Magic's Price (32 page)

The final thought Vanyel read as the mage prepared to launch the leech-blade at Treesa was that his master would be very pleased.

That was, maddeningly, all.

Savil tried to Read farther into the past than the moment of the attack, but once he was off Forst Reach lands, the mage had been screened and shielded, and there was nothing there to be Read. There was no image in the mage's mind connected with this “master”; he'd never seen the unknown mage in person. The “master” had only given him his orders, then given him the means to carry them out—
he
had set up the disguise-persona, had screened his servant against detection and back-Reading while off the Forst Reach lands, and had constructed the twin leech-blades for him.

The mage had only been a tool in the hands of someone bigger.

Vanyel shook off his disappointment, and began gently disengaging himself from the spell. Gradually the frozen scene faded from Mage-Sight and ordinary sight; then, with an abrupt, gut-wrenching shudder, it vanished completely, and Vanyel was back in the present, with a numb behind, and far too many unanswered questions.

He got up, breaking the circle, and stretched. He stood staring at the tree just in front of him for a while, trying to get everything he'd learned and everything he
hadn't
learned sorted out. When he turned around, Starwind was staring at him, a slight frown on his lips.

“You do realize what this attack means, do you not?” he said to Vanyel. “That you were vulnerable to the leech-blade was the purest accident; if you had been warded against magic the thing would have had no purchase upon you. Nevertheless, you were the target; the mage recognized you and knew that. He was to destroy you by indirect means, by destroying those you love. The one who sent him does not want to confront you—but does want you eliminated. This time the targets were to be Lady Treesa, Lord Withen, or both—hence the two blades.”

“The protections I put on them won't hold against direct attacks,” Savil admitted unhappily. “I can't stop an assassin. I don't think this is going to end with one attack, either, not with what I picked up. Van, I don't know what to say.”

Vanyel sighed, and ran his fingers through his hair. “It's nothing I haven't anticipated, Savil. That's always been my worst fear, you know that. But if there is somebody, some powerful enemy of mine out there—where has he been all this time? What does he really want? And is he just my enemy, or is he Valdemar's enemy as well?”

Moondance stretched as Starwind clasped his shoulders and rubbed them absently. “This comes as quite a surprise to us as well, Wingbrother. We are reclusive, yes, but there are still signs of such a mage as this ”master“ seems to be which we should have detected long before this.”

Vanyel offered Savil his hands to pull her to her feet. “Except that you have a peculiar blind spot, my friends,” Savil, said, accepting the aid. “You never look outside your own territory. Even the
Shin‘a'in
Clans work together, but you don't; each of your Clans operates on its own. That's your strength, but that's also your weakness.”

“Strength or weakness, it matters not,” Starwind said shortly. “The question is, how is Vanyel to ensure the continued safety of his parents? As you have pointed out, Wingsister, this is not going stop at one attack.”

“There's only one thing I can do,” Vanyel said. “Since I can't be where they are—”

“Get them to move to where you are.” Savil shook her head. “I don't know, Van. That may be harder than getting yourself transferred to Forst Reach.”

“That may be,” Vanyel said grimly, “But it has to be done.”

 

 

Dinner was a cold lump in Vanyel's stomach, and his weariness made the lamplight seem harsher than it really was.

“.... I have no choice but to insist on this, Father,” Vanyel concluded, clasping his hands around his ale mug, and staring at the surface of the table. “I know you never want to leave Forst Reach—and the gods know you never asked to have a Herald-Mage for a son. I'm asking this because I have to. I can't protect you, Savil can't protect you, Randale can't afford to keep a Herald here full-time to keep you safe; there aren't enough of them, and nothing less would do it. You could hire all the guards you wanted to; none of them would do any good against a mage. Hire a mage, and whoever this is will send a better one. This enemy of mine knows me very well, Father. If you or Mother died because of what I am—I—I'd never get over it.” He looked up; at Withen's troubled face, and at Treesa's frightened one. “There's no help for it, Father. You'll have to take up the Council seat for this district and move to Haven. Everyone would be glad to see you in it, and Lord Enderby never wanted it in the first place. You'd do a good job, and the Council could use your experience.”

Treesa sighed happily and lost her fear instantly;
she
had wanted to move to Haven for years, ever since the last of her children wedded. “Oh, Withen,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “You must! I've hoped for this for so long—”

Withen winced. “I think you mean you've hoped for a reason to make me go to the capital, and not that the reason would be that we're in danger otherwise!”

Treesa pouted. She'd recovered very quickly, showing a resilience that Moondance called “remarkable.” “Of course that's what I meant! Withen, for all that you like to pretend that you're a plain and simple man, you've been running not only Forst Reach, but most of the county as well. And you very well know it. When something goes wrong, where's the first keep they go to? Here, of course. And it
isn't
to ask advice of Mekeal! I think Van is right; I think you'd make a fine Councillor.”

Withen shook his head, and took a long drink of ale. “Ah, Treesa, I hate politics, you
know
that—and now you want me to go fling myself into them right up to the neck—”

Vanyel put his mug down.
I'm going to have to shock him into taking the seat, or he'll go, and
pine
away with boredom.
“Father, it's either that, or move to Haven
without
anything to do but sit around the Court all day and trade stories with the other spavined old war-horses,” he said bluntly. “I was offering you an option that would give you something useful to do. You
are
going to Haven, whether or not you like it. I cannot afford to leave you here.”

Withen bristled. “So I'm a spavined old war-horse, am I?”

Vanyel didn't rise to the bait. Withen expected him to try and back down, and he couldn‘t, not with so much riding on his persuading Withen that he was right. “In a sense, yes; you're too old to rejoin the Guard, even as a trainer. There's nothing else there for you. But that Council seat is crying for someone competent to fill it, and you
are
competent, you're qualified, and you won't play politics with Valdemar's safety at stake—and that puts you ahead of half the other Councillors, so far as I can see. And you, Father, are trying to change the subject.”

