"I want you to come up the hill to my school, to live and study there, so that you can learn how to use your abilities without hurting anyone."
"I haven't hurt anyone!" Leesa protested.
"You're hurting yourself," Master Quenten pointed out. "You are standing here in dripping wet clothing, and by my reckoning this is the third day you've managed to soak yourself to the skin. Keep this up and you'll be sick. Do you have any dry clothes left?"
"Well, no," Leesa admitted after a moment's thought. "Everything I own is still damp."
"Come on upstairs," Margaret said, "and Rose and I will find something to fit you. We weren't in the kitchen during any of the incidents, so our spare clothes are dry."
"Good idea," Rose agreed. She glanced at Master Quenten to see if he had any objections, then took Lee-sa's hand. The three girls went up the stairs to the large attic room they shared.
"What you said about her leveling the building," Myrta said as soon as the girls were out of earshot, "you were exaggerating, weren't you?"
"No," Quenten said, as Serena shook her head. "She really could have done it. It's fortunate for all of us that the lessons the last few weeks have been basic weather magic, rather than say, how to summon a fire elemental." He looked at Ruven. "You, young man, have had a very narrow escape. And I wasn't joking about her killing you. If you hadn't let her go, if she had felt truly cornered and desperate, you would be dead by now. Think about that next time you're tempted to treat a girl worse than you would treat a horse."
"But horses are different!" Ruven protested.
Serena snorted. "Yes, they're bigger than you are, and they kick harder. Go back to the stables, Ruven."
"Shouldn't he apologize to her?" Myrta asked.
"Not if she can read thoughts," Serena said. "That's why I always say exactly what I'm thinking—I spent enough of my time in the Skybolts around Master Quenten and his mages to learn that you're much safer around mages if your behavior matches your thoughts. Since Ruven obviously doesn't understand what he's done wrong, any apology he attempted to make would be perceived by Leesa as an insult—and he's insulted her more than enough already."
"I see your point," Myrta said. "Ruven, you can go back to the stables now, and I suggest that you stay there."
Ruven, still looking bewildered, shrugged and went out.
Meanwhile Quenten was conferring with Serena. "You've worked with her for several weeks. What's your impression?"
"She's smart, determined, and a hard worker," Serena replied promptly. "I'll be sorry to lose her; it's not often you get help that diligent. But she's running scared from something—probably her mother's way of life."
" 'I'm not a harlot,'" Myrta quoted softly. " 'I'd rather die than be one."
"Exactly," Serena said. "And if 'I'd rather die' had been 'I'd rather kill,' we'd have a real mess on our hands. The sooner she's moved up to the school, the better."
"You're sending me away?" Leesa stood in the doorway, looking stricken. The fact that she was wearing clothes too large for her made her look even more like a helpless and frightened child.
To Myrta's astonishment, for Serena had never struck her as the motherly type, Serena limped over to Leesa and held out her arms, and Leesa took the step that closed the small distance between them and clung to Serena.
"Master Quenten is an old friend of mine," Serena said quietly. "We were Skybolts together, and I've trusted him with my life many times."
"Almost as many as I've trusted you with mine," Master Quenten pointed out.
Serena ignored him. "He's good people, and the school he runs is one of the best. You'll have a room of your own there, with a lock on the door—"
Leesa looked sideways at Master Quenten, who nodded.
"—and you'll have people to teach you how to use your powers. There are a lot of jobs that mages can do, and I think that you're going to be a very good mage."
"I think so, too," Quenten said, smiling at her.
"What's the catch?" Leesa asked, still suspicious. "Am I going to be a prisoner up there?"
"No, you won't be a prisoner," Master Quenten assured her. "Students are not allowed to leave the school grounds without permission, but permission is routinely granted when you have free time." He chuckled. "How many of our students do you get in your bar here every night?"
"Quite a few," Myrta said, "and even more on holidays."
