Mercedes Lackey - Last Herald Mage 2 - Magic's Promise

VIP免费
2024-12-02 0 0 585.29KB 183 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
Mercedes Lackey
Last Herald Mage 02
Magic’s Promise
Dedicated to:
Elizabeth (Betsy) Wollheim
Who said - ”Go for it”
One
The blue leather saddlebags and a canvas pack, all a-bulging with filthy
clothing and miscellaneous gear, landed in the corner of Vanyel's room with
three dull thuds. The lute, still in its padded leather case, slithered over the
back of one of the two overstuffed chairs and landed with a softer pumph, to
rest in the cradle of the worn red seat cushion. Once safely there it sagged,
leaning over sideways like a fat, drunken child. The dark leather lute case
glowed dully in the mid-morning sun still coming in the single eastward-facing
window. Two years of mistreatment had not marred the finish too much,
although the case was scuffed here and there, and had been torn and
remended with tiny, careful stitches along the belly.
Vanyel grimaced at the all-too-visible tear. Torn? No, no tear would be
that even. Say cut, or slashed and it would be nearer the truth. Pray nobody
else notices that.
Better the lute case than me ... that came closer than I really want to think
about. I hope Savil never gets a good look at it. She'd know what that meant,
and she'd have a cat.
Herald-Mage Vanyel took the other chair gracelessly, dropping all his
weight at once into the embrace of comfortable upholstered arms.
Home at last. Havens, I sound like the pack hitting the corner.
“O-o-oh.” Vanyel leaned back, feeling every muscle in his body crying out
with long-ignored aches and strains. His thoughts fumbled their way into his
conscious mind through a fog of utter exhaustion. He wanted, more than
anything, to close his gritty eyes. But he didn't dare, because the moment he
did, he'd fall asleep.
Someday I'm going to remember I'm not sixteen anymore, and keep in
mind that I can't stay up till all hours, then rise with the dawn, and not pay for
it. A few moments ago his Companion Yfandes had fallen asleep, standing
up in the stable, while he was grooming her. They'd started out on this last leg
of their journey long before dawn this morning, and had pushed their limits,
eating up the last dregs of their strength just to get to the sanctuary of “home”
the sooner.
Gods. If only I would never have to see the Karsite Border again.
No chance of that. Lord and Lady, if you love me, just give me enough
time to get my wind back. That's all I ask. Time enough to feel like a human
again, and not a killing machine.
The room smelled strongly of soap and the beeswax used to polish the
furniture and wall paneling. He stretched, listening to his joints crack, then
blinked at his surroundings.
Peculiar. Why doesn't this feel like home? He pondered for a moment, for
it seemed to him that his modest, goldenoak-paneled quarters had the
anonymous, overly-neat look of a room without a current occupant. I suppose
that's only logical, he thought reluctantly. They haven't been occupied, much.
I've been living out of my packs for the last year, and before that I was only
here for a couple of weeks at a time at most. Gods.
It was a comfortable, warm-and quite average-room. Like any one of a
dozen he'd tenanted lately, when he'd had the luxury of a guest room in some
keep or other. Sparsely furnished with two chairs, a table, a desk and stool,
and a wardrobe, a curtained, canopied bed in the corner. That bed was
enormous-his one real indulgence: he tended to toss restlessly when-and if-
he slept.
He smiled wryly, thinking how more than one person had assumed he'd
wanted that particular bed for another reason entirely. They'd never believe it
if I told them Savil gets more erotic exercise than I do. Oh, well. Maybe it's a
good thing I don't have a lover; he'd wake up black and blue. Always
assuming I didn't strangle him by accident during a nightmare.
But other than that bed, the room was rather plain. Only one window, and
that one without much of a view. It certainly wasn't the suite he could have
commanded-
But what good is a suite when I hardly see Haven, much less my own
room?
He put his feet up on the low, scarred table between the chairs, in
defiance of etiquette. He could have requisitioned a footstool-
But somehow I never think of it until I'm five leagues down the road
headed out. There's never enough time for-for anything. Not since Elspeth
died, anyway. And gods-please let me be wrong about Randale.
