Magic's Pawn (36 page)

Jaysen shrugged helplessly, and shut the door behind her. She made a circuit of the common room, setting candles erect and lighting them. “If you don’t know, be damned if I do. Andy, can we keep him sedated long enough to heal?’’

Andrel grimaced, looking as if he’d swallowed something sour. “With any other patient I’d tell you where to put that question - what I just gave the boy was argonel.”

Jaysen and Savil both started with surprise, and in Savil’s case the surprise was not unmixed with shock. “Great good gods, Andy!”

“Ease up; he’s safe enough,” Andrel interrupted her, throwing himself down on the couch with his usual lack of concern for the furniture. He groaned, stretched, and then raised an eyebrow at the Seneschal’s Herald. “Jaysen, may I mention that you have lovely legs?”

Jaysen, who was attired only in shirt and hose and only just now really realized this, blushed a furious scarlet, but refused to be distracted. “Argonel, Andy - “ he began, taking a chair and crossing his legs primly.

“He’s burning it off at a respectable rate, or I wouldn’t have given it to him,” Andrel replied. “The benefit of it is that it’s a muscle relaxant
and
a sedative; he won’t be able to go into convulsions again even if you Mindtouch him. I
won’t
speak for him tossing the Palace around, but he won’t go into
physical
convulsions. As for him healing, well that depends entirely on what you mean.”

Savil took another chair, flopping down into it with a tired
thud
as loud as the one Andrel had made connecting with the couch cushions.

“Physically,” she said, flatly. “Pure physical healing. Backlash symptoms, exhaustion, blood loss. I’ll worry about raw channels later.”

“Yes, I can keep him sedated long enough for the effects of backlash to wear off, for his physical energy to recover and for him to replace the blood he lost. I can combine the argonel with jervain, and dull out all the Gift-senses enough so that they aren’t so sensitive. That
might
let the channels heal. I don’t know for sure; I’ve never seen nor read of anything like this, Gifts being blasted open like his were.”

“Mentally?” Jaysen prodded, frowning. “Emotionally?”

“At this point I don’t think even Lance can help him,” Andrel replied sadly. “You both felt - “

Jaysen nodded, ruefully. “That’s - I think perhaps I picked up something more than either of you,” he said, a shadow of guilt crossing his face. “He - he thinks that everything he touches is doomed, cursed. Because of - what he and ‘Lendel were. And I know
exactly
where he got that particularly poisonous little thought. Only it isn’t a ‘little thought’ anymore. It’s as much an obsession as Tylendel’s was.”

He hung his head, and wouldn’t look at her. “I never thought - “ he faltered. “I never guessed - I thought he was just a user - “

Savil was not feeling charitable just now. “Damn right, you never thought,” she snapped. “You never thought at all! You and your damned provincial - “

“Savil,” Andrel said, warningly, his head turned slightly to the side, nodding at the door to Vanyel’s room.

She subsided. If she got angry, Van might pick it up; it might set him off again. “Sorry, Jays,” she finally said grudgingly, not feeling sorry at all.

“At least you didn’t send somebody out to cut their wrists,” he answered unhappily.

She winced. “No - I just - hell, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Andy, you think you can get him
physically
recovered, right?”

Candlelight reflected in his eyes, which had gone inward-looking. “I would say yes, cautiously.”

“Let’s worry about that, then, for a couple of days. I have a germ of an idea, but whether or not I can pull it off is going to depend very strongly on whether or not
you
can get Vanyel fit to ride.’’

“If I can’t get him to that point in the next couple of weeks or so, it’s never going to happen,” Andrel replied.

“What’s the chance we can do something about the way he’s barricading himself - or even help him get some of his power under his own control?’’

He pondered her question while the fire crackled beside him. “Why don’t you ask your Companions? He may be able to barricade against you, but I doubt he can do much against Yfandes.”

She pressed her hand to her eyes and shook her head. “Gods, why in hell didn’t I think of that?” And at the same time, Mindsent
:Kellan
?: knowing that Jaysen was doing the same with Felar.

-.Here
,: came the reply, immediately.

She sent their dilemma in a complicated thought-burst, and waited while Kellan digested the information, and possibly conferred with Felar and Yfandes.

:Yfandes says that the bonding is weak
,: came the reply, flavored with the acid tang of concern. :
It fades in and out
-
and it hurts the boy, sometimes, to speak with her
.:

:Can we do anything about that
?: Jaysen fell into the rapport, and if there was anything other than genuine distress there on Vanyel’s behalf, Savil couldn’t feel it. Through him, she could Hear Felar.

:Physical contact
,: Felar said shortly.

Kellan agreed.
:As much as possible. That is what strengthens the bonding; now she cannot help him to get control of what he does
.:

:And if the bond is strengthened
?: Jaysen asked.

:
Perhaps
,: said Felar.

:A hope
,: added Kellan.

Jaysen looked into Savil’s eyes from across the room, and nodded, a little grimly. At this point they would accept even a hope, however tenuous.

Nothing hurt much, now, not since he’d drunk that fiery stuff the red-haired Healer had given him. Those places inside him, the mind-things, that had burned so - they still burned, but remotely, as if the hurting belonged to somebody else. He couldn’t concentrate on much of anything for very long, and none of it really seemed to matter.

Only the empty place in him was pretty much the same; only that continued to ache in a way the Healer’s potions couldn’t seem to touch. The place where Tylendel had been - and now -

But the potions let him sleep, a sleep without dreams. And he’d had the snow-dreams again - that was what had thrown him into that fit.

Oh, gods - he’d thought - he’d thought they’d never come again. He’d thought ‘Lendel had driven them away.

