With any luck, this whole trip may end up with Stef doing just that - learning his limits. Especially after he meets Mother and Father. Chasing me is one thing, but trying to do so around them - and having to play little politeness games with them - He chuckled to himself, and Yfandes cocked an ear back at him. Oh, Stef, I think you may have met your match. “Many's the marriage that's been canceled on account of relatives.” This might be exactly what's needed to make him realize that he's been throwing himself at a legend, not a ftesh-and-blood human. And when he sees that this human comes with a package of crazed relations, I won't seem anywhere near as attractive!
They rode into Forst Reach in the late afternoon of the one day that hadn't been completely perfect. Clouds had begun gathering in late morning, and by mid-afternoon the sky was completely gray and thunder rolled faintly in the far south. Fanners were working with one eye on the sky, and Stefen's filly fidgeted skittishly, her ears flicking back and forth every time a peal of thunder made the air shudder.
Nevertheless, there was the usual child out watching the road for them, and by the time they came within sight of the buildings of Forst Reach the multitude had assembled. Withen Ashkevron had given in to fate, and begun adding to the building some ten years ago; now two new wings spread out from the gray granite hulk, sprawling untidily to the east and north. And scaffolding on the southern side told Van that yet another building spree was about to begin. The additions had totally altered the appearance of the place; when Vanyel was first a Herald it had looked foreboding, and martial, not much altered from the defensive keep it had originally been. Now it looked rather like an old warhorse retired to pasture; surrounded by cattle, clambered upon by children, and entirely puzzled by the change in its status.
And it appeared, as they drew nearer, that the entire population of the manor had assembled to meet them in the open space in front of the main building. Much to Van's amusement, Stefen looked seriously alarmed at the size of the gathering.
“Van, that can't be your family, can it?” he asked just before they got in earshot. “I mean, there's hundreds of them....”
Vanyel laughed. “Not quite hundreds; counting all the cousins and fosterlings, probably eighty or ninety by now. More servants, of course. Farewells can take all day, if you aren't careful.”
“Oh,” Stefen replied weakly, and then the waiting throng broke ranks and poured toward them.
The filly shied away from the unfamiliar scents and sounds, but the people pressed closely around her were all well acquainted with the habits of horses. The children all scampered neatly out of the way of her dancing hooves, and before she could bolt, Vanyel's brother Mekeal took her reins just under the bit in a surprisingly gentle fist.
“This one of Star's get?” he asked, running a knowing hand over her flank. “She's lovely, Van. Would you consider lending me her to put to one of the palfrey studs one of these days? We're still keeping up the palfrey and hunter lines, y'know.”
“Ask Bard Stefen; she's his,” Vanyel replied, and dismounted, taking care to avoid stepping on any children. Not an easy task, they were as careless around adults as they were careful around horses. He moved quickly to help Savil down before she could admit to needing a hand, a service that earned him a quick smile of conspiratorial gratitude.
Stefen dismounted awkwardly in a crowd of chattering children and gawky and admiring adolescents, who immediately surrounded him demanding to know if he was a real Bard, if he knew their cousin Medren, if he knew any songs about their cousin Vanyel, and a thousand other questions. He looked a little overwhelmed. There weren't a great many children at Court, and those that were there were usually kept out of sight except when being employed as pages and the like. Vanyel debated rescuing him, but a moment later found himself otherwise occupied.
Withen bore down on him with Treesa in tow, plowing his way through the crowd as effortlessly as a draft horse through a herd of ponies. He stopped, just within arm's reach. “Van -” he said, awkwardly. “- son -”
And there he froze, unable to force himself to go any further, and unwilling to pull away. Vanyel took pity on him and broke the uncomfortable moment. “Hello, Father,” he said, clasping Withen's arms for just long enough to make Withen relax without making him flinch. “Gods, it is good to see you. You're looking indecently well. I swear, some day I'm going to open a closet door somewhere, and finally find the little wizard you've been keeping to make your elixir of youth!”
