Magic's Price (43 page)

Snow fell, as it had fallen for the past three weeks, as it seemed it would continue to fall for the next three weeks. Not a blizzard; the wind, when there was one, was gentle, and the temperature relatively warm. But the snow was wet and heavy; good snow for playing in, as dozens of children making snow-beasts in their yards attested—but it increased their travel time fourfold. Ironically, considering how much stress Vanyel had put on the fact that he would leave Stef behind if he had to, the chirras were forcing a path through the snow for the two riding, and their progress was set by the chirras' pace.

“How many days can a snowstorm last?” Stef asked, huddled on Melody's back, shivering despite woolen underdrawers, a sweater and a shirt under his tunic, and two sweaters and his cloak over that.

“It's not the same storm,
ashke,”
Vanyel replied, as he consulted a map, then looked for landmarks. They were supposed to reach the last Guard outpost today, at least according to Vanyel's calculations. That outpost marked the end of the lands Valdemar claimed, and the beginning of territory held by no one except wolves—two and four-legged. And other things—the Pelagirs reached into that territory, and where they ended was anyone's guess. Probably only the
TayLedras
knew. It also marked the point at which Vanyel and Stefen's “easy” travel ended. They'd be leaving the chirras behind, and what little was left of the supplies, and going on with what Yfandes and Melody could carry—and what Vanyel could conjure up.

By now, Stef was no longer so sore in the morning that he would far rather have died than get up and remount his horse—but the cold never varied, and once out of their little shelter of mage-born warmth in the morning, he was chilled and miserable within a candlemark.

“What do you mean, it isn't one storm?” Stef asked. “It hasn't stopped snowing since we left Haven.”

“It's a series of storms, all coming out of the north,” Van replied, folding the map and storing it carefully in a special pocket on his saddle. “They generally blow out during the night, and a new one moves in just before dawn. The post isn't more than a couple of furlongs away; we should make it there by dusk.” He looked back critically at Stefen. “If they have it to spare, we should get you some warmer clothing. And a better cloak. If I had known you'd feel the cold this badly, I'd have gotten it for you before we left.”

Stefen held his peace.

“You're going to need it,” Vanyel continued, urging the chirra forward, with Yfandes following at its tail. “After this, when we leave the gear and the extra supplies, this trip is going to be much harder on you.”

And not on you? What are you made of, Van? Stone and steel?
“I don't see how it can,” Stef replied, since for once, Van seemed to be waiting for an answer. “I'm already frozen most of the time.”

“Because we may be frozen
and hungry
most of the time,” Vanyel told him, looking back over his shoulder. “We'll eat what I can hunt. I refuse to use magic to bring helpless creatures to me unless I'm literally starving to death.”

“I'm probably a lot more used to being hungry than you are, Lord Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stefen snapped. “I spent most of my life being hungry! I may not be woods-wise, but I'm not as helpless as you keep trying to make me out to be!”

Vanyel recoiled a little; his mouth tightened, and he turned away. “I hope for your sake that's true, Stefen,” was all he said as he presented his back to the Bard.

Stef bit his lip and tasted the salt-sweet of blood.
Bright move, Stef. Very bright move. What do you use for a mind, dried peas?
He brushed snow and hair out of his eyes with a movement that had become habit, and stared at the snow-blanketed woods to his right and left.
But dammit, I wish he'd give me credit for being something more than a useless piece of baggage. All right, I'm not a Herald, I don't know how to survive on my own in the woods—but I can help and I've been helping
—
when m‘lord bothers to give me instructions.

Unhappiness, colder and more bitter than the cold, welled up in his throat.
Maybe he was right. Maybe I shouldn't have come. Maybe this whole trip is just showing him how little he needs or wants me. Maybe I should stay behind at this Guard post—

Suddenly Yfandes stopped; Melody kept moving past the Companion until Vanyel reached over and caught her reins out of Stefen's hands.