But they weren’t the dreams about being walled in by ice, so maybe ‘Lendel had -

Maybe not. He couldn’t tell. It was the other dream, anyway. Clear, vivid as no other dream he’d dreamed had ever been, and much more detailed than the last time he’d had it.

He’d been in a canyon, a narrow mountain pass with walls that were peculiarly smooth. He’d known, in the dream, that this was no real pass - that this passage had been
created
, cut armlength by armlength, by magic.

He’d known, too, that the magic had been wrong, skewed. It had an aura of pain and death about it, as if every thumblength of that canyon had been paid for in spilled blood.

It had been night; cloudy, with a smell of snow on the wind. Where he stood the canyon had narrowed momentarily, choked by avalanches on either side. He’d been very cold, despite the heavy weight of a fur cloak on his shoulders; his feet had been like blocks of the ice that edged the canyon walls.

He had felt a feeling of grim satisfaction, when he’d seen that at this one point the passage was wide enough for two men, but no more. And he knew that
he
had somehow caused those blockages, to create a place where one man could, conceivably, hold off an army.

Because an army was what was coming down that canyon.

He’d sent for help, sent Yfandes and Tylendel -

Tylendel? But Tylendel was dead
-

- but he’d also known that help was unlikely to arrive in time.

He had waited until they were almost on him, suspecting nothing, and knowing that they could not see him yet because he willed it so. Then he had raised his right hand high over his head, and a mage-light had flared on it; so bright that the front ranks of that terrible army winced back, and their shadows fell black as the heart of night on the snow behind them. He had said nothing; nothing needed to be said. He barred the way; that was all the challenge required.

They were heavily armored, those fighters; armor of some dull, black stuff, and helms of the same. They carried the weight of that armor as easily as Vanyel wore his own white fur cloak. They bore unornamented round shields, again of the same dull, black material, and carried long broadswords. For the rest, what could be seen of their clothing under the armor and their cloaks over it, they were a motley lot. But they
moved
with a kind of sensitivity to the presence of the next-in-line that had told Vanyel in the dream that they had been drilled together by a hand more merciless than ever Jervis had been.

They stared at him, and none of them moved for a very long time -

Until the front ranks parted, and the wizard stepped through.

Wizard he was, and no doubt; Vanyel could feel the Power heavy within him. But it was Power of the same kind as that which had cut this canyon; paid for in agony. And when it was gone, there would be no more until the wizard could torture and kill again. Vanyel had all the power of life itself behind him; the power of the sleeping earth, of the living forest -

He spread his arms, and the life-energy flowed from him, creating a barricade across the valley -

-
like the barricade across his heart
-

- and a shield behind which he could shelter. He faced the wizard, head held high, defiance in the slightest movement, daring him to try and pass.

But the ranks of the fighters parted again, and the first wizard was joined by a second, and a third. And Vanyel felt his heart sinking, seeing his own death sentence written in those three-to-one odds.

Still, he had stood his ground -

Until Mardic touched his mind.

It had
hurt
, that touch; salt on raw flesh. He’d interpreted it as an attack of the wizards, and had struck back, struck to kill, and only as he’d made his strike had realized that -

-
a dream, oh, gods
-
it’s a dream, it isn’t real, and that’s Mardic
-

And had tried to pull the blow;
had
pulled the blow, but that sent the aborted power coursing back down places that burned in agony when it touched them. And he’d tried to stop the flow, but that had only twisted things up inside him, until he was a thrashing knot of anguish and he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. It all hurt, everything hurt, everything burned, and he was trapped in the pain, in the torment, crying out and knowing no one could hear him, and lost - he couldn’t feel his body anymore, couldn’t hear or see; he was foundering in a sea of agony -

Then a shock - like being struck -

He found himself gasping for breath, frozen to his teeth, but back in a normal body that hurt in a normal way.

Then he had blacked out for a moment; came to with the Healer shaking him, talking to him.

He was soaking wet, and shivering.

Mardic? What about Mardic?

The Herald Jaysen was holding him upright, more than half supporting him -

Tylendel, dead, crumpled at Jaysen’s feet. My fault, oh, gods, my fault
-

The grieving came down on him, full force; but somewhere at the back of his mind he
knew
that
they
were feeling what
he
was feeling and he clamped down on it - closed that line off -

In the stunned, mental silence he heard Jaysen’s anguished thoughts, as clearly and intimately as if he was speaking them into Vanyel’s ear.

:Gods
-
oh, gods, I didn’t know, I didn’t guess
-
I
thought he was playing with the boy, I thought he was
-
oh, gods, what have I done
?:

He shuddered away from the unwanted sympathy, from the mind-words that were like acid in his wounds, and blocked
that
line just as ruthlessly.

Then had come the potions - and the numbness. The blessed
unfeeling
. He drifted, nothing to hold him, not even his worry for Mardic. It was pitchy dark, they hadn’t left a single flame in the room, which under the circumstances was probably wise. Scraps of what he now knew were thoughts drifted over to him; now Savil’s mind-voice, now Jaysen’s (dark with guilt, and Vanyel wondered why), now Mardic’s.

If he had been on his feet, he would have staggered with relief at hearing that last.
I
didn’t kill him
-
thank the gods, I didn’t kill him
.

He drifted farther, until he couldn’t hear anything anymore. Until he lost even his own thoughts. Until there was nothing left but sleep, and the sorrow that never, ever left him.

Savil stood beside the garden door with one hand on the frame, and prayed. She didn’t pray often; most Heralds didn’t. Praying usually meant asking for something - and the kind of person that became a Herald tended to be the kind that didn’t look outside of himself for help until the last hope had been exhausted.