Abruptly, Withen put his mug down and held up both hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I'll take the damned seat. But they'll get me as I am. No Court garb, no jewels and furbelows. Treesa can dress up all she likes, but I'm a plain man; I always have been, and I always will be.”

Vanyel's shoulders sagged with relief. “Father, you can be anything you like; you'll be a refreshing change from some of the butterfly-brains we have on the Grand Council. Trust me, you won't be alone. There are two or three other old war-horses—no more ‘spavined' than you, I might add—former Bordermen like you, who have pretty much the same attitudes. And I say, thank the gods for all of you.”

Withen glowered. “I'm only going because you've got work for me,” he said, grumbling. “Meke may think he runs Forst Reach, but Treesa's right: when there's trouble, it's me they all come to.”

All the better for Meke,
Vanyel thought.
Let him make his own mistakes and learn from them.

But what he said was, “Then it's time to expand your stewardship, Father. More than time. I think you will serve Valdemar as well or better than you served Forst Reach.”

He started to get up, when Withen's hand on his wrist stopped him. “Son,” his father said, earnestly. “Did you really mean that about how you'd be hurt if something happened to your mother or me?”

“Father—” Vanyel closed his eyes, and sank back into his seat, swallowing an enormous lump in his throat. “Father, I would be devastated. I would be absolutely worthless. And somehow this mage knows that, which is why it's so important for you to be somewhere safe. Valdemar needs me, and needs me undamaged. And I need you. You're my parents, and I love you.” He took a deep breath; what he was going to say was very hard, and it had cost him a lot of soul-searching. “I can't change the past, Father, but I can manage things better in the future. You've been very—good—about my relationship with Stef. If it would make you feel better, though, I'll see to it that he and I—don't see much of each other. That way you won't have—what I am—rubbed in your nose at Haven.”

Withen flushed, and looked down at the table. “That's ... that's very good of you, son. But I don't want you to do that.”

Vanyel bit his lip with surprise. “You don't? But—”

“You're my son. I tried to see to it that you learned everything I thought was important. Honor. Honesty. That there are things more important than yourself. It seems to me you've been living up to those things.” Withen traced the grain of the table with a thick forefinger. “There's only one way you ever disappointed me and—I don't know, Van, but—it just doesn't seem that important when you stack it up against everything else you've ever done. I don't see where I'd have been any happier if you'd been like Meke. I
might
have been worse off. Two blockheads in one family is enough, I'd say.”

Withen looked up for a moment, then back down at his cup. “Anyway, what I'm trying to say is—is that I love you, son. I'm proud of you. That youngster Stefen is a good-hearted lad, and I'd like to think of him as one of the family. If he'll put up with us, that is. I can understand why you like him.” Withen looked up again, met Vanyel's eyes, and managed a weak grin. “Of course, I'll admit that I'd have been a deal happier if he was a girl, but—he's not, and you're attached to him, and any fool can see he's the same about you. You've never been one to flaunt yourself—” Withen blushed, and looked away again. “I don't see you starting now. So—you and Stef stay the way you are. After all these years, I guess I'm finally getting used to the idea.”

Vanyel's eyes stung; he wiped them with the back of his hand. “Father—I—I don't know what to say—”

“If you'll forgive me, son, for how I've hurt you, I'll forgive you,” Withen replied. He shoved his seat away from the table and held out his arms. “I haven't hugged you since you were five. I'd like to catch up now.”

“Father—”

Vanyel knocked over the bench, and stumbled blindly to Withen's side of the table. “Father—” he whispered, and met Withen's awkward embrace. “Oh, Father,” he said into Withen's muscular shoulder. “If you only knew how much this means to me—I love you so much. I never wanted to hurt you.”

Withen's arms tightened around him. “I love you, too, son,” he said hesitantly. “You can't change what you are, any more than I can help what I am. But we don't have to let that get in the way any more, do we?”

“No, Father,” Vanyel replied, something deep and raw inside him healing at last. “No, we don't.”

O
rdinarily Stef would have been fascinated by the activities in the fields—he was city-born and bred, and the farmers at their harvest-work were as alien to him as the
Tayledras,
and as interesting. But Vanyel had been brooding, again, and finally Stef decided to ferret out the cause.

The road was relatively clear of travelers; with the harvest just begun, no one was bringing anything in to market. That, Savil had told Stef, would happen in about a week, when the roads would be thick with carts. This was really the ideal time to travel, if you didn't mind the late-summer dust and heat.

Stef didn't mind. But he
did
mind the way Van kept worrying at some secret trouble until he made both their heads ache.

And it seemed that the only way to end the deadlock would be if he said or did something to break it.

“Something's bothering you,” Stefen said, when they were barely a candlemark from Haven. “It's
been
bothering you for the past two days.”

He urged Melody up beside Yfandes, who obligingly lagged a little. Vanyel's lips tightened, and he looked away. “You won't like it,” he said, finally.

Stef swatted at an obnoxious horsefly. “I don't like the way you've been getting all knotted up, either,” he pointed out. “Whatever it is, I wish you'd just spit it out and get it over with. You're giving
me
a headache.”

He eyed Savil, who was riding on Vanyel's right, hoping she'd get the hint. She raised one eyebrow at him, then held Kellan back, letting herself fall farther and farther behind until she was just out of earshot.

Though how much that means when she can read minds—
Stef thought, then chided himself.
Oh, she wouldn't probe unless she had to. Heralds just don't do that to people, not even Van comes into my mind unless I ask him. I've got to get used to this, that they have powers but don't always use them....