Jervis froze.
“Before I am anything else, armsmaster, I am Herald Vanyel, and my first priority is to my king and land. If I judge this boy is a danger to either, I will give him into Randale's custody. Not mine, armsmaster. But I must, and will have answers, and I will not permit anyone to even attempt preventing me from finding those answers.”
Vanyel rose stiffly from his stool, pivoted, and stalked towards the door.
He hadn't taken more than a few steps, when Jervis' strangled, half-smothered “wait” stopped him in his tracks.
“Why?” he asked, not turning.
“Because - I - we gotta figger out this thing.” Jervis cleared his throat. “All of us.”
Vanyel turned back, still angry, but suppressing it. “Very well. If we're going to figure this mess out, you'll have to take my word as being at least as good as the boy's.”
Jervis plainly didn't like that, but only protested, “How in hell can we take two stories that're that different?”
“Look at the one that fits the symptoms,” Vanyel's voice was grim, and his face felt tight. “He's afraid to let women between the ages of eighteen and forty even touch him - assume the story he told you is true - Ylyna alternately beating him and loving him, and then trying to seduce him -”
He wiped his forehead, and his hand came away wet with nervous sweat.
“Gods. Think about how Treesa treats every attractive male, including me. She comes on to every man like a flirt. It's only a game to her, but think how that must have looked to Tashir - the way he'd react. Given my version is true, you could predict he'd do just what he did - panic, and let his Gift act up and frighten her off - just as I was told he did with his mother. Think about how he hides from Withen! And think about the way he clings to you, Jervis! Everything makes sense.”
Jervis faltered. “Well, yes, but -”
“And everything points straight at Tashir as the unconscious murderer,” Vanyel continued, heartsick.
“Now that I will not believe!” Jervis shouted, surging to his feet. “That boy is no kind of a killer! Hell, he damn near castrated himself in practice yesterday, pulling a cut when Medren lost his helm!''
“Who else could it be?” Vanyel shouted back, overriding Jervis' protests by sheer volume. “He had the power, he was at the scene, and he had the motive! There's nobody, nobody, with any kind of a motive except Tashir!''
“No!” Jervis insisted, eyes going black with anger. “No, I won't accept that! Look how he kept from hurting anybody in Treesa's bower.”
“But crazed with fear, wild with anger, can you speak for that?”
“Even crazed - how could he kill that Karis? He loved that old man, he must have, to trust me so much just because I look like him!”
Vanyel sat heavily back down onto the stool. “I don't know,” he admitted in a low voice. “That's only one of the things that's been bothering me. In all of the cases of Gifts gone rogue that I've ever heard of, the rogue never hurts anyone but the ones directly in his way. Everybody was killed in this case, and that doesn't make sense. It might make sense if he panicked completely and thought he was killing witnesses, but he didn't have enough time to reason something like that out, not from all I learned. And from what I know of his personality - no. I can't see him killing in cold blood even to save himself.” He rubbed his pounding temples with his fists. Fits of anger always gave him a headache. “The first half of the story fits, but the second doesn't. I just can't reconcile the two.”
“There're other questions,” Savil pointed out from her seat on the cot. Vanyel looked at her in surprise; he'd forgotten she was there. “Lots of other questions. Some of them may tie in, others may not, but the fact is there's too many of them. Lord Vedric's behavior is certainly peculiar. It doesn't in the least match what I've heard of him. Either the man has reformed, or he's up to something. Then there's the puzzle of the Remoerdises, the Linean Royal Family. Why did Deveran insist that only those related to his family serve in the palace? Why is the place built on top of a damned mage-node? Why are the Lineans so completely against mage-craft?”
Vanyel shook his head. “You think those questions are crucial?”
“Don't you?” She stood, and smoothed down the front of her tunic. “You know damned well they are, or you wouldn't have brought them up. I tend to agree with Jervis; Tashir is no killer. I agree with you that your tale of how the boy was treated fits his behavior a lot better than the one he told Jervis. And there is something we're missing. Something important. I think we ought to all think about it.”
“What about that tale he's been feeding Jervis?” Vanyel asked.
“I think whoever runs into him next ought to call him on it - no, let me amend that. Whichever of the two of us, Van. Jervis, I'm sorry, but if it comes to magic, you're defenseless. I'm pretty certain Van and I could contain the worst of anything he could do.”
“The boy wouldn't hurt anybody, and especially not me,” he insisted stubbornly. “I know it, damn it, I just know it!”
“Forgive me, but I'd rather not take the chance,” Savil said dryly. “I hate picking up my acquaintances in palm-sized pieces. We've eaten this particular bird down to bones; let's let things simmer for a bit, and let's do something about dinner.”
“Gods.” Vanyel slid off the stool, held out his hands and watched them shake with a certain bemusement. “I just ate, and after this to-do, my stomach should be in knots. Instead, I could eat a cow.”
“Don't fill up,” Savil cautioned him, as they left Jervis mulling over the unpleasant things he'd heard. “There's Harvestfest tonight.”
“What?” He looked at her, bewildered. “Harvest - can't be - oh, gods -”
He counted up the passing days in his mind, and when he arrived at today, he could feel the blood draining out of his face. “Oh, gods. It's Sovvan. I lost track of time...” He stopped dead in the path, legs gone leaden, mind gone numb. Sovvan-night. Year's turning.
The night Tylendel had died.
Coming on top of all the rest of it - exhaustion, confusion, the verbal fight with Jervis -
It was too much. What little emotional balance he had left evaporated so quickly that he felt dizzy, as if he was dangling over a precipice.
His internal turmoil must have been mirrored clearly on his face. Savil moved closer to him, brows knitting in concern. “Van-ke 'chara-let it go. You aren't helping yourself by brooding.'' She put her arm around his shoulders. “Go down to the barns with the others. I'm going to -“
He scarcely felt it. All he could see was -
- a crumpled, lifeless shape.
He clamped an iron control down over his face. “That's not something I can do,” he replied stiffly. “I can't forget, especially not tonight. I won't ever forget...”
“Then, for the gods' sake, for your own sake, find something to distract you-music, dancing -”
“No, Savil.” He pulled away from her, and forced himself to walk steadily toward the keep. “You deal with grief your way, and leave me to deal with it in mine.”
“But - “
He shook his head stubbornly, unwilling to say more, and not sure that he could. Forget 'Lendel? How can I forget-how can I ever forget?
Oh, 'Lendel -
There was only one place where he could escape the sounds of celebration; the stone porch on the north side of the keep. All other interests had vanished when he realized what night it was; now all he wanted was solitude.
The lingering warmth of this fall had fooled him, usually. Sovvan-tide was marked by ice-edged rains and bitter winds.
Like the storm that night -
Usually he tried to find something useful to do - like stand guard-duty, or spell someone at courier, or even take the place of one of the Guardians watching the Web. Anything, so long as it was work, and didn't involve interacting with people, only serving them.
He'd completely forgotten that he'd be spending Sovvan here, in presumed idleness; leisure that would only
give him the opportunity to remember how utterly alone he was.
It hadn't been this bad the first few years; in the first two, in fact, there had been moments when he thought he'd felt that treasured and familiar presence waiting, watching. But as the years passed - and it became clear that he was and would always be alone, Sovvan-night had become an occasion for profound depression unless he was very careful not to give in to it. This Sovvan-night bid fair to be an ordeal; he was too exhausted, and too shaken, to put up any kind of fight against himself.
He watched the sun die in glory; watched the stars come out, flowering against the velvet sky. He closed his eyes when the sparks of white began to waver in his vision, and struggled anyway in a losing battle against self-pity and heartache. I've wept enough; tears won't ease this, they'II only make it worse. I wish I was being Valdir. I wish I was back at Haven.
He thought briefly of Yfandes, and rejected the notion of going to her. She couldn't help him, much as he loved her. Her presence would only serve as a reminder of how much he had lost to gain her.
I need something to keep me occupied. Savil was right about that. Something that will take concentration.
There was only one task he knew that could possibly fill all his thoughts, take all his attention. Magic. I’ll build some illusions, good, tight ones. I can use the practice. I need the practice.
He perched on the edge of one of the stone benches, the gritty granite warm from the sun it had absorbed this afternoon, and concentrated on a point just in front of him. People, they're hardest. Starwind. He's vivid enough.
He closed his eyes, and centered.
It took very little to cast an illusion, just a wisp of power, and he didn't even need to take it from his reserves. The ambient energy around him was enough. He visualized a vibrant column of light growing in the air in front of him, then began forming the shapeless energy into an image, building it carefully from the feet up. Green leather boots, silky green breeches, and sleeveless tunic, all molding to a tall, slender, wiry body. Implicit strength, not blatant. Waist-length silver hair, four braids in the front, the rest falling free down his back, a cascade of ice-threads. Golden skin. Then the face: pointed chin, high cheekbones, silver - blue eyes with a wisdom and humor lurking in them that could not be denied, and a smile just hovering at the edge of the thin lips.
He opened his eyes - and before him stood the Tayledras Healer-Adept Starwind k'Treva.
For one moment he had it; perfect in every detail.
Then the hair shortened and darkened to curly blond, the face squared, and the eyes began warming and darkening to a soft and gentle brown.
His heart contracted, and he banished the illusion and began another, quickly: Savil. This one started to go wrong from the very beginning, and with a gasp of pain, he wiped it out and started on a third. Not even a human this time - one of the little lizards that served the Tayledras, the hertasi.
But the hertasi began growing taller, and developed blond hair.
“Oh, gods -” He banished the third illusion, and buried his face in his hands, shaking in every limb and battling against grief.
This - this is the worst Sovvan I've ever had, he thought, feeling sorrow tearing at his chest until it hurt to breathe. It's the worst since you died. Oh, 'Lendel, ashke, I can't bear it, and I have no choice! I'm so tired, so very tired-my balance is gone. And, to know it's going to go on like this, year after year, alone...
I don't know how to cope anymore. I don't know how anyone can be this lonely and still be sane. . . . I don't even know how sure I am of myself. I thought you were the only person I could ever love, but this business with Shavri has me all turned 'round about. And Tashir - I came so close to giving in to temptation with him...
All I am certain of is that I need you as much as I ever did. And I'd give anything to have you back.
He bit his lip and tasted the sweet-salt of blood; took his hands away from his face, and willed his eyes open. Nightshadows of leafless trees moved ebony against charcoal; the last frost had killed the insects, and the birds had mostly flown south by now. There was no sign of anything alive out there; just barren shadows dark as his soul, as empty as his heart.
A wisp of glow drifted in the air in front of him, and he gave in to his anguish, to the perverse need to probe at his heartache.
To hell with it - how can I hurt any more than I do now? And everything I try turns to 'Lendel. Not Shavri - which ought to have told me who I love more.
Once again he closed his eyes and began to build a new illusion, one formed with passionate care, and at a level of detail only love could have discerned in the original. The way that one lock of gold-brown sunstreaked hair used to fall - just touching the eyebrow. The depth of the clear, brown eyes, sometimes sable, sometimes golden, but so bottomless you could lose yourself in them. The square chin, so - high cheekbones, so - the generous mouth, so ready to smile or laugh, the strong pillar of the neck. Shoulders ready to take the weight of the world's troubles. Body of a fighter or a dancer; gentle hands of a healer - It didn't take long, now that he was no longer fighting with himself.
Oh, Tylendel -
Vanyel looked up to see his handiwork, and sobbed, once, reaching out involuntarily to touch empty air.
The illusion was nothing less than heartbreakingly perfect. The Tylendel of the joyous days of their one summer together stood before him, so alive Vanyel fancied he could see him breathing, that in a moment he would speak.
And I could do that, too; I could make him breathe and talk to me. No, I couldn't bear that. It's hollow enough as it is. Oh, gods, why? 'Lendel -
Someone gasped behind him, and as he started and lost control of it, the illusion shattered, exploded outward into a hundred thousand glittering little bits that rained down and vanished, melting away before they touched the pale stone of the porch. Vanyel whipped around to see a dark and indistinct shape beside the black hole of the door.
“Who's there?” he snapped, hastily wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “What do you want?”
“I-it's Tashir.” The young man came toward him hesitantly. “Medren told me you were back. I wondered where you were. Where you've been.”
Depression abruptly became anger at being disturbed, and the desire to hurt fountained in him. He wanted someone, anyone, any creature at all, to suffer inside as much as he did at this moment. He knew it was base; knew that Tashir would be an easy target, and that he could hurt him. He hated the desire even as he felt it, and it sickened him as much as he wanted it. He fought it down, but the anger remained, red and sullen. This young man, for whom Vanyel had been risking his life, had been undermining everything he'd built here. It wasn't just that Tashir had been lying; it was that what he had told Jervis had come close to destroying the fragile beginnings of friendship that had cost both of them so much pain and soul-searching to create, had set them at each other's throats like enemies, and had left them, once again, uneasy and grudging allies at best.
“I've been finding out the truth,” he said softly. “While you seem to have been busy trying to hide it.” The anger blossomed, and he briefly lost control over it, just long enough that he growled a single sentence.
“Why did you lie to Jervis?”
“I didn't!” Tashir's voice cracked as Vanyel rose and walked toward him, one hand flaring with mage-light. The blue light reflected off Tashir's face, revealing the youngster's surprise and growing fear. The young man's eyes widened, his expression froze, and he backed away from the Herald step by forced step. He didn't stop until his thighs hit the stone railing and Vanyel had him backed into a corner with nowhere to go.
“You did,” Vanyel whispered. “All those stories you told him about your perfect, loving family - that's all they were, stories. Lies. I've been in Highjorune, Tashir. I spent the last fortnight there, talking to people. One of them was your mother's maid, Reta.”
The branches of the bushes nearest Tashir began to thrash as if tossed by a wind, thoug
h not a breath of air stirred anywhere else. Vanyel didn't have to see them to know that the young man had unleashed his Gift in panic. He let it go for a moment, waiting to see how violent Tashir would become. Fallen leaves whirled up in a mad dance to engulf both of them, beating at Vanyel ineffectually. But with nothing more at hand to work with than leaves, the attack wasn't even a distraction. Vanyel savagely clamped down on the young man with a shield not even an Adept could have cracked, and the leaves drifted back down to the ground and the porch.
Tashir cowered against the stone railing, averting his eyes as the mage-light on Vanyel's hand flared. Perversely, the display of subservience only made him angrier. He fought down his temper and got himself back under control, managing at last to gaze down upon the youngster with his anger held in check.
“Well, Tashir?” Vanyel whispered tonelessly. “Are we ready to hear a little truth now?”
“A-about wh-what?” Tashir croaked.
Vanyel formed the light into a ball and sent it to hover just over his head with a flick of his wrist. He folded his arms, and compressed his lips, forcing his anger to cool a little more.
I'll invoke Truth Spell on him. Then at least I'll bloody well know when he's lying.
“I think,” he said, finally, “that we can start with your father.”
He called up the vrondi, and when it surrounded him with faint blue light, Tashir's pale face stood out with sharp-edged distinctness against the night-dark shadows behind him. Word by agonized word, he dragged a story out of Tashir that was virtually identical to the one that Reta had told him. Three times more, whenever Vanyel dealt with the subject of his mother, the boy unconsciously attempted to evoke his Gift; he failed to break the shield Vanyel still held on him each time. Vanyel noted with a smoldering, sullen calm that while Tashir did freeze physically when this happened, he was quite conscious, if not in conscious control of what he was doing.
Finally Vanyel decided to force the issue - to deliberately evoke the same state of mind the younger man must have been in on that fatal night.
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