His eyes blurred; he shook his head to clear them. Only then did he see
the pile of letters lying beside his feet, and groaned at the all-too-familiar seal
on the uppermost one. The seal of Withen, Lord of Forst Reach and Vanyel's
father.
Twenty-eight years old, and he still makes me feel fifteen, and in disgrace.
Why me? he asked the gods, who did not choose to answer. He sighed again,
and eyed the letter sourly. It was dauntingly thick.
Hellfire. It-and every other problem-can damned well wait until after I've
had a bath. A bath, and something to eat that doesn't have mold on it, and
something to drink besides boiled mud. Now, did I leave anything behind the
last time I was here that was fit to wear?
He struggled to his feet and rummaged in the wardrobe beside his bed,
finally emerging with a shirt and breeches of an old and faded blue that had
once been deep sapphire. Thank the gods. Not Whites, and I won't be
wearing Whites when I get home. It's going to be so nice to wear something
that doesn't stain when you look at it. (Unfair, nagged his conscience-properly
treated, the uniform of Heraldic Whites was so resistant to dirt and stains that
the non-Heralds suspected magic. He ignored the insistent little mental voice.)
Although I don't know what I'm going to do for uniforms. Dear Father would
hardly have known his son, covered in mud, stubbled, ashes in his hair.
He emptied the canvas pack on the floor and rang for a page to come and
take the mishandled uniforms away to be properly dealt with. They were in
exceedingly sad shape; stained with grass and mud, and blood-some of it his
own-some were cut and torn, and most were nearly worn-out.
He'd have taken one look and figured I'd been possessed. Not that the
Karsites didn't try that, too. At least near-possession doesn't leave stains . . .
not on uniforms, anyway. What am I going to do for uniforms? Oh, well-worry
about that after my bath.
The bathing room was at the other end of the long, wood-paneled, stone-
floored hallway; at mid-morning there was no one in the hall, much less
competing for the tubs and hot water. Vanyel made the long trudge in a half-
daze, thinking only how good the hot water would feel. The last bath he'd had-
except for the quick one at the inn last night-had been in a cold stream. A very
cold stream. And with sand, not soap.
Once there, he shed his clothing and left it in a heap on the floor, filled the
largest of the three wooden tubs from the copper boiler, and slid into the hot
water with a sigh-
-and woke up with his arms draped over the edges and going numb, his
head sagging down on his chest, and the water lukewarm and growing colder.
A hand gently touched his shoulder.
He knew without looking that it had to be a fellow Herald-if it hadn't been,
if it had even been someone as innocuous as a strange page, Vanyel's tightly-
strung nerves and battle-sharpened reflexes would have done the
unforgivable. He'd have sent the intruder through the wall before he himself
had even crawled out of the depths of sleep. Probably by nonmagical means,
but-magical or nonmagical, he suddenly realized that he could easily hurt
someone if he wasn't careful.
He shivered a little. I'm hair triggered. And that's not good.
“Unless you plan on turning into a fish-man,” Herald Tantras said, craning
his head around the partition screening the tub from the rest of the bathing
room and into Vanyel's view with cautious care, “you'd better get out of that
tub. I'm surprised you didn't drown yourself.”
“So am I.” Vanyel blinked, tried to clear his head of cobwebs, and peered
over his shoulder. “Where did you pop out of?''
“Heard you got back a couple of candlemarks ago, and I figured you'd
head here first.” Tantras chuckled. “I know you and your baths. But I must
admit I didn't expect to find you turning yourself into a raisin.”
The dark-haired, dusky Herald came around the side of the wooden
partition with an armload of towels. Vanyel watched him with a half-smile of
not-too-purely artistic appreciation; Tantras was as graceful and as handsome
as a king stag in his prime. Not shay'a'chern, but a good friend, and that was
all too rare.
