Magic's Price (48 page)

:They've let all this undergrowth spring up on the edge of their clearing,:
she continued, her mind-voice thick with contempt.
:We can come right up to the walls without anyone ever seeing us. Ah, there he is. Stef, look up there, just above the door. See him?:

Stef picked his way up to the bushes and looked—sure enough, there was
something
there, pacing back and forth a little. A shadow among shadows, on the top of a wall that even in the dim moonlight showed severe neglect. The square-built keep would not have lasted a candlemark in a siege.

:
That's the sentry and that's the only one they have.:
She paused a moment.
:Now what that means is that this is probably the only way into the building, which is not very good for us.:

“I could just walk up there,” he offered. “I'm a Bard, I could just pretend I'm a traveling minstrel—”

:In the dead of winter, the middle of nowhere? Minstrels
don't travel in winter if they can help it. How the blazes did you get out here,
and
why did you come? They may be stupid, but they're probably suspicious bastards.:

“Uh—I could say I was turned out of my post—”

She snorted.
:Have you seen any Great Houses since three days before the Border?:

“My inn, then—the innkeeper's wife and I—”

“I'm cold and hungry, and I wouldn't care if it was the first place I saw with people and food and fire—”

:Wait.:
She raised her head to look over his.
:Something's happening.:

With no more warning than that, the center of the building went up with an ear-numbing roar in a sheet of red and green flames.

Stef squeaked, and hid his eyes with his forearm, then peeked under the crook of his elbow. The entire front of the building had burst outward in the time he'd hidden his eyes; the door was splinters, and the right side of the keep had already collapsed outward. There were screams, but no sign of fire, and Stef realized then that what he'd just seen was an explosion of mage-power.

:Get on!:
Yfandes ordered, and he scrambled onto her back. She didn't even wait this time until he'd settled himself; she just leapt through the bushes with the Bard clinging to her mane and trying desperately to get a grip on her with his legs.

She raced across the small expanse of clear ground between the bushes and the keep, and crashed through what was left of the door, coming to an abrupt halt just inside. He blinked, his eyes burning from the foul smoke blowing into them, and tried to make out what was going on. Here, inside the building, there were fires, small ones. Furniture burning. Piles of rags, smoldering—

Men.

With horror and nausea, Stefen realized that fully half of what he had thought were burning piles of flotsam were actually burning bodies, aflame with the same blood-red fires Van had used to destroy the raven-thing. And some of the piles were thrashing and screaming.

He tumbled from Yfandes' back as she pivoted, lashing out with hooves and teeth at a man running by. He tried to make some sense of the confusion, looking, without consciously realizing he was doing so, for Van.

And then the fires rose higher, reflecting off a single figure, the red glare concealing until this moment the fact that the man wore shredded Whites. Scarlet mage-fires turned his white-streaked hair into a cascade of ripping shadow threaded with blood. Just beyond, a group of terrified men crouched against the far wall, cowering away from him; some pleading, some simply trying to melt into the stone of the wall in numb fear.

“Vanyel!” Stef shouted. The Herald turned around for a moment, but a movement by one of the men he had cornered made him turn back to face them. It was Vanyel, but not a Van that Stefen recognized. Like Yfandes, his eyes and the mage-focus around his neck glowed an identical, angry red, and beneath the glow the eyes were not sane. His clothing was tattered and bloodstained, and his face disfigured with bruises, but it was not that mistreatment that made him impossible to identify. It was those furious, mad eyes, eyes which held nothing in common with humanity at all.

Vanyel gestured, and one of the men shivering against the wall jerked upright, and stumbled toward him. As he did so, the last of the screaming stopped, though the fires continued to burn in eerie silence. In that silence, the man's whimpering pleas for mercy were sickeningly clear.

