Magic's Price (27 page)

Strong, controlled, and near at hand.

Dear gods
—his mind screamed.
The pear orchard!

‘Fandes leaped the hedge surrounding the gardens—they hurtled through, her hooves tearing great gouts of turf from the lawns—she leaped the second hedge on the other side and flew into the orchard.

Women were screaming at the tops of their lungs, and scattering in all directions—not with any great success, at least not the highborn. Their heavy skirts encumbered them, and they fell as much as they ran. The serving maids had already hiked their dresses above their knees and taken to the dubious shelter of tree trunks. Cushions were tumbled every which way, and the air was full of feathers where one or two of them had burst.

It was obvious whom they were fleeing, as a brown-clad stranger with his back to Vanyel and Yfandes raised his hands above his head.

A mage—and his target was equally obvious. Treesa and Stef lay sprawled helplessly just before him, and Van felt the gathering forces of energy as the mage prepared to strike them where they lay.

Yfandes screamed a battle-challenge just before the man let loose a bolt of mage-fire. He half-turned in startlement at the noise, and the bolt seared the turf just beyond Bard Stefen and Vanyel's mother.

He was quicker than any mage Van had ever encountered in his life, at least in combat; before Vanyel could ready a blast of his own, he'd let fly with a second—just as Van realized that he and ‘Fandes were completely unshielded.

Vanyel expanded the core of his own energies with a rush outward in a shield to cover the two of them, but just a fraction too late. Yfandes writhed sideways as she tried to evade the bolt, but was only partially successful. The edge of it hit them both.

He was protected; the shielding had covered that much—but Yfandes squealed as the bolt clipped her. She collapsed, going down in mid-leap, falling over onto her side. A sudden blank spot in Van's mind told him that she'd been knocked unconscious.

He wanted,
needed
to help her. But there was no time—no time.

He managed to shove himself clear of her as she fell; hit the ground and rolled, and came up with mage-bolts of his own exploding from both hands. His hands felt as if he'd stuck both of them in a fire, but he ignored the pain.

The stranger dodged the one, and his shields absorbed the other. He struck back; a firebolt.

Vanyel sidestepped his return volley and let fly with a crackle of lightning at the stranger's feet. As he'd hoped, the mage's combat-shields did not extend that far down, and Vanyel's lightning found a target. The stranger shrieked and danced madly, but would not budge from his position, which was far too close to Stef and Van's mother for safety—

Vanyel sent a
sandaar,
a fire-elemental, raging straight for the enemy's face. He flinched, but stood his ground, and blew the elemental away with a shattering blast of power. That gave Van enough respite to take the offensive. Before the other mage had a chance to ready a counterblast, Van let fly three levinbolts in succession, and succeeded in driving him back, one step for each bolt.

When Van saw that the ploy was working, that the mage was being driven away from the Bard and Treesa, he Reached for energy in a frenzy, and sent bolt after bolt crashing against the enemy's shields. Though nothing penetrated, the force of impact was enough to continue to drive him backward, deeper into the orchard.

Van continued to fire off levinbolts as his own body shook with the strain of producing them out of raw magic, and his Mage-senses burned with the backlash of power. His whole world narrowed to the flow of energy, the target, and a vague awareness of where Treesa and Stefen lay.

Finally the enemy mage came exactly opposite the two lying on the ground. He didn't seem aware of them; certainly Van was keeping him occupied in defending himself. A few more steps, and Van would be able to include them in his own shielding—

Treesa chose that moment to struggle erect, though Stefen was trying to keep her down and protected with his own body. Her movement caught the mage's attention—

He looked directly into Vanyel's eyes, and smiled.

And reaching down into a pocket at the side of his boot, cast, not a weapon of magic or force, but one of material steel, following that with a levinbolt of his own. But not at Vanyel. At his mother.

“NO!”
Vanyel screamed, and threw himself between Treesa and the oncoming blade—

And felt the impact in his shoulder as he crashed into his mother, sending them both to the ground—

And then a shock that twisted the world out of all recognition in a heartbeat, picked him up by the scruff of the neck, shook him like a dog shakes a rag, and flung him into the darkness.

 

Stef was trying to get Treesa down on the ground again, when another of those blinding flashes of light went off practically in the Bard's face. He cried out in pain as it burned his eyes; cried out again as two bodies crashed into his.

He struggled to get out from underneath them, his eyes streaming tears, with everything around him blurred.

He tried to make his eyes work. The only person still standing was the brown blot that was the mage that had attacked them. It raised two indistinct arms, and Stef struggled harder still to get free, knowing that there was nothing to stop him this time—that somehow he'd gotten rid of Van—

A hoarse yell. The mage started, and turned just as Stef's eyes refocused. The mage's mouth opened in shock, and he tried to redirect the power he had been about to cast at his three victims.

Too late.

Radevel was already on him; he swung his weighted practice blade down on the mage's head as he tried to fend off the blow—or possibly hit Radevel with the mage-bolt meant for the others. It didn't matter. The blunt-edged metal sword snapped both his arms like dry sticks, and continued with momentum unchecked. When the blade connected, it hit with a sound unlike anything Stef had ever heard before; the dull
thud
of impact, with a peculiar undertone of something wet breaking—like Rad had just smashed a piece of unfired pottery.

The mage collapsed, and Stef swallowed hard as his gorge rose and he fought down the urge to vomit. He'd seen any number of people dead before this—of cold, hunger, disease, or self-indulgence-but he'd never seen anyone
killed
before. It wasn't anything like that in songs.

