Magic's Price (52 page)

 

Days later, he came upon the battlefield, riding an exhausted horse, himself too spent to speak. The battle was long over; and still the carnage was incredible.

At the edge of camp, one of the Guardsmen stopped Melody with one hand on her bridle, and Stef didn't have the strength to urge her past him. He simply stared dully at the man, until someone else came—a Healer, and then someone in high-rank blue. He ignored the Healer, but the other got him to dismount.

The Commander, her face gray with fatigue, her eyes full of pain.

“I'm sorry, lad,” the Commander said, one arm around his shoulders. “I'm sorry. We were all too late to save him. He was—gone—before we ever got here. But ... I'd guess you know that. I'm sorry.”

The dam holding his emotions in check broke inside him, and he turned his face into her shoulder; she held him, as she must often have held others, and let him cry himself out, until he had no more tears, until he could scarcely stand. Then she helped him into her own tent, put him to bed on her own cot, and covered him with her own hands.

“Sleep, laddy,” she whispered hoarsely. “ ‘Tain't a cure, but you need it. He'd tell you the same if—”

She turned away. He slept, though he didn't think he could; the mournful howls of
kyree
filled his thoughts ... and Vanyel's face, Vanyel's touch....

Candlemarks later, he woke. Another Guardsman sat on a stool next to the cot, keeping watch beside him.

He blinked, confused by his surroundings—then remembered.

“I want to see him,” he said, sitting up.

“Sir—” the Guardsman said hesitantly, “There ain't nothin' to see. We couldn't find a thing. Just—them. Lots of them.”

“Then I want to see where he was,” Stef insisted. “I have to—please—”

The Guardsman looked uncomfortable, but helped him up, led him out and supported him as he climbed back up the pass. Bodies were being collected and piled up to be burned; the stench and black smoke were making Stef sick, and there was blood everywhere. And at the narrowest point of the pass, where the mortuary crews hadn't even reached, it was even worse.

Stefen's escort tightened his grip suddenly and yelped, as a white-furred shape appeared beside them. Hyrryl's blue eyes spoke her sympathy wordlessly to Stefen, and he heard himself saying, “It's all right ... they're friends,” as another fell in on his left—Aroon. The Guardsman swallowed, and they resumed their walk.

Blackened, burned, and mangled bodies were piled as many as three and four deep, and all of them wore ebony armor or robes. The carnage centered around one spot, a place clean of snow and dirt, scoured right down to the rock, with the stone itself polished black and shining. Hyrryl and Aroon took up positions on either side of the pass, and sat on their haunches, almost at attention, watching over the Bard. The Guardsman bowed and retreated wordlessly, and no one else came near.

Stef stumbled tear-blinded through the heaped bodies, looking for one—one White-clad amid all the black—

There was nothing, just as the Guardsman had told him. Stef shook his head, frantically, then began looking for anything, a scrap of white, anything at all.

Finally, after candlemarks of searching, a glint of silver caught his eye. He bent—and found a thin wisp of blood-soaked, white horsehair. And beside it, the mage-focus he had given Vanyel; the chain gone, the silver setting half-melted and tarnished, the stone blackened, burned, cracked in two.

He clutched his finds to his chest; his knees gave way, and he fell to the stone, his grief so all-encompassing that he could not even weep—only whisper Vanyel's name, as if it were an incantation that would bring him back.

 

The trees were a scarlet glory behind the dull brown of the Guard post. “You're the Bard, ain't you? Stefen? The one that was with—” awe made the boy's eyes widen, his voice drop to a whisper “—Herald Vanyel.”

Stef tried unsuccessfully to smile at the young Guardsman. “Yes. I'd heard about what's happening up here and I came to see for myself.”

That got a reaction; the boy started, and his eyes widened with fear. Then the youngster straightened and tried to look less frightened than he was. “ ‘Tis true, Bard Stefen. Anybody comes into that Forest as has bad intentions, they don't come out again. Fact is, it looks like it started the night Herald Vanyel died. We found lots of them fellahs in the black armor as had run off inta the Forest, and ev' one of 'em was cold meat.”

“I'd heard that,” Stefen said, dismounting carefully. “But I'd also heard some tales that were pretty wild.” The autumn wind tossed his hair and Melody's mane as he handed her reins to the Guardsman.

“They ain't wild, m‘lord Bard. The men as we found—stuck right through with branches, or even icicles, up t' their waists in frozen ground—they was spooky enough. But Lor' an' Lady! There was some tore t'little
bits
by somethin‘, and more just—dead. No mark on, 'em, just dead—and the awfullest looks on their faces—” The boy shivered. “Been like that ever since. Once in a while we go in there, have a look around, sure enough, we'll find some bandit or other th' same way.”

“They say the Forest is cursed,” Stef said absently, shading his eyes with his hand, and peering into the shadows beneath the trees beyond the Guard barracks. “It sounds more like a blessing to me.”

“Blessed or cursed, ‘tis a good thing for Valdemar, an' we reckon Herald Vanyel done it.”

Stefen slung his gittern-bag over one shoulder, his near-empty pack over the other, and headed, not for the Guard post, but the Forest.

“Hey!” the boy protested. Stef ignored him, ignored the shouts behind him, and began his solitary trek into the Forest they now called “Sorrows.”

Near sunset he finally stopped.
Near enough,
he thought, looking around.
I don't need to be in the Pass to do this. And this is where we were last happy together. This, or a place very like this.

He was at the foot of a very tall hill—or small mountain; the sun was setting to his left, the moon rising to his right, and there was no sign of any living person. Just the hill, with a shallow cave under it, the trees, and the birds.