Withen laughed, reddening a little under the flattery; in fact, he was looking well, less like Mekeal's father than his older brother. They both were square and sturdily built, much taller than Vanyel, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-completed. Withen's hair and beard were about half silvered, and he'd developed a bit of a paunch; those were his only concessions to increasing age.
Withen relaxed further, and finally returned the embrace. “And as usual, you look like hell, son. Randale's been overusing you again, no doubt of it. Your sister warned us. Kernes' Horns, can't we ever see you when you haven't been overworking?”
“It's not as bad this time, Father,” Van protested with a smile. “My reserves are in fairly good shape; it's mostly sleep and peace I lack.”
“But don't they ever feed you, boy?” Withen grumbled. “Ah, never mind. We'll get some meat back on those bones, won't we, Treesa?”
Vanyel held out his hands to his mother, who took both of them. Treesa had finally accepted the onset of age, though not without a struggle. She had permitted her hair to resume its natural coloring of silver-gilt, and had given up trying to hide her age-lines under a layer of cosmetics.
Yet it seemed to Van that there might have been a little less discontent in her face than there had been the last time he was here. He hoped so. It surely helped that Roshya, Mekeal's wife, was accepting her years gracefully, and with evident enjoyment. Whatever stupid things Mekeal had done in his time - and he'd done quite a few, including the purchase of a purported “Shin'a'in warsteed” that was no more Shin'a'in than Vanyel - he'd more than made up for them by wedding Roshya. At least, that was Van's opinion. Roshya stood right behind Treesa, a young child clinging to her skirt with grubby hands, giving Treesa an encouraging wink.
“Run along dear,” Roshya said to the child, with an affectionate push. The child giggled and released her.
Treesa smiled tentatively, then with more feeling. “Your father's right, dear,” she said, holding him at arm's length and scrutinizing him. “You do look very tired. But you look a great deal better than the last time you were here.”
“That's mostly because I am,” he replied. “Mother, you look wonderful. Well, you can see that I brought Aunt Savil - and -” he hesitated a moment. “And the friend you wanted to meet. My friend, and Medren's. Stef -”
He turned and gestured to Stefen, who extracted himself from the crowd of admiring children and adolescents.
Van steeled himself, kept his face set in a carefully controlled and pleasant mask of neutrality, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “Father, Mother,” he said, gesturing toward Stefen, “This is Bard Stefen. Stef, my Father and Mother; Lord Withen, Lady Treesa.”
Stef bowed slightly to Withen, then took Treesa's hand and kissed it. “Mother? Surely I heard incorrectly. You are Herald Vanyel's younger sister, I am certain,” he said, with a sweet smile, at which Treesa colored and and took her hand away with great reluctance, shaking her head. “His mother? No, impossible!”
Withen looked a little strained and embarrassed, but Treesa responded to Stefs gentle, courtly flattery as a flower to the sun. “Are you really a full Bard?” she asked, breathless with excitement. “Truly a Master?”
“Unworthy though I am, my lady,” Stef replied, “that is the rank the Bardic Circle has given me. I pray you will permit me to test your hospitality and task your ears by performing for you.”
“Oh, would you?” Treesa said, enthralled. Evidently she had completely forgotten what else Stef was supposed to be besides
Van's friend and a Bard. Withen still looked a little strained, but Van began to believe that the visit would be less of a disaster than he had feared.
Thunder rumbled near at hand, startling all of them. “Gods, it's about to pour. Meke, Radevel, you see to the horses,” Withen ordered. “The rest of you, give it a rest. You'll all get your chances at Van and his f-friend later. Let's all get inside before the storm breaks for true.”
Treesa had already taken possession of Stefen and was carrying him off, chattering brightly. Van turned protectively toward Yfandes, remembering that his father never could bring himself to believe she was anything other than a horse.
But to his immense relief, Meke was leading Stefs filly to the stables, but his cousin Radevel had looped the two Companions' reins up over their necks and was standing beside them.
