Mercedes Lackey: Magic's Price

Mercedes Lackey

Last Herald-Mage 03

Magic’s Price

To

Russell Galen

Judith Louvis and Sally Paduch

and everyone who dreams of wearing Whites

Sweat ran down Herald Vanyel's back, and his ankle hurt a little - he hadn't twisted it, quite bad, when he'd slipped on the wooden floor of the salle back at the beginning of this bout, but it was still bothering him five exchanges later.

A point of weakness, and one he'd better be aware of, because his opponent was watching for such signs of weakness, sure as the sun rose.

He watched his adversary's eyes within the shadows of his helm. Watch the eyes, he remembered Jervis saying, over and over. The eyes will tell you what the hands won't. So he studied those half-hidden eyes, and tried to hide his entire body behind the quillons of his blade.

The eyes warned him, narrowing and glancing to the left just before Tantras moved. Vanyel was ready for him.

Experience told him, just before their blades touched, that this would be the last exchange. He lunged toward Tantras instead of retreating as Tran was obviously expecting, engaged and bound the other's blade, and disarmed him, all in the space of a breath.

The practice blade clattered onto the floor as Tantras shook his now-empty hand, swearing.

“Stung, did it?” Vanyel said. He straightened, and pulled at the tie holding his hair out of his eyes, letting it fall loose in damp strands. “Sorry. Didn't mean to get quite so vigorous. But you are out of shape, Tran.”

“I don't suppose you'd accept getting old as an excuse?” Tantras asked hopefully, as he took off his gloves and examined the abused ringers.

Vanyel snorted. “Not a chance. Bard Breda is old enough to be my mother, and she regularly runs me around the salle. You are woefully out of condition.”

The other Herald pulled off his helm, and laughed ruefully. “You're right. Being Seneschal's Herald may be high in status, but it's low in exercise.”

“Spar with my nephew Medren,” Vanyel replied. “If you think I'm fast, you should see him. That'll keep you in shape.” He unbuckled his practice gambeson while he spoke, leaving it in a pile of other equipment that needed cleaning up against the wall of the salle.

“I'll do that.” Tantras was slower in freeing himself from the heavier armor he wore. “The gods know I may need to face somebody using that cut-and-run style of yours some day, so I might as well get used to fights that are half race and half combat. And entirely unorthodox.”

“That's me, unorthodox to the core.” Vanyel racked his practice sword and headed for the door of the salle. “Thanks for the workout, Tran. After this morning, I needed it.”

The cool air hit his sweaty skin as he opened the door; it felt wonderful. So good, in fact, that between his reluctance to return to the Palace and the fresh crispness of the early morning, he decided to take a roundabout way back to his room. One that would take him away from people. One that would, for a moment perhaps, take his mind off things as well as his bout with Tantras had.

He headed for the paths to the Palace gardens.

Full-throated birdsong spiraled up into the empty sky. Vanyel let his thoughts drift away, following the warbling notes, leaving every weighty problem behind him until his mind was as empty as the air above -

:Van, wake up! Your feet are soaked!: Yfandes' mind-voice sounded rather aggrieved. :And you're chilling yourself. You're going to catch a cold.:

Herald-Mage Vanyel blinked, and stared down at the dew-laden grass of the neglected garden. He couldn't actually see his feet, hidden as they were by the long, dank, dead grass - but he could feel them, now that 'Fandes had called his attention back to reality. He'd come out here wearing his soft suede indoor boots - they'd been perfect for sparring with Tran, but now -

:They are undoubtedly ruined,: she said acidly.

She sounded so like his aunt, Herald-Mage Savil, that he had to smile. “Won't be the first pair of boots I've ruined, sweetheart,” he replied mildly. His feet were very wet. And very cold. A week ago it wouldn't have been dew out here, it would have been frost. But Spring was well on the way now; the grass was greening under the dead growth of last year, there were young leaves unfolding on every branch, and a few of the earliest songbirds had begun to invade the garden. Vanyel had been watching and listening to a pair of them, rival male yellowthroats, square off in a duel of melody.

:Probably not the last article of clothing you'll ruin, either,: she said with resignation. :You've come a long way from the vain little peacock I Chose.:

“That vain little peacock you Chose would still have been in bed.” He yawned. “I think he was the more sensible one. This hour of the day is positively unholy.”

The sun was barely above the horizon, and most of the Palace inhabitants were still sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, if not the just. This half-wild garden was the only one within the Palace grounds with its eastern side unblocked by buildings or walls, and the thin, clear sunlight poured across it, making every tender leaf and grass blade glow. Tradition claimed this patch of earth and its maze of hedges and bowers to be the Queen's Garden - which was the reason for its current state of neglect. There was no Queen in Valdemar now, and the King's lifebonded had more urgent cares than tending pleasure gardens.

An old man, a gardener by his earth-stained apron, emerged from one of the nearby doors of the Palace and limped up the path toward Vanyel. The Herald stepped to one side to let him pass and gave him a friendly enough nod of greeting, but the old man completely ignored him; muttering something under his breath as he brushed by.

His goal, evidently, was a rosevine-covered shed a few feet away; he vanished inside it for a moment, emerged with a hoe, and began methodically cultivating the nearest flowerbed with it. Van might as well have been a spirit for all the attention the old man gave him.

Vanyel watched him for a moment more, then turned and walked slowly back toward the Palace. “Did it ever occur to you, love,” he said to the empty air, “that you and I and the entire Palace could vanish overnight, and people like that old man would never miss us?”

:Except that we wouldn't be trampling his flowers anymore,: Yfandes replied. :It was a bad morning, wasn't it.:

A statement, not a question. Yfandes had been present in the back of Vanyel's mind during the whole Privy Council session.

“One of Randi's worst yet. That's why I was taking my frustration out with Tran.” Vanyel kicked at an inoffensive weed growing up through the cobbles of the path. “And Randi's got some important things to take care of this afternoon. Formal audiences, for one - ambassadorial receptions. I won't do, not this time. It has to be the King, they're insisting on it. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to be so politic, and could knock a few diplomatic heads together. Tashir, bless his generous young heart, handled things a bit better with his lot.”

Another gardener appeared, and looked at Vanyel oddly as he passed. Van suppressed the urge to call him back and explain. He must be new; he'll learn soon enough about Heralds talking to thin air.

:What did Tashir do with his envoys? I was talking to Ariel's Darvena while you were dealing with them. You know, I still can't believe your brother Mekeal produced a child sensitive enough to be Chosen.:

“Neither can I. But then, illogic runs in the family, I guess. As for Tashir; his envoys have been ordered to accept me as the voice of the King-” Vanyel explained. “The trouble's with the territories he annexed on Lake Evendim. This lot from the Lake District is touchy as hell, and being received by anyone less than Randi is going to be a mortal affront.”