"And I'll come up and visit you, too," Serena said reassuringly. "You're not going to vanish into a dungeon. Once you reach Journeyman status, you can go out and get a job if you're tired of studying. And by
then, you won't have to worry about anyone's trying to rape you—you'll be able to defend yourself from idiots like Ruven."
Leesa looked up at her. "Truly?"
Serena nodded. "Truly."
"And you promise you'll come visit me?"
"I promise."
Leesa chewed on her lower lip, then decided. "All right, I'll go."
"Excellent," Master Quenten said. "You can share my horse on the ride uphill."
Leesa's eyes sparkled. Riding a horse was a real treat.
"But promise me one thing, Leesa," Serena said. "Even when you've learned how, don't turn that idiot Ruven into a frog. It's a waste of energy."
Leesa laughed. "I promise."
Chance
by Mark Shepherd
In 1990 Mark Shepherd began collaborating with Mercedes Lackey in the SERRAted edge urban fantasy series with the novel Wheels of Fire, (Baen Books). Also available from Baen is another collaboration with Mercedes, Prison of Souls, and a solo project, Escape from Roksamur, both novel tie-ins based on the best-selling role-playing computer game Bard's Tale. His first published solo work, Elvendude, appeared on the Locus bestseller's list In the works is a sequel, Spiritride, to be published in 1997.
He is not what I expected, and everything I expected, Guardsman Jonne thought as he made his way back to the camp. What I didn't expect was that he would look so tired.
It had been a candlemark since making the acquaintance of Herald-Mage Vanyel, and already Jonne was convinced that the gods had sent him to this place for a reason.
It certainly took Haven long enough to send a Mage; here on the Karsite border the battle had been raging for some time, and until recently had been limited to the more "conventional" elements of warfares arrows, swords, knives. These were the things Jonne knew well. Levin-bolts and mage-lightning, these were better left to the magicians.
But Vanyel, he is no mere magician. If the stones I've been hearing are true, he could level the entire town of Horn with a glance.
Jonne walked with a lightness in his step and a gladness in his heart, both of which were unfamiliar feelings in this war-torn land. He'd grown up in the area, with Karse just on the other side of the valley, and he'd be-" come accustomed to the Karsites' occasional war threat. But Jonne and his family, comrades in arms and friends, had never felt as vulnerable as they had this war. Jonne's family owned a good piece of the land bordering Karse, including a number of crystal mines that were relatively untouched, so he had a personal interest in defending the border, as well as a patriotic one; lately the war had gone badly, and this was most certainly one of the reasons why Vanyel the Herald-Mage had been sent.
Perhaps there was another reason, which had nothing to do with the war, the Kingdom, or even with Vanyel's magical abilities.
Perhaps, Jonne thought, we were simply meant to meet.
There were other stories, about Vanyel's lovers, one in particular. They said he was shay'a'chern, that his loves were all young men. Jonne was in his thirtieth summer, had never married, but had also been drawn to the males of his village from an early age. He knew what he was long before puberty breathed new life into his body while torturing it with growth, but only recently he'd had a name for it: shay'a'chern. His experiences in youth and early adulthood were awkward, brief, and scarce, and had never grown into anything other than fumbling adolescent experiments
. The last, of a few years before, with a young farmer having marital problems, might have become more than a single night. But the farmer had second thoughts, guilty thoughts con- nected to his religion, and had pushed Jonne out of his life and declared the whole affair a moment of weakness that he would not repeat. Jonne accepted the reaction, and his fate, resigned to a life of loneliness.
Then he started hearing stories about others, this Herald-Mage in particular, and he began to wonder if perhaps he might meet someone like himself, who would want more than a single night of physical pleasure. When his captain asked for volunteers to be the Herald-Mage's guide, he raised his hand immediately. Given Vanyel's mysterious and frightening reputation for destroying armies at a glance, no others offered their services. Which was just as well, as Jonne was the only one who knew the area, having grown up in this very forest.
