Mercedes Lackey - Last Herald - Mage 1 - Magic's Pawn

Mercedes Lackey

Last Herald Mage Trilogy 01

Magic’s Pawn

One

“Your grandfather," said Vanyel's brawny, fifteen-year-old cousin Radevel, "was crazy."

He has a point, Vanyel thought, hoping they weren't about to take an uncontrolled dive

down the last of the stairs.

Radevel's remark had probably been prompted by this very back staircase, one that

started at one end of the third-floor servants' hall and emerged at the rear of a linen

closet on the ground floor. The stair treads were so narrow and so slick that not even the

servants used it.

The manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach was a strange and

patchworked structure. In Vanyel's great-great-grandfather's day it had been a more

conventional defensive keep, but by the time Vanyel's grandfather had held the lands,

the border had been pushed far past Forst Reach. The old reprobate had decided when

he'd reached late middle age that defense was going to be secondary to comfort. His

comfort, primarily.

Not that Vanyel entirely disagreed with Grandfather; he would have been one of the first

to vote to fill in the moat and for fireplaces in all the rooms. But the old man had gotten

some pretty peculiar notions about what he wanted where - along with a tendency to

change his mind in mid-alteration.

There were good points - windows everywhere, and all of them glazed and shuttered.

Skylights lighting all the upper rooms and the staircases. Fireplaces in nearly every

room. Heated privies, part and parcel of the bathhouse.

Every inside wall lathed and plastered against cold and damp. The stables, mews,

kennel, and chickenyard banished to new outbuildings.

But there were bad points - if you didn't know your way, you could really get lost; and

there were an awful lot of places you couldn't get into unless you knew exactly how to

get there. Some of those places were important - like the bathhouse and privies. The old

goat hadn't much considered the next generation in his alterations, either; he'd cut up

the nursery into servant's quarters, which meant that until Lord Withen's boys went into

bachelor's hall and the girls to the bower, they were cramped two and three to a series

of very tiny attic-level rooms.

"He was your grandfather, too," Vanyel felt impelled to point out. The Ashkevron cousins

had a tendency to act as if they had no common ancestors with Vanyel and his sibs

whenever the subject of Grandfather Joserlin and his alterations came up.

"Huh." Radevel considered for a moment, then shrugged. "He was still crazy." He hefted

his own load of armor and padding a little higher on his shoulder.

Vanyel held his peace and trotted down the last couple of stone stairs to hold the door

open for his cousin. Radevel was doing him a favor, even though Vanyel was certain

that cousin Radevel shared everyone else's low opinion of him. Radevel was by far and

away the best-natured of the cousins, and the easiest to talk round - and the bribe of

Vanyel's new hawking gauntlet had proved too much for him to resist. Still, it wouldn't do

to get him angry by arguing with him; he might decide he had better things to do than

help Vanyel out, gauntlet or no gauntlet.

Oh, gods - let this work, Vanyel thought as they emerged into the gloomy back hall. Did I

practice enough with Lissa? Is this going to have a chance against a standard attack?

Or am I crazy for even trying?

The hallway was as cold as the staircase had been, and dark to boot. Radevel took the

lead, feet slapping on the stone floor as he whistled contentedly - and tunelessly. Vanyel

tried not to wince at the mutilation of one of his favorite melodies and drifted silently in

his wake, his thoughts as dark as the hallway.

In three days Lissa will be gone - and if I can't manage to get sent along, I'll be all alone.

Without Lissa . . .

If I can just prove that I need her kind of training, then maybe Father will let me go with

her -

That had been the half-formed notion that prompted him to work out the moves of a

different style of fighting than what he was supposed to be learning, practicing them in

secret with his older sister Lissa: that was what had ultimately led to this little expedition.

That, and the urgent need to show Lord Withen that his eldest son wasn't the coward the

armsmaster claimed he was - and that he could succeed on martial ground of his own

choosing.

Vanyel wondered why he was the only boy to realize that there were other styles of

fighting than armsmaster Jervis taught; he'd read of them, and knew that they had to be

just as valid, else why send Lissa off to foster and study with Trevor Corey and his

seven would-be sword-ladies? The way Vanyel had it figured, there was no way short of

a miracle that he would ever succeed at the brute hack-and-bash system Jervis used -

and no way Lord Withen would ever believe that another style was just as good while

Jervis had his ear.

