Thunder rumbled near at hand, startling all of them. “Gods, it's about to pour. Meke, Radevel, you see to the horses,” Withen ordered. “The rest of you, give it a rest. You'll all get your chances at Van and his f-friend later. Let's all get inside before the storm breaks for true.”
Treesa had already taken possession of Stefen and was carrying him off, chattering brightly. Van turned protectively toward Yfandes, remembering that his father never could bring himself to believe she was anything other than a horse.
But to his immense relief, Meke was leading Stefs filly to the stables, but his cousin Radevel had looped the two Companions' reins up over their necks and was standing beside them.
“Don't worry, Van,” Radevel said with a wink. “Jervis taught me, remember?” And then, to the two Companions, “If you'll follow me, ladies, one of the new additions to the stables are proper accommodations for Companions. Saw to 'em m'self.”
Vanyel relaxed, and allowed his father to steer him toward the door to the main part of the manor, as lightning flashed directly overhead and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Good old Rad. Finally, after all these years, I get one of my family convinced that 'Fandes isn't a horse!
Eight
So, that's the situation,” Withen continued, staring out the bubbly, thick glass of the crudely-glazed window at the storm outside. “I don't think it's going to change any time soon. Tashir is turning out to be a fine young man, and a good ruler. His second eldest is fostered here, did I mention that?”
Thunder vibrated in the rock walls, and Vanyel shook his head. “No, Father, you didn't. What about farther north though, up beyond Baires?”
Withen sighed. “Don't know, son. That's still Pelagir country. Full of uncanny creatures, and odd folks, and without much leadership that I've been able to see. It's a problem, and likely to stay one. . . .”
Vanyel held his peace; the Tayledras weren't “leaders” as his father understood the term, anyway, although they ruled and protected their lands as effectively as any warlord or landed baron.
Rain lashed the outside of the keep and hissed down the chimney. He and his father were ensconced in Withen's “study,” a room devoted to masculine comforts and entirely off-limits to the females of the household. Withen turned away from the window and eased himself down into a chair that was old and battered and banished to here where it wouldn't offend Treesa's sensibilities; but like Withen, it was still serviceable despite being past its prime. Van was already sitting, or rather, sprawling, across a scratched and battered padded bench, one with legs that had been used as teething aids for countless generations of Ashkevron hounds.
“So tell me the truth, son,” Withen said after a long pause. “I'm an old man, and I can afford to be blunt. How much longer does Randale have?”
Vanyel sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck uneasily.
“I don't know, Father. Not even the Healers seem to have any idea.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “The truth is, though, I don't think it's going to be more than five years or so. Not unless we find out what it is he's got and find a way to cure it, or at least keep it from getting worse. Right now - right now the Council's best hope is to be able to keep him going until Treven's trained and in Whites. We think he can hang on that long.”
“Is it true the boy's wedded that young Jisa?” Withen looked as if he approved, so Vanyel nodded. “Good. The sooner the boy breeds potential heirs, the better off we'll be. Shows the lad has more sense than his elders.” Withen snorted his disgust at those “elders.” “It was shilly-shallying about Randale's marriages that got us in this pickle in the first place. Should have told the boy to marry Healer Shavri in the first damn place, and we'd have had half a dozen legitimate heirs instead of one girl out of the succession.”
Withen went on in the same vein for some time, and Vanyel did not think it prudent to enlighten him to the realities of the situation.
“About the Pelagir lands, Father,” he said instead, “The last few times I've visited home, I've heard stories - and seen the evidence - of things coming over and into Valdemar. Are they still doing that?”
When Withen hesitated, he began to suspect that something was seriously wrong. “Father, are these - visitations - getting worse? What is it that you aren't telling me?”
“Son,” Withen began.
“No, Father, don't think of me as your son. I'm Herald Vanyel, and I need to know the whole truth.” He sat up from his sprawled position, looked his father straight in the eyes. Withen was the first to look away.
“Well - yes. For a while they were getting worse.” Withen looked at the fire, out the window - anywhere but at Van.
“And?”
“And we asked Haven for some help. For a Herald-Mage.” Withen coughed.
“And?”
“And they said there weren't any to spare, and they sent us just a plain Herald.” Withen's mouth worked as if he were tasting something bitter. “I won't say she was of no use, but - but we decided if Haven wasn't going to help us, we'd best learn how to help ourselves, and we sent her back. Let her think she'd taken care of the problem after a hunt or two. Had a talk with Tashir's people - after all, they've been doing without mages for one damned long time. Found out the ways to take out some of these things without magic. Worked out some more. Finally the things stopped coming across altogether. I guess they got some way of talking to each other, and let it be known that we don't like havin' things try and set up housekeeping over here.”
“There's been no more sign of anything?” Van was amazed - not that there were no signs of further incursions, but that the people here had taken on the problem and dealt with it on their own.
“No, though we've been keepin' the patrols up. Tashir's people, too. But -”
“But what, Father?” Vanyel asked gently. “You can say what you like. I won't be offended by the truth.”
“It's just - all our lives we've been told how we can depend on the Herald-Mages, how they'll help us when we need them - then when we need them, we get told there aren't any to spare, they're all down on the Karsite Border or off somewhere else - and here one of our own is a Herald-Mage - it just goes hard.” Withen was obviously distressed, and Vanyel didn't blame him.
“But Father - you were sent help. You said so yourself. They sent you a Herald,” he pointed out.
“A Herald?” Within scoffed. “What good's a plain Herald? We needed a Herald-Mage!”
“Did you give her a chance?” Vanyel asked, quietly. “Or did you just assume she couldn't be of any help and lead her around like a child until she was convinced there wasn't any real need for her?”
“But - she was just a Herald -”
“Father, nobody is 'just' a Herald,” Vanyel said. “We're taught to make the best of every ability we have - Heralds and Herald-Mages. The only difference in us is the kinds of abilities we have. She would have done exactly as you did. She probably would have been able to help you, if you'd given her the chance. She wouldn't have been able to invoke a spell and destroy the creatures for you, but it's quite probable a Herald-Mage wouldn't have been able to either. I have no doubt she could have found the ones in hiding, perhaps, or uncovered their weaknesses. But you didn't give her a chance to find out what she could do.”