Vanyel and other important Valdemaran officers had made camp on a hillside. Jonne looked back at the camp, now visible as a campfire in the forest; when Jonne had asked them why the camp was so far from the troops, Vanyel had replied that it was to draw any magical attack toward him, the Herald-Mage, and away from the troops, who were ill equipped to deal with such an attack. Jonne thought this a great act of bravery, or stupidity; since he had little experience in magical warfare, he withheld judgment. After all, he was a mere country lad, trained as a soldier, whereas Vanyel was a full Herald, and a Mage to boot, educated at the Collegium and, it was rumored, a close friend of the King himself.
Vanyel has survived many battles, magical and otherwise. He must know what he's doing, Jonne reasoned. Or he would not be here, filling in for five Herald-Mages.
After his brief introduction to Vanyel, the guardsman sensed something familiar behind the younger man's eyes. It was a look, a spark of recognition, that Jonne had seen maybe a dozen times in his life. It was a lingering gaze, normally brief between most men, but between shay'a'chern the gaze lasted a moment longer, just long enough to let the other know that yes, I know you, too. We are both . . . different.
The Guardsman also felt Vanyel's power behind the sexuality; Jonne had a slight Gift for Empathy and Mind-speech, but it was so unpredictable that he did not qualify for training. Occasionally the Gift would surface when his emotions were charged, as they were this evening.
Jonne bid him good evening with promises to return the next day. Yes, he knows. He is, he thought, trying not to let his joy show to the others gathered there.
The next day they would properly scout the Karse border, and perhaps catch a glimpse of the enemy, way off in the distance. War seemed to be a distant prospect now, as more pleasant thoughts occupied his mind as he made his way back to his company. Nearby was a system of caves he would show the Herald-Mage.
The path Jonne had taken passed along a ridge, below which was a sea of tents housing Valdemar's forces. Here and there was the occasional revelry, as this was Sovvan, which some insisted on celebrating despite the circumstances. The tents looked like shingles on a tiled roof, reflecting pale light from a full harvest moon. His own tent was down there somewhere, and as he began the descent to the valley, he even fantasized that some night very soon he may not be sleeping in it alone.
So long, Jonne thought. So very long. The Guardsman didn't want assume too much. After all, Jonne was no spring chicken anymore, and he had no way of knowing if the Mage would find an older man attractive, even if he was only five years his senior. Many years of sword training and a dislike for wine left him leaner and younger than his years; he made a point of staying in shape, not only to maintain his strength and stamina, but to keep himself physically appealing for that special man, wherever and Whenever he might happen along. Jonne wanted so much to believe that Vanyel was that man.
The path led downward, into a thicker part of the forest where the shadows darkened. Jonne hesitated before starting down it. Something felt wrong, very wrong ... the hair on his neck stood up.
Above the hill where Vanyel's group was camped, a dark stormcloud blotted out the moon. Lightning raced from it, striking the ground, rippling through the sky. There had been no sign of rain a mere hour before; wind whipped up from the south, racing up the valley and through the forest. Trees swayed around him, and he felt a surge of magic, evil magic, coming from Karse.
Jonne saw the magic for what it was, an attack from the south. On this night, of all nights, when we would least expect it, he thought in panic.
His first duty was with the company, but the rest of the army was still some distance away, and Vanyel's tent was much closer. Something called to him, drawing him
back the way he came. From the thunderclouds came another streak of lightning, followed by an enormous fireball, which struck the hillside, sending a cloud of sparks high in the air.
Gods, was that their camp? Jonne thought, breaking into a run. Have they been destroyed?
He didn't want to consider the possibility that Herald-Mage Vanyel was injured. But when he reached the camp, he knew someone had been hurt. Three of the tents were ablaze, and other Guardsmen were scurrying about, trying to put out the fires. The hair on the back of his neck raised again. Guardsman Jonne dropped to the ground and covered his head.
The concussion hammered through the ground he lay against. A wave of heat blazed over him, scorching the back of his hands covering his head. Behind him someone was screaming; another Guardsman was on fire, and others tried to wrestle him to the ground.
