:It's important,: he replied grimly. :And it's only going to get more so. I think you can make the rest of the Circle see that. Point out the attrition among the Herald-Mages, and then quote what happened out here. People are supposed to trust us, and how can they if they think of some of us as being better than others?:
:Good point. Consider it on the boards.: Vanyel knew that once Joshe made up his mind about doing something, he pursued it to its end. He felt a breath of relief of his own. The problem wasn't solved, but it would be. At least a start was being made.
:Then I leave it in your capable and efficient hands. Wind to thy wings, brother.:
:And to yours.: Vanyel felt Joshe break the contact, and dropped his end of it with a sigh.
Blackfoot was still stuffing herself, and showed no signs of stopping any time within the decade. He hauled her head up; she fought him every thumblength of the way, and returned to the game trail sullenly, and with ill grace.
I wish I had as clean an answer to what I should do about Stef, he thought uncomfortably. Gods, there's no denying what I feel about him - or the lifebond. But if I accept all that, and do so publicly, it flaunts the fact that I'm shay'a'chern in the faces of people I have to handle very carefully. Can I afford that? Can Valdemar? Or will knowing I have my weaknesses actually put me at an advantage? It might . . . I know that an awful lot of people come to me with the idea that I'm some kind of supernally wise and powerful savant, and that I can't possibly be interested in their problems. Knowing I have problems and weaknesses of my own might make me more accessible.
But it also puts Stef right where I don't want him - in a position as an easy target for anyone who can't come directly at me. And he doesn't have any way to protect himself from that.
Maybe I ought to give him up. I don't know that I can afford a liability like that. Just make this a wonderful little idyll out here where it's safe to do so, then send him on his way when we get back to Haven. I'll make him understand, somehow. Maybe we could pretend to quarrel. . . .
No - I can't give him up. I can't. There has to be another way.
He was so intent on his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Blackfoot left the game trail for the road, and turned herself back toward Forst Reach.
Why is it I can solve the problems of the Kingdom, but can't keep my own life straight? Gods, I can't even control a stupid horse. He let her go for a moment, then reined her in to turn her back onto one of the game trails. He was still in no mood to face his fellows, and intended to return home the way he'd left.
He got her turned, though not without a fight. She had gotten her fill of picking her way through the brush, and let him know about it in no uncertain terms. She balked when they reached the break in the blackberry hedges that lined both sides of the road, and he finally had to dismount and lead her through.
That was when the spell of paralysis struck him, pinning him and Blackfoot where they stood.
One moment everything was fine; the next, with no warning at all, he was completely unable to move. Every muscle had locked, rigid as wood, and beside him Blackfoot shivered as the same thing happened to her. Magic tingled on the surface of his skin, and Mage-Sight showed him the cocoon of energy-lines that held him captive. It took him completely by surprise.
But only for half a breath; he hadn't spent all those years on the Karsite Border without learning to react quickly, even after being surprised.
His body was trapped, but his mind was still free - and he used it.
He tested the barrier even as he searched for the flare of mage-energy that would betray the location of his enemy as the other mage held the spell against him.
There -
And it was someone who was reacting exactly as he'd postulated ordinary mages would when faced with a Herald; armored to the teeth with shieldings to magic, but completely open to any of the Heraldic Gifts.
Van could use his own magic, and not the Mind-magic, of course. The stranger was nowhere near Vanyel's ability, and Van knew he could break the spell with a simple flexing of his own power, if he chose. But if he did that, the man might get away, and Van had no intention of letting him do that. Too many enemies had come back, better equipped, for second tries at him. Mages were particularly prone to doing just that, even one who was as outranked as this one.
Perhaps - especially this one. Because this was one whose power was stolen; siphoned from others with neither knowledge nor consent. Van saw that the instant before he struck. That may have been the other's motivation; to catch Vanyel off-guard and steal his power. There was no way of knowing until Van had him helpless and could question him at length.
Which - Vanyel thought angrily, as he readied his mental energies for a mind-to-mind blast-would be very shortly now. . . .
No mage of ill-intent should have been able to concentrate long enough to set a trap, he thought, looking down at the trussed-up body of his would-be captor, lying on his side in a bed of dead leaves. Especially not in my home territory. The vrondi should have had him so confused and paranoid that he should have been firing off blasts at nothing. At the least he should have been leaking mage-energy sufficiently enough for me to detect him. I can't understand why he wasn't. Or why the vrondi didn't reveal him.
The man stirred and moaned; he was going to have a dreadful headache for the next several days. The bolt Van leveled him with had been at full-power, just under killing strength. Van could kill with his mind - in fact, he had, once. It was something he never, ever wanted to do again. It had left him too sick to stand for a month, and feeling tainted for a year afterward. