the Healer said, strangling on his own words. “We’ll do something about all this—I—”

  And with that, he turned and fled. Medren doubled up in silent laughter, and Stefen preened, feeling enormously pleased with himself.

  “I really am tired, you know,” he said with a grin, when Medren began to wheeze. “I honestly am.”

  “Lord and Lady!” the Journeyman gasped. “I know but—good gods, you should go on the stage!” He clasped the back of his hand to his forehead, and swooned theatrically across the back of his chair. “Oh la, good sir, I do believe I shall fai—”

  The pillow caught Medren squarely in the face.

  • • •

  All right, Stefen thought, carefully putting his gittern back in its case. I’ve left you alone except for simple politeness for three days, Herald Vanyel. Let’s see if you respond to being ignored. He began tightening the buckles holding the case closed. I’ve never known anyone yet who could deal with that.

  He suppressed a smile as he caught Vanyel making his way through the crowd, obviously coming in Stef’s direction. Looks like you won’t be the first to be the exception to the rule.

  “Bard Stefen?” Vanyel’s voice was very low, with a note of hesitancy in it.

  Stefen looked up, and smiled. He didn’t have to feign the hint of shyness that crept into the smile; Vanyel still affected him that way. “I can’t get used to that,” he confessed, surprising himself with the words. “People calling me Bard Stefen, I mean. I keep looking around to see who you’re talking to.”

  Vanyel smiled, and Stefen’s throat tightened. “I know what you mean,” he said. “If it hadn’t been that I spent the winter with the Hawkbrothers and had gotten used to wearing white, I would have spent half every morning for the first couple of months trying to figure out whose Whites had gotten into my wardrobe.”

  Do I—no, I don’t think so. Every time I’ve tried to touch him, he’s started to respond, then pulled back. Let’s keep things casual, and see if that works.

  “I sometimes wish I’d never gotten Scarlets,” Stef said, instead of trying to touch Vanyel’s hand. “I never have any time for myself anymore. And I don’t recognize myself anymore when I look in the mirror. I used to know how to have fun. . . .”

  Vanyel relaxed just the tiniest bit, and Stefen felt a surge of satisfaction. Finally, finally, I’m reading him right.

  The crowd was almost gone now; and Stefen wondered fleetingly what business had been transacted this time. He wo
uldn’t know unless someone told him.

  “You did a good day’s work, Bard Stefen,” Vanyel said, as if reading his mind. “Randi was able to judge three inter-family disputes that have been getting worse for the past year or more. I’ll make you an offer, Stefen—if you promise not to get so intoxicated you can’t navigate across the grounds.” Vanyel smiled, teasingly. “We’ll have dinner in my quarters, and you can show me those bar-chords you promised to demonstrate the night you played your fingers to bits.”

  I did? I don’t remember promising that. For a moment Stefen was startled, because he thought he remembered everything about that evening. Then he suppressed a smile. Clever, Herald Vanyel. A nice, innocent excuse. And you might even believe it. Well, I’ll take it.

  “I don’t make a habit of getting falling-down drunk, Herald,” he replied, with a grin to take the sting out of the words. “And since the food is much better at the Palace, I’ll accept that offer.”

  “You mean you’re only interested in the food?” Vanyel laughed. “I suppose my conversation hasn’t much impressed you.”

  He’s a lot more relaxed. I think Medren’s right, I’m either going to have to coax him or ambush him, and in either case I’m going to have to keep things very casual or I’ll scare him off again. Damn. Stefen stood up and slung his gittern case over one shoulder before replying.

  “Actually, I am much more interested in someone who’ll talk to me,” he said. “I’m not exactly the most popular Bard in the Collegium right now.”

  Vanyel grimaced. “Because of being advanced so quickly?”

  Stefen nodded, and picked up his music carrier. “I had only just made Journeyman, and a lot of Bards resent my being jumped up like I was. A lot of the apprentices and Journeymen do, too. I can’t say as I blame them too much, but I’m getting tired of being treated like a leper.”

  He fell into step beside Vanyel, and the two of them left through the side door.

  “At least the Council’s put it about that the whole promotion was at Herald Shavri’s request,” he continued. “That makes it a little more palatable, at least to some of the older ones. And the younger Bards can’t claim I earned it in bed—that’s one blessing, however small.”

  Vanyel raised one eyebrow at that last statement, but didn’t comment. “I got something of the same treatment, though not for too long,” the Herald told him. “Since it was Savil that gave me my Whites, there was an awful lot of suspicion of nepotism, or sympathy because of ’Lendel. . . .”

  The Herald’s expression grew remote and saddened for a moment, then he shook his head. “Well, fortunately, Heralds being what they are, that didn’t last too long. Especially not after Savil got herself hurt, and I cleaned out that nest of hedge-wizards up north. I pretty much proved then and there that I’d earned my Whites.”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to do anything that spectacular,” Stef replied, lightly. “It’s not in the nature of the job for a Bard to do anything particularly constructive.”

  Instead of laughing, the Herald gave Stefen a peculiar, sideways look. “I think you underestimate both yourself and the potential power of your office, Stefen,” he said.

  Stefen laughed. “Oh, come now! You don’t really expect me to agree with that old cliche that music can change the world, do you?”

  “Things usually become cliched precisely because there’s a grain of truth in them,” was the surprising answer. “And—well, never mind. I expect you’re right.”