Unless Vanyel could show him. Then Father would have to believe his own eyes.

And if I can't prove it to him -

- oh, gods. I can't take much more of this.

With Lissa gone to Brenden Keep, his last real ally in the household would be gone, too;

his only friend, and the only person who cared for him.

This was the final trial of the plot he'd worked out with Liss; Radevel would try to take

him using Jervis' teachings. Vanyel would try to hold his own, wearing nothing but the

padded jerkin and helm, carrying the lightest of target-shields, and trusting to speed and

agility to keep him out of trouble.

Radevel kicked open the unlatched door to the practice ground, leaving Vanyel to get it

closed before somebody yelled about the draft. The early spring sunlight was painful

after the darkness of the hallway; Vanyel squinted as he hurried to catch up with his

cousin.

"All right, peacock," Radevel said good-naturedly, dumping his gear at the edge of the

practice ground, and snagging his own gambeson from the pile. "Get yourself ready, and

we'll see if this nonsense of yours has any merit."

It took Vanyel a lot less time than his cousin to shrug into his "armor"; he offered

tentatively to help Radevel with his, but the older boy just snorted.

"Botch mine the way you botch yours? No thanks," he said, and went on methodically

buckling and adjusting.

Vanyel flushed, and stood uncertainly at the side of the sunken practice ground,

contemplating the thick, dead grass at his feet.

I never botch anything except when Jervis is watching, he thought bleakly, shivering a

little as a bit of cold breeze cut through the gambeson. And then I can't do anything right.

He could almost feel the windows in the keep wall behind him like eyes staring at his

back. Waiting for him to fail - again.

What's wrong with me, anyway? Why can't I ever please Father? Why is everything I do

wrong?

He sighed, scuffed the ground with his toe, and wished he could be out riding instead of

trying something doomed to failure. He was the best rider in Forst Reach - he and Star

had no equals on the most breakneck of hunts, and he could, if he chose, master

anything else in the stables.

And just because I won't bother with those ironmouthed brutes Father prefers, he won't

even grant me the accolade there-

Gods. This time I have to win.

"Wake up, dreamer," Radevel rumbled, his voice muffled inside the helm. "You wanted

to have at - let's get to it."

Vanyel walked to the center of the practice field with nervous deliberation, waiting until

the last minute to get his helm on. He hated the thing; he hated the feeling of being

closed in, and most of all hated having his vision narrowed to a little slit. He waited for

Radevel to come up to him, feeling the sweat already starting under his arms and down

the line of his back.

Radevel swung - but instead of meeting the blow with his shield as Jervis would have

done, Vanyel just moved out of the way of the blow, and on his way past Radevel, made

a stab of his own. Jervis never cared much for point-work, but Vanyel had discovered it

could be really effective if you timed things right. Radevel made a startled sound and got

up his own shield, but only just in time, and left himself open to a cut.

Vanyel felt his spirits rising as he saw this second opening in as many breaths, and

chanced another attack of his own. This one actually managed to connect, though it was

too light to call a disabling hit.

"Light!" Vanyel shouted as he danced away, before his cousin had a chance to disqualify

the blow.

"Almost enough, peacock," Radevel replied, reluctant admiration in his voice. "You land

another like that with your weight behind it and I'll be out. Try this for size - "

He charged, his practice blade a blur beside his shield.

Vanyel just stepped aside at the last moment, while Radevel staggered halfway to the

boundary under his own momentum.

It was working! Radevel couldn't get near him - and Vanyel was pecking away at him

whenever he got an opportunity. He wasn't hitting even close to killing strength - but that

was mostly from lack of practice. If -

' 'Hold, damn your eyes!''

Long habit froze them both in position, and the armsmaster of Forst Reach stalked onto

the field, fire in his bloodshot glare.

Jervis looked the two of them up and down while Vanyel sweated from more than

exertion. The blond, crag-faced mercenary frowned, and Vanyel's mouth went dry.

Jervis looked angry - and when Jervis was angry, it was generally Vanyel who suffered.

"Well - " the man croaked after long enough for Vanyel's dread of him to build up to full

force, " - learning a new discipline, are we? And whose idea was this?"

"Mine, sir," Vanyel whispered.