Then he caught Stefen's hands, themselves. “I'm sorry, Stef,” he said, that same wounded-bird look back in his eyes. “I don't give you enough credit. ‘Fandes just gave me an earful for some of the things I've been saying and doing to you.”

Stefen tried to smile. “It's all right, really it is—”

“No it's not, but I can't help myself, Stef,” the Herald said through clenched teeth. “I'll probably go right on doing this to you, making you hurt, making you feel like you wish you'd stayed behind. I just hope you can forgive me, because it isn't going to stop. Everything has to take second place to what I'm doing about this enemy of mine, can you understand that?”

“No,” Stefen said truthfully. “But I'll try.”

Vanyel dropped his eyes. “I'm glad you're with me, Stef,” he said, in a whisper. “I'm glad you're sticking this out with me. It would be a lot harder without you. You remind me I'm still human just by being here. You remind me there's something else besides the task I've been set. Something worth more than revenge ... but I say things I shouldn't because sometimes I don't want to be reminded of that.”

Stefen couldn't think of anything profound to say, but the lump in his throat and stomach were gone, and he felt a great deal warmer than he had in weeks. He freed one hand from Vanyel's and touched his glove to Van's cheek. “I love you,” he said simply, as Vanyel's silver eyes met his again. “That's all that matters, isn't it?”

Vanyel smiled, a flicker of his old self, and patted Stef's hand. “Let's go,” he said, and let go of the Bard's other hand. “The sooner we get into shelter, the happier you'll be.”

The listening look crossed his face again, and he coughed. “ ‘Fandes says, 'to the nine hells with you humans, you have cloaks. The sooner we get to the shelter, the happier
I'll
be.‘ ”

Stefen smiled—and when Vanyel had turned his attention back to the trail ahead, exchanged winks with the Companion.

Lady,
he thought at her,
We may not be able to Mindspeak at each other, but I have the feeling you and I are communicating very well, lately.

 

The Guard post meant a real fire, a real bed, and hot food. And, almost as important, human voices, voices that weren't his and Vanyel's.

There was warmer clothing available, wool underclothes from the Guards' winter stores, sweaters one of the Guard swomen knitted from mixed sheep and chirra wool, the new, fur-lined cloak that had belonged (Stef tried not to think of the ill omen) to a Guardsman that had died of snow-fever before he could ever wear it.

And there was news of the North, news that was at odds with their own mission.

They sat by the fire, hot cider brewing in a kettle. Vanyel and the Post Commander slouched across a tiny table in the corner, while Stef warmed his bones right on the hearth.

“Lady bless, not a thing but the occasional bandit and a bout of snow-fever,” said the Commander, a handsome woman with iron-gray hair and a firm jaw. “Since last summer we haven't even seen the odd Pelagir critter coming over.”

“Not even rumors?” Vanyel asked, as Stef warmed his feet at the fire and played someone's old lute that had been found in the storeroom. The tone wasn't exactly pure, but the Guardsfolk were certainly enjoying it, so he tried not to wince at the occasional dull note. “No hint of activity up there at all?”

“Not a thing,” the Commander replied positively. “The only odd thing's this snow. Never seen it snow so much as it has in the past few weeks. Well, you can see for yourself; we shouldn't have more than one or two thumblengths on the ground right now, and we've got it up to our waists with no end in sight.”

“You mean this
isn't
normal winter weather?” Vanyel asked, sitting up straight. “I thought—my nephew was up here and carried on like the snow was above the rooftops by midwinter!”

“Hellfires, no, this isn't normal,” the woman laughed. “If your nephew was that young Journeyman Bard we had through here—poor lad, one snowfall and he thought the end of the world was coming in ice! But that was
after
some of my people scared him half to death with their tales. Normal winter gives us snow every couple of weeks, not day after day. Can't say as I mind it, though. Weather like this is harder on the bandits than it is on us. We got clearing crews; they don‘t, and it's damn difficult to move through woods this deep in soft snow.”