  They had reached the Herald’s Wing, that bright, wood-paneled extension of the Old Palace. Vanyel’s room was one of the first beyond the double doors that separated the wing from the rest of the Palace. Vanyel held one of the doors open for Stef, then stepped gracefully around him and got the door to his own room open.

  Stefen put his burdens down just inside the door, and arched his back in a stretch. “Brightest Havens—” he groaned. “—I feel as stiff as an old bellows. I bet I even creak.”

  “You’re too young to creak,” Vanyel chuckled, and pulled the bell-rope to summon a servant. “I don’t suppose you play hinds and hounds, do you?”

  Stefen widened his eyes, and assumed a patently false expression of naivete. “Why, no, Herald Vanyel—but I’d love to learn.”

  Vanyel laughed out loud. “Oh, no—you don’t fool me with that old trick! You’ve probably been playing for years.”

  “Since I could talk,” Stef admitted. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “Since I might have done the same to you, I suppose I can’t.” Vanyel gestured at the board set up on the table. “Red or white?”

  “Red,” Stef replied happily. “And since you’re the strategist, you can spot me a courser.”

  • • •

  Stefen moved his gaze-hound into what he thought was a secure position, and watched with dismay as Vanyel captured it with a lowly courser. Then, to add insult to injury, the Herald maneuvered that same courser into the promotion square and exchanged it for a year-stag.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed, seeing his pack in imminent danger of being driven off, and taking steps to retrench his forces. The “hind” side of hounds and hinds was supposed to be the weaker, which was why the better player took it. It was usually considered a good game if the play ended in stalemate.

  Vanyel beat him about half the time.

  It looked as though this game was going to end in defeat too. Three moves later, and Stef surveyed the board in amazement, unable to see any way out. Vanyel’s herd had trapped his pack, and there was no way out.

  “I yield,” he conceded. “I don’t know how you do it. You always take the hinds, and I can count the number of times I’ve won on one hand.”

  Vanyel replaced the carved pieces in their box with thoughtful care. “I have a distinct advantage,” he said, after a long pause. “Until Randi got so sick that Shavri was spending all her time keeping him going, I helped guard the Karsite Border. I have a lot of experience in taking on situations with unfavorable odds.”

  “Ah,” Stef replied, unable to think of anything else to say. He watched Vanyel’s hands, admiring their strength and grace, and tried not to think about how much he wanted those hands to be touching something other than game pieces.

  Ever since he’d stopped pursuing Van and started keeping things strictly on the level of “friendship,” he’d found himself spending most evenings with the Herald. He was learning an enormous amount, and not just about hinds and hounds. Economics, politics, the things Vanyel had experienced over the years—it was fascinating, if frustrating. Being so near Vanyel, and yet not daring to court him, overtly or otherwise—Stef had never dreamed he possessed such patience.

  This was an entirely new experience, wanting someone and being unable to gratify that desire.

  It was a nerve-wracking experience, yet it was not completely unpleasant. He was coming to know Vanyel, the real Vanyel, far better than anyone else except Herald Savil. That was not a suspicion; he’d had the fact confirmed more than once, by letting some tidbit of information slip in conversations with Medren. And Medren would give him a startled look that told Stefen that once again, he’d been told something Vanyel had never confided to anyone else.

  He knew Van better than he’d ever known any lover. And for all this knowledge, the Herald was still a mystery. He was no closer to grasping what music Vanyel moved to than he had been when this all began.

  Which made him think of something else to say after all.

  “Van?” he ventured. “You hated it out there—but you sound as if you wish you were back on the Border.”

  Vanyel turned those silver eyes on him and stared at him for a moment. “I suppose I did,” he said, finally. “I suppose in a way I do. Partially because it would mean that Randi was in good enough health that Shavri could take her own duties up again—”

  Stef shook his head. “There was mo
re to it than that. It sounded like you wanted to be out there.”

  Vanyel looked away, and put the last of the pieces in their padded niches. “Well, it’s rather hard to explain. It’s miserable out there on the lines, you’re constantly hungry, wet, cold, afraid, in danger—but I was doing some good.”

  “You’re doing good here,” Stefen pointed out.

  Vanyel shook his head. “It’s not the same. Any reasonably adept diplomat could do what I’m doing now. Any combination of Heralds could supply the same talents and Gifts. The only reason it’s me is Randi’s need and Randi’s whims. I keep having the feeling that I could be doing a lot more good if I was elsewhere.”

  Stefen sprawled back in his chair, studying the Herald carefully. “I don’t understand it,” he said at last. “I don’t understand you Heralds at all. You’re constantly putting yourselves in danger, and for what? For the sake of people who don’t even know you’re doing it, much less that you’re doing it for them, and who couldn’t point you out in a crowd if their lives depended on it. Why, Van?”

  That earned him another strange stare from the Herald, one that went on so long that Stef began to think he’d really said something wrong this time. “Van—what’s the matter? Did I—”

  Vanyel seemed to come out of a kind of trance, and blinked at him. “No, it’s quite all right, Stef. It’s just—this is like an echo from the past. I remember having exactly this same conversation with ’Lendel—except it was me asking ‘Why?’ and him trying to tell me the reasons.” Vanyel looked off at some vague point over Stefen’s head. “I didn’t understand his reasons then, and you probably won’t understand mine now, but I’ll try to explain. It has to do with a duty to myself as much as anything else. I have these abilities. Most other people don’t. I have a duty to use them, because I have a duty to myself to be the kind of person I would want to have as a—a friend. If I don’t use my abilities, I’m not only failing people who depend on me, I’m failing myself. Am I making sense?”