"Lord and Lady, what is attacking us?" someone shouted, but in the chaos Jonne didn't see who.
Jonne started to get up, but before he was fully on his feet, a voice resounded in his head:
:Guardsman, come help us,: came the distraught words. In the shadows cast by the flickering flames, Jonne saw a shape, which moved toward him. What he first took for a large man in Herald Whites turned out to be a white horse.
No, not a horse, Jonne thought. That is a Companion.
He knew enough about the Heralds and their partners to know that this was no mere horse, and was as intelligent as any man.
:Vanyel is injured,: the words sounded. :Come help us now.:
At the mention of the Herald's name, Jonne stood straight up.
"Vanyel?" he called out. "Where is he?" Then he knew he was speaking to the Companion.
:This way,: the Companion answered, moments before the next explosion hit.
Jonne heard nothing as a flash of light illuminated the
entire area. The light came from behind him, as it cast his long shadow on the ground before him. The explosion threw him forward, into his own darkness.
Something solid nudged him solidly in his ribs. When he opened his eyes, the Companion was standing over him, looking down.
:You survived,: the Companion Mindspoke. :You, and Vanyel. The others are dead.:
Again, Jonne got up. The camp had been leveled by whatever struck them last. All that remained of the tents were wisps of burning fabric. A forest fire raged, spanning outward, burning away from them, filling the air with thick smoke. The Companion appeared to be singed, and smelled of burned hair, but for the most part unhurt. Items of Jonne's own clothing continued to smolder, and the Guardsman batted them out. He moaned when he touched the back of his neck and hands, the only parts of him that were burned.
"The others," Jonne murmured, then he saw them. Burned, unmoving bodies lay about like discarded dolls. Then, "Vanyel. Where is he?"
:This way,: the Companion said, and led Jonne to a clearing just beyond the tents. Above, lightning continued to flash, casting brief moments of visibility on the area. Still, no rain had fallen, but threatened to at any moment. Vanyel lay in the center of the clearing, and the Companion went to him, nudging with her nose.
:He's alive,: the Companion Mindspoke. :But he is injured. Help him onto my back. This is not a safe place anymore.:
The Guardsman sniffed the smoky air, remembering that whatever sent that last blast was still out there, somewhere, and was probably getting ready for anot
her attack.
Jonne easily picked up the Herald, noting his slight weight as he propped him up on the beast. Vanyel muttered something unintelligible as he found his balance on the saddle.
:He can ride,: the Companion told mm. :Take us to safety, please, Guardsman.:
Lightning struck the campsite, several paces behind him. The blast spattered them with dirt and pebbles, and in reflex Jonne shielded his face with his arm.
Time to go. Now.
"There are caves nearby," Jonne offered. "Will that—"
:Take us to them,: the Companion ordered. :While you still can.:
Jonne led the Companion and her barely conscious rider to the mouth of one of the hidden caves. In the distance, he heard battle, and felt an urge to go join it. Torn between his duty to his company and his new assignment to Vanyel as his guide, he had little trouble choosing his course of action.
This Herald is injured, and if I don't take him to safety, we will lose him, and all will be lost, the rational part of Jonne's mind told him. But beyond his duty, he felt a link to Vanyel, as if they were part of the same brotherhood: the brotherhood of shay'a'chern.
Jonne had chosen this cave because it had a hot spring pool near the mouth, and also because it had a few provisions they would need, which he'd stored down here in case of an emergency. The Guardsman led the Companion a few paces into the cave, where he paused to light a torch mounted on the cave wall. The sudden light revealed a pair of straw mattresses, lanterns, candles, and a cabinet which, assuming it hadn't been disturbed, had medicines and supplies he would need.
As he helped Vanyel down, he saw, in the blazing torchlight, the burns. They were three lines, slicing through his Herald Whites, reaching from his neck down past his waist. Jonne gently cradled Vanyel in his arms, hoping he wasn't injuring him more by moving him.
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