“Don't worry, Van,” Radevel said with a wink. “Jervis taught me, remember?” And then, to the two Companions, “If you'll follow me, ladies, one of the new additions to the stables are proper accommodations for Companions. Saw to 'em m'self.”
Vanyel relaxed, and allowed his father to steer him toward the door to the main part of the manor, as lightning flashed directly overhead and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Good old Rad. Finally, after all these years, I get one of my family convinced that 'Fandes isn't a horse!
Eight
So, that's the situation,” Withen continued, staring out the bubbly, thick glass of the crudely-glazed window at the storm outside. “I don't think it's going to change any time soon. Tashir is turning out to be a fine young man, and a good ruler. His second eldest is fostered here, did I mention that?”
Thunder vibrated in the rock walls, and Vanyel shook his head. “No, Father, you didn't. What about farther north though, up beyond Baires?”
Withen sighed. “Don't know, son. That's still Pelagir country. Full of uncanny creatures, and odd folks, and without much leadership that I've been able to see. It's a problem, and likely to stay one. . . .”
Vanyel held his peace; the Tayledras weren't “leaders” as his father understood the term, anyway, although they ruled and protected their lands as effectively as any warlord or landed baron.
Rain lashed the outside of the keep and hissed down the chimney. He and his father were ensconced in Withen's “study,” a room devoted to masculine comforts and entirely off-limits to the females of the household. Withen turned away from the window and eased himself down into a chair that was old and battered and banished to here where it wouldn't offend Treesa's sensibilities; but like Withen, it was still serviceable despite being past its prime. Van was already sitting, or rather, sprawling, across a scratched and battered padded bench, one with legs that had been used as teething aids for countless generations of Ashkevron hounds.
“So tell me the truth, son,” Withen said after a long pause. “I'm an old man, and I can afford to be blunt. How much longer does Randale have?”
Vanyel sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.
“I don't know, Father. Not even the Healers seem to have any idea.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “The truth is, though, I don't think it's going to be more than five years or so. Not unless we find out what it is he's got and find a way to cure it, or at least keep it from getting worse. Right now - right now the Council's best hope is to be able to keep him going until Treven's trained and in Whites. We think he can hang on that long.”
“Is it true the boy's wedded that young Jisa?” Withen looked as if he approved, so Vanyel nodded. “Good. The sooner the boy breeds potential heirs, the better off we'll be. Shows the lad has more sense than his elders.” Withen snorted his disgust at those “elders.” “It was shilly-shallying about Randale's marriages that got us in this pickle in the first place. Should have told the boy to marry Healer Shavri in the first damn place, and we'd have had half a dozen legitimate heirs instead of one girl out of the succession.”
Withen went on in the same vein for some time, and Vanyel did not think it prudent to enlighten him to the realities of the situation.
“About the Pelagir lands, Father,” he said instead, “The last few times I've visited home, I've heard stories - and seen the evidence - of things coming over and into Valdemar. Are they still doing that?”
When Withen hesitated, he began to suspect that something was seriously wrong. “Father, are these – visitations - getting worse? What is it that you aren't telling me?”
“Son,” Withen began.
“No, Father, don't think of me as your son. I'm Herald Vanyel, and I need to know the whole truth.” He sat up from his sprawled position, looked his father straight in the eyes. Withen was the first to look away.
“Well - yes. For a while they were getting worse.” Withen looked at the fire, out the window - anywhere but at Van.
“And?”
“And we asked Haven for some help. For a Herald-Mage.” Withen coughed.
“And?”
“And they said there weren't any to spare, and they sent us just a plain Herald.” Withen's mouth worked as if he were tasting something bitter. “I won't say she was of no use, but - but we decided if Haven wasn't going to help us, we'd best learn how to help ourselves, and we sent her back. Let her think she'd taken care of the problem after a hunt or two. Had a talk with Tashir's people - after all, they've been doing without mages for one damned long time. Found out the ways to take out some of these things without magic. Worked out some more. Finally the things stopped coming across altogether. I guess they got some way of talking to each other, and let it be known that we don't like havin' things try and set up housekeeping over here.”