Stef knew that look, the one Vanyel was wearing now. He finished the song he was on, just about the same time as Van made a polite end to his conversation and headed back to their room.

He gave the lute back to its finder, claiming weariness, and ignoring the knowing looks as he hurried after the Herald.

The guest room did not have a fireplace, and it was in the area of the barracks farthest from the chimneys. Given his choice, this was not where Stef would have gone. The corridor was lit by a couple of dim, smoking lanterns, and Stef would have been willing to swear he saw the smoke freeze as it rose into the air. Vanyel was a dim white shape a little ahead of him; he managed to catch up with the Herald before he reached their door.

“What was it?” he asked, seizing Van's elbow. “What did she say?”

He was half afraid that Van would pull away from him, but the Herald only shook his head and swore under his breath.

“I can't believe how stupid I was,” he said quietly, as he opened the door to their room and motioned Stef to go inside. The candle beside the door and the one next to the bed sprang into life as they entered—the kind of casual use of magic that impressed Stef more than the nightly creation of their shelter, because the use of magic to light a candle implied that Van considered it no more remarkable than using a coal from the fire for the same purpose.
That
was frightening—that Van could afford to “waste” power that way....

“How were you stupid?” Stef persisted. “What did she tell you other than the fact that they're having odd weather this winter?”

“Odd weather?” Vanyel grimaced. “That's rather like saying Randi's a little ill. You heard her, they've had weeks of snow, not the couple of days' worth they should have had.”

He took his cloak down from the hook next to the door and bundled himself up in it. “Do you still want to be useful?” he asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and looking up at Stef with the candle flames reflecting in his eyes.

“Of course I want to be useful—” Stef said uncertainly.

“Good. Stand by the door and make sure nobody comes in.” Vanyel put his back against the wall, and pulled the cloak in tightly around himself. He cocked an eyebrow at Stef as the Bard shuffled his feet, hesitantly. “That's not a light request. I'm going into trance. I made the basic mistake of assuming that since I didn't sense any magic in the weather
around
us that it wasn't wizard weather. Obviously I was wrong.”

“Obviously,” Stef murmured, seeing nothing at all obvious about it.

“So, I'm going to be doing some very difficult weather-working, but I'm going to have to do it at some distance, where these snowstorms are being generated. When I do that, I'll be vulnerable.” He waited for Stefen to respond.

After a moment, light did dawn. “Oh—so if there're any agents here—”

“Right. This would be the time for them to act. And since my magical protections are pretty formidable, the easiest thing would be to come after me physically.” Vanyel settled back and closed his eyes.

“Van, what do you want me to do if somebody forces their way in here?” Stef asked, feeling for the hilt of his knife.

Vanyel opened his eyes again. “I want you to stop them however you have to,” he said, his eyes focusing elsewhere. “This is one place where your street-fighting skill is going to do us some good. Take them alive if you can, but don't let them touch me. One of those leech-blades just has to touch the skin to be effective.”

“All right,” Stefen replied, feeling both a little frightened, and better than he had since this trip started. At least now he was doing something. And Van had admitted to needing him to do it. “You can count on me.”

“If I didn't think I could,” Van told him, closing his eyes again, “I wouldn't have asked you, lover.”

 

Stef started at another noise; the candle had long since burned down to nothing, but he hadn't dared light another. Several times he'd thought he'd heard something outside the locked shutters on the room's single window, but nothing had ever happened.

The sound came again, but this time he realized it was coming from the bed. He groped his way over and sat down; the shapeless bundle of Van moved, and the cloak parted, letting out a faint mist of golden light. Stef gaped in surprise; his present, the amber mage-focus around Van's neck, was glowing ever so slightly. The light it gave off was just enough to see by.

“Anything happen?” Van asked, shaking long, silver-streaked hair out of his eyes. He looked like the old Vanyel; his face had lost some of that hard remoteness. And he sounded like the old Van, as well, his voice held concern for Stef as well as need to know if anything had gone wrong.