And getting rarer, Vanyel thought soberly. Though, Havens, I haven't
exactly had my fill of romantic companionship either, lately . . . well, celibacy
isn't going to kill me. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Gods, I should
apply for the priesthood.
There was concern in the older Herald's deep, soft eyes. “You don't look
good, Van. I figured you'd be tired-but from the way you passed out here-it
must have been worse out there than I thought.”
“It was bad,” Vanyel said shortly, reluctant to discuss the past year. Even
for the most powerful Herald-Mage in the Circle, holding down the positions of
five other Herald-Mages while they recovered from magical attack, drainage,
and shock was not a mission he wanted to think about for a long while, much
less repeat. He soaped his hair, then ducked his head under the water to
rinse it.
“So I heard. When I saw you playing dead in the tub, I sent a page up to
your room with food and wine and sent another one off for some of my spare
uniforms, since we're about the same size.''
“Name the price, it's yours,” Vanyel said gratefully, levering himself out of
the tub with a groan and accepting the towel Tantras held out to him. “I have
nothing worth wearing right now in the way of uniforms.”
“Lord and Lady-” the other Herald swore, looking at him with shock. “What
have you been doing to yourself?”
Vanyel paused in his vigorous toweling, looked down, and was a little
surprised himself at the evidence of damage. He'd always been lean-but now
he was whipcord and bone and nothing else. Then there were the scars- knife
and sword scars, a scoring of parallel claw marks on his chest where that
demon had tried to remove his heart. Burn marks, too-he was striped from
neck to knee with three thin, white lines where mage-lightning had gotten
through his shields. And there were a few other scars that were souvenirs of
his bout with a master of mage-fire.
“My job. Living on the edge. Trying to convince the Karsites that I was five
Herald-Mages. Playing target.” He shrugged dismissively. “That's all. Nothing
any of you wouldn't have done if you could have.”
“Gods, Van,” Tantras replied, with a hint of guilt. “You make me feel like a
shirker. I hope to hell it was worth what you went through.”
Vanyel compressed his lips into a tight line. “I got the bastard that got
Mardic and Donni. And you can spread that as official.”
Tantras closed his eyes for a moment, and bowed his head. “It was worth
it,” he said faintly.
Vanyel nodded. “Worth every scar. I may have accomplished something
else; that particular necromancer had a flock of pet demons and I turned them
back on Karse when I killed him.” He smiled, or rather, stretched his mouth a
little. “I hope it taught the Karsites a lesson. I hope they end up proscribing
magic altogether on their side of the Border. If you can believe anything out of
Karse, there's rumor that they're doing just that.”
Tantras looked up again. “Hard on the Gifted-” he ventured.
Vanyel didn't answer. He was finding it very hard to feel sorry for anyone
on the Karsite side of the Border at the moment. It was uncharitable, un-
Heraldic, but until certain wounds healed-and not the physical ones-he was
inclined to be uncharitable.
“There's more silver in your hair, too,” Tantras observed, head to one side.
Vanyel made a face, just as glad of the change in subject. “Node-magic.
Every time I tap into it, more of my roots go white. Moondance k'Treva was
pure silver by the time he was my age; I guess I'm more resistant.” He smiled,
it was faint, but a real smile this time. “One nice thing; all those white hairs
give me respect I might not otherwise get!”
He finished drying himself and wrapped the towel around his waist.
Tantras grimaced again-probably noting the knife wound on his back-and
handed him another towel for his hair.
“You already paid that forfeit, by the way” he said, plainly trying to lighten
the conversation.
Vanyel stopped toweling off his hair and raised an eyebrow.
“You stood duty for me last Sovvan.”
Vanyel clamped down on the sudden ache of loss and shrugged again.
You know you get depressed when you’re tired, fool. Don't let it sink you. “Oh,
that. Any time, Tran. You know I don't like Sovvan-night celebrations, I can't
handle the memorial services, and I don't like to be alone, either. Standing
relay duty was as good as anything else to keep my mind off things.”