Vanyel laughed. “What mercy did you grant me, scum?” he replied in a soft, conversational voice. “It seems to me that I remember you. It seems to me that you were the first and the last to sate yourself. ‘Little white mare,' I believe you called me.” He gestured again, and the bandit stooped, like a clumsily-controlled marionette, and picked something up from the floor.

It was the splintered end of a spear-shaft, ragged, but as sharp as anything of metal. The bandit's arms jerked again, and the jagged end of it was placed against his stomach.

The bandit's eyes widened; his mouth opened, but nothing emerged. There was a popping sound, and as the point of the wood penetrated the bandit's clothing, Stefen realized with horror that Vanyel was forcing the brigand to disembowel himself, controlling his body with Mind-magic.

“No!” he screamed.
“Van, no!”

He flung himself between the two, and faced that frightening mask of insanity, his hands held out in pleading. “Van, you're a
Herald,
no matter what they did to you, you can't do that to him!”

The red glow died from Van's eyes for a moment; then his jaw hardened, and something like an invisible hand pushed Stefen out of the way. The Bard stumbled and fell to the filthy floor, but was up again in a breath, and right back between the Herald and his victim. The brigand fell onto his back, writhing, then stiffened as Vanyel stepped forward.

“Van—Van, don‘t! If you do this,
you'll be just as bad as he is.
Don't let
him
do that to you! Don't let
them
make you into something like they are!”

Vanyel froze, with his hand still outstretched.

Then the angry red glow faded, first from his eyes, then from the pendant at his breast. He blinked, and sanity returned to his face.

He looked around at the carnage he caused, and his face spasmed; his mouth twisted as if he was going to be sick, but his eyes went to two bodies beside a storeroom door, and stayed there. One of those bodies was that of an old man, with the kind of pouch an herb-Healer often carried spilled out on the floor beside him. The other body was too small to be an adult; it had to be a child.

Van's posture betrayed him—tense, and legs slightly bent.

He's going to bolt—
Stef realized, wondering if he could tackle the Herald before he broke and ran.

:No, he's not,:
Yfandes said firmly, and interposed herself between Vanyel and the door.

Something—broke open. And suddenly Stef felt what Vanyel was feeling. Absolute revulsion at the deaths, the massacre he had caused. Despair at the knowledge that he had killed at least one innocent; two if the boy could be counted in that category. Contemptible. Worse than contemptible ...
hateful. Insane....

Under the self-loathing, the fear that Yfandes and Stef would both repudiate him, would hate him for what he'd done, and cast him out of their lives and hearts.

“No—Van—” Stef walked carefully toward him, slowly, with Yfandes maneuvering to keep Van's escape blocked. “Listen to me, it's not your fault. You were in pain, your mind was confused, you weren't able to think of anything except hurting them back. That's part of you—
everybody
has that as a part of them. You're not a god, above mistakes! It's just a part of you that you lost control of for a little. If it had been
me,
I'd probably have done a lot worse things than you did—”

‘Fandes herded the Herald in close enough that Stef could get Vanyel in his arms. He did so, before Van could evade his embrace. The Herald shuddered all over his body, like a terrified animal.

:We've a problem, Bard:
Yfandes said grimly.
:There's a lot worse damage than we thought.:
And through her powers, she permitted him a glimpse of a little of what had been done to Van, a glimpse that suddenly made Van's speech about being “sated” and “little white mares” understandable. Stefen choked—and then had to make a conscious effort to start breathing again.

The bandits seemed to realize that Vanyel was no longer a threat, and began slipping past the three of them to vanish into the thin, gray light of dawn beyond the walls. Stef ignored them; they didn't matter. What mattered was Van.

He held Vanyel, but not in a way that would confine him—lightly—and tried to send back love along the link between them. The last of the brigands, the man who'd nearly impaled himself at Vanyel's command, crawled toward the shattered door, leaving a blood-smeared trail. He scrambled to his feet when he reached it, and tumbled out of sight beyond a pile of toppled stone blocks.
I don't think he'll live long out there,
Stefen thought.
I can't really admit to caring much if he does.