“There's been no more sign of anything?” Van was amazed - not that there were no signs of further incursions, but that the people here had taken on the problem and dealt with it on their own.
“No, though we've been keepin' the patrols up. Tashir's people, too. But -”
“But what, Father?” Vanyel asked gently. “You can say what you like. I won't be offended by the truth.”
“It's just - all our lives we've been told how we can depend on the Herald-Mages, how they'll help us when we need them - then when we need them, we get told there aren't any to spare, they're all down on the Karsite Border or off somewhere else - and here one of our own is a Herald-Mage - it just goes hard.” Withen was obviously distressed, and Vanyel didn't blame him.
“But Father - you were sent help. You said so yourself. They sent you a Herald,” he pointed out.
“A Herald?” Within scoffed. “What good's a plain Herald? We needed a Herald-Mage!”
“Did you give her a chance?” Vanyel asked, quietly. “Or did you just assume she couldn't be of any help and lead her around like a child until she was convinced there wasn't any real need for her?”
“But - she was just a Herald -”
“Father, nobody is 'just' a Herald,” Vanyel said. “We're taught to make the best of every ability we have - Heralds and Herald-Mages. The only difference in us is the kinds of abilities we have. She would have done exactly as you did. She probably would have been able to help you, if you'd given her the chance. She wouldn't have been able to invoke a spell and destroy the creatures for you, but it's quite probable a Herald-Mage wouldn't have been able to either. I have no doubt she could have found the ones in hiding, perhaps, or uncovered their weaknesses. But you didn't give her a chance to find out what she could do.”
“I suppose not,” Withen said, after a moment. “I - don't suppose that was very fair to her, either.”
Vanyel nodded. “It's true, Father. There aren't enough Herald-Mages. I'm afraid to tell you how few of us there are. I wish there were more of us, but there aren't, and I hope when you are sent help next time, you won't think of that help as 'just' a Herald.”
“Because that's the best help Haven can give us,” Withen concluded for him.
But he didn't look happy. And in a way, Van understood. But there was that stigma again - ”just” a Herald - when
there were Heralds who had twice the abilities of some of the Herald-Mages he'd known.
It was a disturbing trend - and unfortunately, one he had no idea how to reverse.
“Father, which would you rather have in a pinch - a Herald with a very strong Gift, a Gift that's exactly the kind of thing you need, or a Herald-Mage who may be able to do no more than you could on your own?” He paused for effect. “There have been no few Herald-Mages killed down on the Karsite Border precisely because they were mages, and because of that they tried to handle more than they were capable of. If I were spying on the enemy, I'd rather have a strongly Mindspeaking Herald doing it for me than a Herald-Mage who has to send up a flare of mage-fire when he needs to talk! If I were hunting up magical creatures, I'd rather have a Herald with powerful FarSight than a weak Herald-Mage who'd light up like a tasty beacon to those creatures every time he uses his magic.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Withen mumbled. “But still -”
“Please do think about it, Father,” Van urged. “And please talk to others about it. Valdemar is short of friends and resources these days. We have to use everything we can, however we can. You have a powerful influence on the way people think in this area -”
“I wish your brother thought that,” Withen mumbled, but he looked pleased.
“If you decide that I'm right, you can make an enormous difference in the way things are handled the next time. And that just may save you a great deal, including lives.”
Withen sighed, and finally met his eyes. “Well, I'll think about it, son. That's all I'll promise.”
Which is about as much of a concession as I'm ever likely to get out of him. “Thank you, Father,” he said, hoping it would be enough. “That's all I can ask.”
Dinner proved to be entertaining and amazingly relaxing. Only the immediate family and important household members assembled in the Great Hall anymore - there wasn't room for anyone else.
Magic's price Page 14