"Might have guessed sneak-and-run would be more suited to you than an honest fight,"

the armsmaster sneered. "Well, and how did you do, my bright young lord?"

"He did all right, Jervis." To Vanyel's complete amazement Radevel spoke up for him. "I

couldn't get a blow on 'im. An' if he'd put his weight behind it, he'd have laid me out a

time or two."

"So you're a real hero against a half-grown boy. I'll just bet you feel like another Veth

Krethen, don't you?" Jervis spat. Vanyel held his temper, counting to ten, and did not

protest that Radevel was nearly double his size and certainly no "half-grown boy." Jervis

glared at him, waiting for a retort that never came - and strangely, that seemed to anger

Jervis even more.

"All right, hero," he snarled, taking Radevel's blade away and jamming the boy's helm

down over his own head. "Let's see just how good you really are - "

Jervis charged without any warning, and Vanyel had to scramble to get out of the way of

the whirling blade. He realized then that Jervis was coming for him all-out - as if Vanyel

was wearing full armor.

Which he wasn't.

He pivoted desperately as Jervis came at him again; ducked, wove, and spun - and saw

an opening. This time desperation gave him the strength he hadn't used against

Radevel - and he scored a chest-stab that actually rocked Jervis back for a moment, and

followed it with a good solid blow to the head.

He waited, heart in mouth, while the armsmaster staggered backward two or three

steps, then shook his head to clear it. There was an awful silence -

Then Jervis yanked off the helm, and there was nothing but rage on his face.

"Radevel, get the boys, then bring me Lordling Vanyel's arms and armor," the

armsmaster said, in a voice that was deadly calm.

Radevel backed off the field, then turned and ran for the keep. Jervis paced slowly to

within a few feet of Vanyel, and Vanyel nearly died of fear on the spot.

"So you like striking from behind, hmm?" he said in that same, deadly quiet voice. "I

think maybe I've been a bit lax in teaching you about honor, young milord." A thin smile

briefly sliced across his face. "But I think we can remedy that quickly enough."

Radevel approached with feet dragging, his arms loaded with the rest of Vanyel's

equipment.

"Arm up," Jervis ordered, and Vanyel did not dare to disobey.

Exactly what Jervis said, then - other than dressing Vanyel down in front of the whole lot

of them, calling him a coward and a cheat, an assassin who wouldn't stand still to face

his opponent's blade with honor - Vanyel could never afterward remember. Only a haze

of mingled fear and anger that made the words meaningless.

But then Jervis took Vanyel on. His way, his style.

It was a hopeless fight from the beginning, even if Vanyel had been good at this

particular mode of combat. In moments Vanyel found himself flat on his back, trying to

see around spots in front of his eyes, with his ears still ringing from a blow he hadn't

even seen coming.

"Get up," Jervis said-

Five more times Vanyel got up, each time more slowly. Each time, he tried to yield. By

the fourth time he was wit-wandering, dazed and groveling. And Jervis refused to accept

his surrender even when he could barely gasp out the words.

Radevel had gotten a really bad feeling in his stomach from the moment he saw Jervis'

face when Van scored on him. He'd never seen the old bastard that angry in all the time

he'd been fostered here.

But he'd figured that Vanyel was just going to get a bit of a thrashing. He'd never figured

on being an unwilling witness to a deliberate -

- massacre. That was all he could think it. Van was no match for Jervis, and Jervis was

coming at him all out - like he was a trained, adult fighter. Even Radevel could see that.

He heaved a sigh of relief when Vanyel was knocked flat on his back, and mumbled out

his surrender as soon as he could speak. The worst the poor little snot had gotten was a

few bruises.

But when Jervis had refused to accept that surrender - when he beat at Van with the flat

of his blade until the boy had to pick up sword and shield just to get the beating to stop -

Radevel got that bad feeling again.

And it got worse. Five times more Jervis knocked him flat, and each time with what

looked like an even more vicious strike.

But the sixth time Vanyel was laid out, he couldn't get up.

Jervis let fly with a blow that broke the wood and copper shield right in the middle - and

to Radevel's horror, he saw when the boy fell back that Vanyel's shield arm had been

broken in half; the lower arm was bent in the middle, and that could only mean that both

bones had snapped. It was pure miracle that they hadn't gone through muscle and skin -

And Jervis' eyes were still not what Radevel would call sane.

Radevel added up all the factors and came up with one answer: get Lissa. She was

adult-rank, she was Van's protector, and no matter what the armsmaster said in

justification for beating the crud out of Van, if Jervis laid one finger in anger on Lissa,

he'd get thrown out of the Keep with both his arms broken. If Withen didn't do it, there

were others who liked Liss a lot who would.

Radevel backed off the field and took to his heels as soon as he was out of sight.

Vanyel lay flat on his back again, breath knocked out of him, in a kind of shock in which

he couldn't feel much of anything except - except that something was wrong,

somewhere. Then he tried to get up - and pain shooting along his left arm sent him

screaming into darkness.

When he came to, Lissa was bending over him, her horsey face tight with worry. She

was pale, and the nostrils of that prominent Ashkevron nose flared like a frightened

filly's.

"Don't move - Van, no - both the bones of your arm are broken." She was kneeling next

to him, he realized, with one knee gently but firmly holding his left arm down so that he

couldn't move it.

"Lady, get away from him - " Jervis' voice dripped boredom and disgust. "It's just his

shield arm, nothing important. We'll just strap it to a board and put some liniment on it

and he'll be fine - "

She didn't move her knees, but swung around to face Jervis so fast that her braid came

loose and whipped past Vanyel's nose like a lash. "You have done quite enough for one

day, Master Jervis," she snarled. "I think you forget your place."

Vanyel wished vacantly that he could see Jervis' face at that moment. It must surely be

a sight.

But his arm began to hurt - and that was more than enough to keep his attention.

There wasn't usually a Healer at Forst Reach, but Vanyel's Aunt Serina was staying

here with her sister during her pregnancy. She'd had three miscarriages already, and

was taking no chances; she was attended by her very own Healer. And Lissa had seen

to it that the Healer, not Jervis, was the one that dealt with Vanyel's arm.

"Oh, Van - " Lissa folded herself inelegantly on the edge of Vanyel's bed and sighed.

"How did you manage to get into this mess?''

That beaky Ashkevron nose and her determined chin combined with her anxiety to make

her look like a stubborn, mulish mare. Most people were put off by her appearance, but

Vanyel knew her well enough to read the heartsick worry in her eyes. After all, she'd all

but raised him.

Vanyel wasn't certain how clear he'd be, but he tried to explain. Lissa tucked up her

legs, and rested her chin on her knees, an unladylike pose that would have evoked

considerable distress from Lady Treesa. When he finished, she sighed again.

"I think you attract bad luck, that's all I can say. You don't do anything wrong, but

somehow things seem to happen to you."

Vanyel licked his dry lips and blinked at her. "Liss - Jervis was really angry this time, and

what you told him didn't help. He's going to go right to Father, if he isn't there already."

She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? Van, all I was thinking about

was getting him away from you."

"I - I know Liss, I'm not blaming you, but - "

"But I made him mad. Well, I'll see if I can get to Father before Jervis does, but even if I

do he probably won't listen to me. I'm just a female, after all."

"I know." He closed his eyes as the room began to swing. "Just - try, Liss - please."

"I will." She slipped off the bed, then bent over and kissed his forehead. "Try and sleep,

like the Healer told you, all right?"

He nodded.

Tough-minded and independent, like the grandmother who had raised her, Lissa was

about the only one in the keep willing to stand up to Lord Withen now that Grandmother

Ashkevron had passed on. Not surprising, that, given Grandmother. The Ashkevrons

seemed to produce about one strong-willed female in every generation, much to the

bemusement of the Ashkevron males, and the more compliant Ashkevron females.

Lady Treesa (anything but independent) had been far too busy with pregnancy and all

the vapors she indulged in when pregnant to have anything to do with the resulting

offspring. They went to the hands of others until they were old enough to be usefully

added to her entourage. Lissa went to Grandmother.

But Vanyel went to Liss. And they loved each other from the moment she'd taken him

out of the nursery. She'd stand up to a raging lion for his sake.

So Lissa went in search of their father. Unfortunately that left him alone. And

unfortunately Lissa didn't return when she couldn't immediately find Lord Withen. And

that, of course, left him vulnerable when his father chose to descend on him like the god

of thunders.

Vanyel was dizzy with pain as well as with the medicines the Healer had made him drink

when Lord Withen stormed into his tiny, white-plastered room. He was lying flat on his

back in his bed, trying not to move, and still the room seemed to be reeling around him.

The pain was making him nauseous, and all he wanted was to be left in peace. The very

last thing he wanted to see was his lord father.

And Withen barely gave him enough time to register that his father was there before

laying into him.

"What's all this about your cheating?" Withen roared, making Vanyel wince and wish he

dared to cover his ears. "By the gods, you whelp, I ought to break your other arm for

you!"

"I wasn't cheating!" Vanyel protested, stung, his voice breaking at just the wrong

moment. He tried to sit upright - which only made the room spin the more. He fell back,

supporting himself on his good elbow, grinding his teeth against the pain of his throbbing

arm.

"I was," he gasped through clenched teeth, "I was just doing what Seldasen said to do!"

"And just who might this 'Seldasen' be?" his father growled savagely, his dark brows

knitting together. "What manner of coward says to run about and strike behind a man's

back, eh?"

Oh, gods - now what have I done? Though his head was spinning, Vanyel tried to

remember if Herald Seldasen's treatise on warfare and tactics had been one of the

books he'd "borrowed" without leave, or one of the ones he was supposed to be

studying.

"Well?" When Lord Withen scowled, his dark hair and beard made him look positively

demonic. The drugs seemed to be giving him an aura of angry red light, too.

Father, why can't you ever believe I might be in the right?

The book was on the "approved" list, Vanyel remembered with relief, as he recalled his

tutor Istal assigning certain chapters to be memorized. "It's Herald Seldasen, Father," he

said defiantly, finding strength in rebellion. "It's from a book Istal assigned me, about

tactics." The words he remembered strengthened him still more, and he threw them into

his father's face. "He said: 'Let every man that must go to battle fight within his talents,

and not be forced to any one school. Let the agile man use his speed, let his armoring

be light, and let him skirmish, but not close with the enemy. Let the heavy man stand

shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in the shield wall, that the enemy may not break

through. Let the small man of good eye make good use of the bow, aye, and let the

Herald fight with his mind and not his body, let the Herald-Mage combat with magic and

not the sword. And let no man be called coward for refusing the place for which he is not

fit.' And I didn't once hit anybody from behind! If Jervis says I did - well - I didn't!"

Lord Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one moment

Vanyel actually thought he'd gotten through to his father, who was more accustomed to

hearing him quote poetry than military history.

"Parrot some damned book at me, will you?" Lord Withen snarled, dashing Vanyel's

hopes. "And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about fighting? You listen to

me, boy - you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned well better learn what Jervis

has to teach you if you want to sit in my place when I'm gone! If he says you were

cheating, then by damn you were cheating!"

"But I wasn't cheating and I don't want your place - " Vanyel protested, the drugs

destroying his self-control and making him say things he'd sooner have kept behind his

teeth.

That stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he'd gone mad, grown a

second head, or spoken in Karsite.

"Great good gods, boy," he managed to splutter after several icy eternities during which

Vanyel waited for the roof to cave in. "What do you want?"

"I - " Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to be a

Bard -

"You ungrateful whelp - you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order you to

do! You're my heir and you'll do your duty to me and to this holding if I have to see you

half dead to get you to do it!"

And with that, he stormed out, leaving Vanyel limp with pain and anger and utter

dejection, his eyes clamped tight against the tears he could feel behind them.

Oh, gods, what does he expect of me? Why can't I ever please him ? What do I have to

do to convince him that I can't be what he wants me to be ? Die ?

And now - now my hand, oh, gods, it hurts - how much damage did they do to it ? Am I

ever going to be able to play anything right again ?

"Heyla, Van - "

He opened his eyes, startled by the sound of a voice.

His door was cracked partway open; Radevel peered around the edge of it, and Vanyel

could hear scuffling and whispers behind him.

"You all right?"

"No," Vanyel replied, suspiciously.

What the hell does he want?

Radevel's bushy eyebrows jumped like a pair of excited caterpillars. "Guess not. Bet it

hurts."

"It hurts," Vanyel said, feeling a sick and sullen anger burning in the pit of his stomach.

Mercedes Lackey - Last Herald - Mage 1 - Magic's Pawn

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