Gray light filled the hollow of the wrecked hall, and the mage-fires died and went out, leaving smears of black ash where the burning bodies had been. Vanyel stood shivering and tense in Stefen's arms, while the sun rose over the walls of the keep. Finally, as the sun touched his blood-soaked, tangled hair, he collapsed into Stef's embrace.

Yes,
Stefen thought.
We've won the first round—

:It won't be the last,:
Yfandes said, smoldering anger beneath her words.
:They've broken him.:

“Come on, Vanyel-
ashke
,” he said softly. “Let's go. Let's get you somewhere warm and safe.”

 

Stef found the tack, and the configurations it had been twisted into made him tight with anger. He managed to get it all untangled, got Yfandes saddled and bridled, then she knelt and Van practically fell into her saddle.

:I'd ask
you to put the supports on him,: she said after she stood up again,
:—but—:

“I have a pretty good idea,” Stef answered her, wishing that the bandit Van had nearly impaled hadn't gotten away. “I'm nowhere near as innocent as Van still thinks I am. He'd just get thrown back to last night if he felt restraints.”

Vanyel had fallen into a half-stupor; shock, Stef guessed. And at this point, the last thing he wanted to do was rouse him.

“I can walk beside, and steady him in the saddle, if you don't go too fast,” he told the Companion.

:Good. Thank you.:
She moved off a few
steps. :How's that?:

“That will do.” He kept one hand in the small of Vanyel's back, holding his sword-belt, and one clutching the front of Van's saddle. Now, if Stefen tripped, he wouldn't fall and take Van with him. “Where are we going?” he asked, as she led him through the wreckage of the doorway and into the sunlight. Several trails of footprints led away from the place, and she looked around for a moment.

:Anywhere except where those lead,:
she replied, finally.
:Other than that, I really don't know....:

:Perhaps, white sister,:
said a strange, very dry voice, :you
should determine a direction before setting out.:

The bushes directly ahead of them rustled, and something large—very large—stepped out from among them.

:Perhaps I can help,:
the voice continued.

Stef groped after a knife, his eyes fixed on the creature, his heart right in his throat. This beast—whatever it was—looked something like a wolf, but was much bigger than any wolf Stef had ever heard of or seen. Its shoulder was as tall as his waist; it had a thin, rangy body with long legs, and a head with a very broad, rounded forehead, forward-facing eyes, and jaws—

:I could, singer, but I won't.:
The thing lolled out its tongue in a canine grin.
:I see you recognize my Folk, white sister. Tell him:

:That's a
kyree,
Stef. A neuter, I think.:
Yfandes bowed her head to the creature, and Stef relaxed
marginally. :One with a very powerful Gift of Mindspeech, or you wouldn't be able to hear him ... er, it.:

:Indeed, right on all counts.:
The kyree padded elegantly across the snow toward them.
:I am the FarRanger for the Hot Springs Clan. I felt the magic, and I came. We are like in power, white sister, and you know my kind. Can I give you a direction?:

:Do you know the
Tayledras?: she asked. The
kyree
nodded.
:We have a treaty with them, all Clans of the Folk.:

:This one is Wingbrother to k‘Treva.:
She tossed her head at her rider.

He raised his head and peered keenly at Vanyel.
:Then we are honor-bound to give you more than direction, we must give you aid and shelter. Though of my own will,:
he added over his shoulder as he turned,
:I would have done so anyway.:
His lip lifted as he sniffed audibly.
: The things here were a foul, uncleanly folk, and the world is well rid of them. In time, they might have been a danger to my Clan.:

Yfandes followed the kyree beneath the trees, where it turned northward.
:I am Yfandes, this is Stefen, and my Chosen is Vanyel,:
she said formally.

The
kyree
looked back over its shoulder for a moment.
:I am Aroon,:
he replied, just as formally. :
There is deep mind-hurt with the one you call your Chosen.: