So he thanked Treven - to Stefen's quite open relief - and returned across the crusted snow to the warmth and light of the Herald's Wing.
He was at the door, when Yfandes Mindtouched him. :Van,: she said, sounding troubled. :We've found Kilchas' Companion, Rohan. He's dead. He was off in the far Western comer of the Field.:
:And?: he prompted her.
:And I don't like it. There's no sign of anything wrong, but I don't like it. We just don't - fall over like that. Unless we die in battle or by accident, we're Called, and we generally have time to say good-bye to our friends before we go. :
:Could the shock of his Chosen dying like that have killed Rohan?: Van asked.
: May be,: she replied reluctantly. Most of the others think that's what did it.:
:But you're not convinced.: It was kind of comforting that she shared his doubts.
:I'm not convinced. It doesn't feel right. I can't pinpoint why, but it doesn't.:
“Van, are you going to stand there all night?” Stef asked, holding the door open and shivering visibly.
“Sorry, ashke,” Vanyel said giving himself a little mental kick. “I was talking to 'Fandes. The others found Kilchas' Companion. Dead. She says it doesn't feel right to her.”
The heat of the corridor hit him and made him want to lie down right then and there. He fought the urge and the attendant weakness. Stefen looked at him with puzzlement. “I thought that Companions never outlived their Chosen,” he said. “And vice versa. So what's wrong?”
“ 'Fandes just doesn't like the way it seems to have happened - Rohan was off by himself in the farthest corner of the Field, and none of the others knew he was gone until they found him.”
Stefen looked disturbed. “That's not the way things are supposed to happen,” he replied slowly. “At least not the way I understand them. I think you're both right. There's at least something odd about this.”
Van reached the door of his room first, and held it open for the Bard. “It may just be the new Web-spell,” he said as he closed the door behind them, took off his cloak, and flung it into a chair. “It's supposed to bind us all together; some of that may be spilling over in unexpected ways, like onto our Companions.”
Stefen draped his own cloak on top of Vanyel's. “Here,” he offered. “Let me help you out of that tunic and go lie down; we can talk about this while I give you a better massage than the one that was interrupted. I'll play opposition, and try to find logical explanations for everything you find wrong.”
“Stef, I'm absolutely exhausted,” Vanyel warned, unlacing his tunic and allowing Stef to pull it off. “If you really get me relaxed, I'll probably fall asleep in the middle of it. And once I do, you wouldn't be able to wake me with an earthquake.”
“If that's what you need, then that's what you should do,” the Bard replied, pushing him a little so that he sat down - or rather, collapsed - onto the bed. “Meanwhile, let me get the knots out of you while we talk about this. Why don't you pull 'Fandes into this, too? If she's worried, you probably should, anyway, and she may find holes in my arguments.”
:'Fandes?: Van called
:Here-:
:Want to listen in on this? We're going to try and see if I'm just overreacting to Kilchas' death because of exhaustion.:
:Neatly put, and that could be my problem, too. Go ahead. I'll be listening.: She sounded relieved.
Vanyel yielded to Stefs wishes, and sprawled facedown on the bed. Stefen straddled him and reached into the top drawer of the little bedside table.
“What-” Vanyel began, turning his head to look; then when Stefen pulled out a little bottle of what was obviously scented oil, asked in surprise, “How did that get in there?”
“I put it there,” Stef said shortly. “Get your head back down and relax.” In a few moments, his warm hands were slowly working their way upward along Van's spine, starting from the small of his back. Vanyel sighed, and gave himself up to it.
“Now, what doesn't fit in the way Kilchas died?” Stef asked. “And don't you start tensing up on me. You can think and stay relaxed.”
“Kilchas has a little enclosure up there,” Van said, thinking things through, slowly. “The roof is glass. If he doesn't want to, he doesn't have to go out in the cold. I can't see why he would have been outside, and he certainly wasn't dressed for the cold.”
“What if the glass was covered with snow or ice?” Stef countered. “It probably was, you know.”