He was having trouble thinking; vaguely he knew he should be looking for Vanyel, but he couldn't seem to get started. Finally he noticed that Van was one of the two people collapsed on top of him.

Van
—
he's not moving
—

Yfandes struggled to her feet and shook her head violently, then looked around for Vanyel. She spotted him and the downed mage; pounded over and shouldered Radevel out of the way with a shriek of rage, and began trampling the body with all four hooves.

Radevel stuck the blunt sword into his belt and turned. Half a dozen white-faced young men and boys walked slowly toward him from behind the trees—the sound of retching told Stef that there were probably more of them out there who weren't in any shape to walk yet.

“I hope you were paying attention,” Radevel said matter-of-factly. “If you get the value of surprise on a mage about to spellcast, that's the best way to take him. Get his attention and interrupt his magic, then rush him before he has a chance to redirect it. Go for his arms
first—
most of ‘em seem to have to wave their arms around to get a spell off. If you can, you want to keep 'em alive for questioning.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at Yfandes, who was still squealing with rage and doing her best to pound what was left of the mage into the dirt.

“Of course,” he continued, “when family or Heralds are involved, that usually isn't practical.”

His expression didn't change, nor did the tone of his voice, but Stef noticed (with an odd corner of his mind that seemed to be taking notes on everything) that Radevel's eyes widened when he'd looked back at Yfandes, and he was retreating from her a slow, casual step at a time.

Servants had materialized as soon as the mage was down, and pulled Stef out from under the Herald and his mother. They ignored Stef, concentrating on trying to revive Lady Treesa and Vanyel. Radevel gathered his group of students and plowed his way through them to get to his aunt and cousin's side.

“What happened?” One of the ladies grabbed Radevel's arm as he passed. “Where did this man come from?”

“Van brought him in,” Radevel said shortly, prying her hand off his arm. “Bastard jumped him, and Van thought he was crazy. Left ‘im with Father Tyler. Must not've been as crazy as Van thought; first chance he got, once Tyler left him alone, he cut himself loose and stabbed the priest. Me, I was on the way to practice with this lot, and I found him—good thing, too, he'd've bled to death if I hadn't found him when I did. Anyway, just about then I saw Van pelting off this way, and I followed.”

Radevel shook the lady off before she could ask him anything more, and knelt down beside Stef.

Stefen didn't know what to do; Van was as white as snow and about as cold, and Treesa wasn't much better off. He watched the servants trying to bring them around, and felt as helpless and useless as a day-old chick. Radevel looked at the haft of the tiny knife in Van's shoulder, but didn't touch it; laid his hand to the side of Treesa's face.

“Something's wrong here,” he said to Stef. “This isn't natural. We need an expert. You—” he reached out and grabbed one of the older servant-women. “You keep anybody from muckin' with ‘em. And don't nobody touch that knife. I'll get the Healer.”

“I'll get Savil—” Stef offered, glad to find
something
he could do, getting unsteadily to his feet. He set off at a dead run before anyone could stop him, ignoring the way his eyes kept blurring and clearing, and the dizziness that made him stumble.

His breath burned in his throat, and his sides ached by the time he was halfway across the garden.

There seemed to be something wrong—he shouldn't have been that winded. It felt like something was draining him....

Savil was already on the way—he was practically bowled over by Kellan in the entrance to the gardens. Her Companion stopped short of trampling him, and he scrambled out of the way, just barely avoiding her hooves.

“What happened?” Savil asked, reaching down to grab his arm, missing, and seizing his collar instead.

“A mage,” Stef panted, holding his side. “He attacked me and Treesa—no, that's not right, he attacked Treesa, and I was just in the way. Van took him out, but he got Van—gods, Van is hurt and—and we can't get him or Treesa to wake up—”

“Enough, that's all I need to know for now.” She turned away, dismissing him, and Kellan launched herself across the garden, leaving him to make his own way back.

He arrived winded and unable to speak; Savil was kneeling beside the Healer, and examining Vanyel's shoulder.

“I've been treating them for poison,” the Healer said in a flat voice, “I thought Lady Treesa might have gotten nicked by one of those knives. But they aren't responding, and I don't know why.”

“It's because you're not fighting poison, lad, you're fighting magic,” Savil muttered, as Stef limped up and collapsed on the ground beside her with a sob. “It's a good thing you didn't try to pull that knife, you'd have killed him.”

She looked up—in Stef's direction, but more
through
him than
at
him. “We can't do anything for them here,” she said, after a moment. “Let's get them back to their beds. I hate to admit this to you, but I'm out of my depth. Van could probably handle this, but—well, that's rather out of the question at the moment.”

Stef clutched his side and stifled a moan of panic, and she glanced sharply at him. “Don't give up yet, lad,” she said quietly. “I'm out of my depth, but I'm not ready to call it finished.”

Stef clenched his jaw and nodded, trying to look as if he believed her, while Van lay as pale as a corpse on the ground beside her.

 

Savil completed a more thorough examination than she was able to give in the orchard, and sat back in her chair, watching Van and thinking.

She glanced over at Stefen, who was recovering from magic-induced shock adequately on his own. Savil hadn't done anything to help him mostly because she reckoned that the lad could do with a little toughening. But he hadn't recovered as quickly, nor as completely as she'd expected, and Savil didn't know why that was happening either.

He sat on the other side of the bed, holding Vanyel's hand, in a pose that reminded her poignantly of the way Van had held ‘Lendel's when her trainee was coming out of the trauma his twin's death had induced.

There was something else there that was poignantly like Van and her protege.

When it finally occurred to her, it was such an astonishing thought that she double-checked with her Companion to make sure she wasn't imagining things.