He was grateful when Tantras didn't press the subject. “Think you can
make it to your room all right?” the other asked. “I said you don't look good; I
mean it. Falling asleep in the tub like that-it makes me wonder if you're going
to pass out in the hall.”
Vanyel produced something more like a dry cough than a laugh. “It's
nothing about a week's worth of sleep won't cure,” he replied. “And I'm sorry I
won't be able to stand relay for you this year, but I have the Obligatory
Familial Visit to discharge. I haven't been home in- gods, four years. And even
then I didn't stay for more than a day or two. They're going to want me to
make the long stay I've been promising. There's a letter from my father
waiting for me that's probably reminding me of just that fact.”
“Parents surely know how to load on the guilt, don't they? Well, if you're
out of reach, Randale won't find something for you to do-but is that going to
be rest?” Tantras looked half-amused and half-worried. “I mean, Van, that
family of yours-”
“They won't come after me when I'm sleeping-which I fully intend to do a
lot of.'' He pulled on his old, clean clothing, reveling in the feel of clean, soft
cloth against his skin, and started to gather up his things. “And the way I feel
right now, I'd just as soon play hermit in my rooms when I get there-”
“Leave that stuff,” Tantras interrupted. “I'll deal with it. You go wrap
yourself around a decent meal. You don't look like you've had one in months.”
“I haven't. They don't believe in worldly pleasures down there. Great
proponents of mortification of the flesh for the good of the spirit.” Vanyel
looked up in time to catch Tantras' raised eyebrow. He made a tragic face. “I
know what you're thinking. That, too. Especially that. Gods. Do you have any
idea what it was like, being surrounded by all those devastatingly handsome
young men and not daring to so much as flirt with one?”
“Were the young ladies just as devastatingly attractive?” Tantras asked,
grinning.
“I would say so-given that the subject's fairly abstract for me.”
“Then I think I can imagine it. Remind me to avoid the Karsite Border at all
costs.”
Vanyel found himself grinning back-another real smile, and from the heart.
“Tran, gods-I'm glad to see you. Do you know how long it's been since I've
been able to talk freely to someone? To joke, for Lady's sake? Since I was
around people who don't wince away when I'm minus a few clothes?”
“Are you on about that again?” Tantras asked, incredulously. “Do you
really think that people are nervous around you because you're shaych?”
“I'm what?” Van asked, startled by the unfamiliar term.
“Shaych. Short for that Hawkbrother word you and Savil use. Don't know
where it came from, just seems like one day everybody was using it.” Tantras
leaned back against the white-tiled wall of the bathing room, folding his arms
across his chest in a deceptively lazy pose. “Maybe because you're as
prominent as you are. Can't go around calling the most powerful Herald-Mage
in the Circle a 'pervert,' after all.” He grinned. “He might turn you into a frog.”
Vanyel shook his head again. “Gods, I have been out of touch to miss that
little bit of slang. Yes, of course because I'm shay'a'chern, why else would
people look at me sideways?”
“Because you scare the hell out of them,” Tantras replied, his smile fading.
“Because you are as powerful as you are; because you're so quiet and so
solitary, and they never know what you're thinking. Havens, these days half
the Heralds don't even know you're shaych; it's the Mage-Gift that makes
them look at you sideways. Not that anybody around here cares about your
bedmates a quarter as much as you seem to think. They're a lot more worried
摘要：

MercedesLackeyLastHeraldMage02Magic’sPromiseDedicatedto:Elizabeth(Betsy)WollheimWhosaid-”Goforit”OneTheblueleathersaddlebagsandacanvaspack,alla-bulgingwithfilthyclothingandmiscellaneousgear,landedinthecornerofVanyel'sroomwiththreedullthuds.Thelute,stillinitspaddedleathercase,slitheredoverthebackofon...

展开>> 收起<<
Mercedes Lackey - Last Herald Mage 2 - Magic's Promise.pdf

共183页,预览5页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：183 页 大小：585.29KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-02

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 动力学连接体 力的合成 配电装置 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 183
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注