He gathered enough wood for a small fire, started it, and took out his gittern. He played until the sun just touched the horizon; all of Van's favorites, all the music he'd composed since—even the melody of the song for the
kyree,
and the song he'd left a copy of back at Bardic Collegium, the one he'd never performed in public—the one he had written for Vanyel, that he called “Magic's Price.”

And then he put the gittern down, carefully. He'd thought about breaking it, but it was a sweet little instrument, and didn't deserve destruction for sake of an unwitnessed dramatic scene. He settled on wrapping it carefully and stowing it in the back of the cave. Perhaps someone would find it.

The ache in his soul had not eased in all these months. People kept telling him that time would heal the loss, but it hadn't. They'd kept a close watch on him for months after he returned from the Pass, but lately they hadn't been quite as careful.

But then, lately there had been other things to think about than one young Bard with a broken heart.

He'd taken the opportunity offered by the confusion of King Randale's death and King Treven's coronation to escape them and make his way up here.

It hadn't been easy to get that vial of argonel, and finally he'd had to buy it from a thief. He took it out of the bottom of his pack, and weighed the heavy porcelain vial in his hand.

He set it down in front of him, staring at it in the fading, crimson light.
You drift into sleep. Not so bad. Easier death than he had. Easier than Randi's. A lot easier than Shavri‘s—

Finally he reached for it—

A shower of stone fragments shook themselves loose from the roof of the cave, and one struck the bottle of poison. It tipped over and rolled out of his reach, then the cork popped out and it capriciously poured its contents into the dust. He scrambled after it with a cry of dismay, glancing worriedly at the ceiling of the cave—

:Go through with it, you idiot,:
said a cheerful voice in his mind,
:and I'll never forgive you.:

That voice—
Stef froze, then turned his head, very slowly.

Something stood there, between him and the forest.

Van.

A much younger-looking Vanyel. And a very transparent Vanyel. Stef could see the bushes behind him quite clearly—

Before he had a chance to feel even a hint of fear, Van smiled—the all-too-rare, sweet smile Stef had come to cherish in their time together—a smile of pure love, and real, unshadowed happiness.

“Van?” he said, hesitantly.
It can't be—I'm going mad—oh, dear gods, please let it be—

Tears began to well up, and he shook them out of his eyes as he reached out with a trembling hand. “Van? Is that really—”

Van reached out at the same time; his hand—and just his hand—grew solid momentarily. Solid enough that Stef was able to touch it before it faded to transparency again.

It was real; real, and solid and warm.

“How?” Stef asked, through the tears. “What happened?”

Vanyel shrugged—a completely Van-like shrug.
:Something happened, after I took Leareth out with the Final Strike. I had a choice. Most Heralds have a couple of choices; they can go on to the Havens, or come back, like the
Tayledras
say people come back—I was given another option.:

“Another option?
This?”

:I know it doesn't look like much—:
Vanyel smiled again, then sobered.
:The problem is that I was the
last
Herald-Mage. Valdemar needs a guardian on this Border, a magical one—Master Dark wasn't alone, and he left apprentices. So—that was my choice, to stay and guard. Yfandes, too. ‘Fandes and I are part of the Forest now—:

He hesitated a moment.
Stef—I asked for something before I agreed, and you get the same choice. You can join me—but—:

“But?” Stefen cried, leaping to his feet, stirring the dust from the now-forgotten pebble attack. “But what? Anything,
ashke
—whatever I have to do to be with you—”

Vanyel moved closer, and made as if to touch his cheek.
:You can join me, but there are conditions. You can only come when it's time. There are things I can't tell you about, but you have to earn your place. There's something that needs to be done, and you are uniquely suited to do it. I won't lie to you, beloved—it's going to take years.:

“What is it?” Stef demanded, his heart pounding, his throat tight. “Tell me—”

Stef nodded. “It's gotten worse since you—I mean, you were the last. There's no one to replace you, no one to train new ones, no way to
find
new ones. I mean, now you're a legend, Van, and the people tend to think of legends as being flawless....”

“But that could take a lifetime!” Stefen cried involuntarily, dismayed by the magnitude of the task. Then, as Vanyel nodded, he realized what that meant in terms of “earning his place.”

:Exactly,:
Van said, his eyes mournful. :Exactly.
Do you still love me enough to spend a lifetime doing the work I've left to you? A lifetime alone? I wouldn't blame you if—:

“Van—” Stef whispered, looking deeply into those beloved silver eyes, “Van—I love you enough to die for you—I still do. I always will. I guess—”

He hesitated a moment more, then swallowed down his tears. “I guess,” he finished, managing to dredge up a shaky, tear-edged smile, “if I love you enough to die for you, it kind of follows that I love you enough to live for you. And there are worse ways to die for somebody than by old age—”

:Tell me about it:.
For one moment, all the starlight, the moonlight, seemed to collect in one place, then feed into Vanyel. The figure of the Herald glowed as bright as the full moon for a heartbeat, and he solidified long enough to take Stefen into his arms-

:Oh,
ashke—: he murmured, and smiled lovingly.

Then he was gone. Completely. And without the evidence of the spilled bottle and the dust in his hair, Stef would never have known Vanyel was there except in his mind.

The Bard looked around frantically, but there was no sign of him. “Van, wait!” he shouted into the still air, “Wait! How will I know when I've earned my place?”

:You'll know,:
came the whisper in his mind.
:We'll call you.:

H
erald Andros leaned back in his saddle, and stretched, enjoying the warm spring sunshine on his back. He looked behind him to make sure his fellow traveler was keeping up all right.

The old Bard was nodding off again; it was a good thing that Ashkevron palfrey had easy paces, or the poor old man would have fallen off a half dozen times.