:I agree,: Yfandes said reluctantly. :Everything else was.:
“Good point. But why was he wearing slippers, rather than boots?”
Stefen rolled his knuckles along either side of Vanyel's spine while he thought. “Because he didn't know the glass was going to be iced over until he'd already climbed the stairs to the roof, and it was too far for him to climb down and back up again just for his boots. He was an old man, after all, and his quarters are down here on the ground floor.”
Van gasped as Stef hit a particularly sore spot. “All right, I can accept that, too. But he's had that observatory for years. He always knows - knew - exactly where he is up there. Why should he suddenly misstep now?”
“Because he didn't,” Stef answered immediately. “He was doing something he'd never had to do before. He was cleaning the glass on the roof of his little shelter, trying to chip the ice off. He lost his balance, or he slipped.”
:That sounds just like Kilchas. Stubborn old goat.:
Vanyel tried not to tense as Stef hit another bad knot and began working it out. “Why not get a servant to do it?” he asked.
“No time?” Stef hazarded, as the fire in the fireplace cracked and popped. “This thing he was going to be watching-it would have been about to happen, and he figured if he had to find a servant, then wait for him to do the job, he'd miss part of what he wanted to see. Either that, or he was sure a servant wouldn't do it right. Or both.”
:That sounds like Kilchas, too,:
The air filled with the gentle scent of sendlewood. Vanyel felt sleep trying to overcome him and fought it off. “If he just fell -” he said, slowly, “Why, when I felt him die, did I only feel pain? Why didn't I feel him fall?”
“I don't know,” Stef said, pausing with his hand just over Van's shoulderblades. “I don't know how these Gifts of yours are supposed to work. But Kilchas was an old man, Van. What if he was already dead when he fell? What if his heart gave out on him? That's pretty painful, I guess. And if his heart suddenly gave out, couldn't that cause his Companion's to do the same? Maybe that's why he was found the way he was.”
Vanyel closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to try to find something wrong with what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary situation.
“You're probably right,” he said, :'Fandes, do you agree?:
:Quite reasonable,: she said, wearily. :That's very typical of heart-failure; the shock goes straight to us, too. And Kilchas' Rohan was as old as he was. That's a much more logical explanation than foul play - it's just that so few of you live long enough these days for your hearts to fail that I forgot that. I think we may be overreacting because we're tired and we're so used to treachery and ambush that we ignore other answers, love.:
“ 'Fandes agrees with you -” he began; the Stef started something that had nothing to do with a therapeutic massage, and he murmured a little exclamation of surprise.
“Have we disposed of the topic, ashke?” Stef asked, breathing the words into his ear, his chest pressed against Vanyel's back.
:I think,: Yfandes said tactfully, :that it's time for me to get some sleep. Good night, dearheart,:
:Good night, love,: he replied - then his attention was taken elsewhere.
And it was quite a while before either he or Stefen actually slept.
Fifteen
Vanyel forgot all about his misgivings in the weeks that followed. His time was devoured by Council meetings, Audience sessions where he and Treven stood as proxies for Randale, and long-distance spellcasting. Desperation at being u
nable to be two places at once had led him to discover that he could work magic through a Herald without the Mage-Gift, provided that the Herald in question was both a Thoughtsenser and carried Mage-Gift in potential. He immersed himself in the nodes so often he began to feel very much akin to the Tayledras.
He often returned to his room at night long past the hour when sane folk retired. When he did so, he found Stef invariably curled up sleepily next to the fire, light from the flames making a red glow in his hair, for he refused to take his own rest until Van returned. The Bard's patient care was the one constant in his life besides Yfandes, and as fall deepened into winter, he came to rely more and more on both of them, just to keep a hold on sanity and optimism in a world increasingly devoid of both.
Karse had declared holy war on the “evil mages of Valdemar,” though as yet they had done nothing about it. The agents both the Lord Marshal and the Seneschal had in place reported that the Prophet-King (as he styled himself) had his hands full with rooting out “heresy” in his own land. But no one was under any delusions; the consensus was that as soon as the followers of the Sun Lord needed an outside enemy to unify what was left of the populace, there would be an army of fanatics hammering the Southern Border.
That would only add to the bandits who had taken over the buffer zone between the two countries, motley bands of brigands who had escaped or been turned loose during the revolution, those who had been accused of magery and fled their homes but had declined to cross the Border, and opportunists who preyed on both sides.
“At least there won't be any mages in the Prophet's pay,” the Seneschal said, as they all leaned over the maps and tried to find weak points in their defenses.
“Maybe,” the Archpriest replied dubiously. His tour of the south had garnered mixed results. On the whole he was happy with the outcome, for his presence had kept any overt activities to a minimum. The net result, however, was that there were no enclaves of the Sun Lord in Valdemar any more. Roughly half of the devotees had been so revolted by the Father-House's actions that they had converted to some other way. The rest had decamped across the Border to Karse, to join their fellows. The holdings themselves had gone to those who had remained behind, thus staying in the hands of those who had remained loyal to Valdemar.
Supposedly loyal, at any rate. Both the Seneschal and the Archpriest were keeping a wary eye on them in case some of these “conversions” were intended as a ruse, to cover later subversion. That there were spies planted in the midst of these enclaves was a given.
“What do you mean, 'maybe'?” asked the Seneschal, hand poised above a marker representing a Guard detachment.
“What's the difference between a miracle and a magic spell?” the Archpriest asked, looking from Arved to Van and back again.
“A miracle comes from the gods; magic comes from a mage,” the Seneschal replied impatiently.
“That's purely subjective,” the Archpriest pointed out. “To the layman, there is no discernible difference. The Prophet can easily have mages within his own ranks, claim their powers are from the Sun Lord, and be completely within strict doctrinal boundaries.”
“Damn. You're right,” the Lord Marshal said softly. “I wonder how many he does have?”
“There's no way of knowing,” Vanyel replied, as they all turned to look at him. “I don't think he has anyone a Herald couldn't counter, though. My operatives aren't reporting any 'miracles' other than Healing and the odd illusion, not even when the Prophet's Children are trying to capture mages. The powerful mages in the pay and employ of the Karsite Crown were all known as such, and have either been killed or fled the country. That's not to say that the Mage-Gifted won't end up in the Sun Lord's priesthood in the future; I'd virtually guarantee that, but they won't get effective training, because there won't be anyone experienced enough to train them thoroughly, and they probably won't be permitted to use their Gift combatively.”
“Why not?” the Archpriest asked.
Van smiled thinly, and fingered a marker representing an agent. “Because if they learn what they can do, what's to stop them from declaring themselves the chosen of the God and doing exactly what the Prophet did?”
“Only with more success, because they have 'miracles' to prove their power,” the Archpriest mused, his eyes half-closed. “Interesting speculation. It's fortunate that you are on our side, Vanyel.”
Van bowed with intended irony. “A Herald tends to be altogether too well acquainted with the ways of treachery for anyone's comfort, including his own, my lord,” he said. “One could say that it is part of the job.”
“To know, and not use?” The Archpriest's smile was genuine and his eyes warmed with it. “I am aware of that, my son. I think that most of you would have been comfortable within the ranks of the clergy had there been no Companions to Choose you.”
“Most?” Vanyel chuckled, knowing the Archpriest was blissfully unaware of his relationship with Stefen. “Some, maybe, but I assure you, my lord, not all. By no means all. We are far too worldly for most orders to ever accept us!”
He would have said more, but suddenly -
His eyes burned. A giant hand closed itself around his chest, as his lungs caught fire. He tried to breathe, and only increased the pain. His heart spasmed; once, twice-then exploded.
He found himself sprawled facedown over the table, the rest of the Councillors, his father among them, frantically trying to revive him. He stared at the lines of the map just under his nose, unable to remember what they were.
“Vanyel!”
He was very cold, and his chest hurt.
“Turn him over you fools, he can't breathe!”
He blinked as the shadows danced around him, trying to recall exactly where-and who-he was.
:Van?: Yfandes said weakly, making a confusion of voices inside his head and out. :Are you all right?:
“What's wrong? What happened? Has he ever had a spell like this before?”
He stirred, dazed, the map-paper under him crackling. The Council meeting. I was in the Council meeting. :Van?: A little more urgent. :'Fandes. Give me a moment. . . .: “What -” he gasped. He tried to push himself away from the table, but his arms were too weak and trembling, and he was too dazed to even think of what to do. Someone - two someones-grabbed his arms, one on either side, and pulled him up. Trev and Joshel; they lowered him into a chair.
Just as the Death Bell began tolling. Lissandra - He knew it, even as the other two looked at each other over his head and spoke the name simultaneously.
“You go,” Treven told Joshel. “Find out what happened.” He shook Vanyel's shoulder gently. “Is that what you Felt? Is that what happened to you just now?”
Vanyel nodded, and schooled himself to reply. “I - yes. Something very painful, very sudden. Like what happened with Kilchas, only worse.” He shuddered. “I don't understand - why am I Feeling them die? Why is this happening to me, and no one else?”
“Maybe because you set the spell,” Treven hazarded. “The rest of us know what happens after the fact, but you feel it at the time. Or maybe it's happening just because the two of them were in the original Web with you. Or because they're close by physically. We haven't had any Herald deaths at Haven but Kilchas and Lissandra.”
“I suppose. . . .” He put his head down on his knees, still dizzy. “A lot of good I'm going to be if I black out every time a Herald dies.” He was still in too much quasi-physical pain and too much in shock to feel the emotional impact of the other Herald-Mage's death. :'Fandes? What about her Companion?: :We're looking,: Yfandes said shortly. :Shonsea dropped out of our minds just as you Felt Lissandra die. Are you going to be all right?: :I think so-I-: :We found her,: Yfandes interrupted. :The northern end of the Field. It looks as though she was running, and fell and broke her neck.:
Vanyel sighed and closed his eyes. :If she felt what I did, I'm not surprised it came as enough of a shock to make her fall. Something horrendous happened, whatever it was.:
His head
throbbed with aftershock, and it was increasingly hard to think. He raised his head with an effort when Joshel came back into the Council Chamber, coughing.
“It looks like she had an accident with her alchemical apparatus,” Joshe said. “When we got to her chamber, it was full of fumes of some kind. We had to open a window to clear them out. Look -”
He held up a glass jar; it was frosted on the outside.
“That's what those fumes did closest to the spill; ate into things. We found a container of some kind over a small firepot had broken. That was where the fumes were coming from. All we can guess is that it cracked and spilled the stuff into the fire, and Lissandra breathed in a fatal dose before she could get the window open.”
“It Felt like my lungs were on fire,” Vanyel said. “I couldn't breathe, and my eyes were burning.”
“She might not even have been able to see to get the window open,” Joshe continued. “As corrosive as those fumes were, she must have been nearly blind. We found her halfway between her workbench and the door.”
Lissandra should have known better than to work with something that dangerous in her chamber, Vanyel thought vaguely. What on earth possessed her to do such a thing? The still-room at Healer's Collegium has adequate ventilation against accidents, and she hasn't got any secrets from the Healers. . . .
But his head was pounding, and he couldn't seem to get any further than that.
“I need to get something for my head,” he said thickly, getting to his feet. Treven looked at him in concern.
“This hit you awfully hard,” he said. “I know you've been overworking. Do you want to take this session up later?”
He shook his head. “No,” he replied. “We haven't the time to spare. You have Audiences right after this, then Randi has a private Audience session with the Rethwellan ambassador. I'll be all right.”
Treven smiled weakly. “You always are,” he said with gratitude. “I don't know what we'd do without you.”
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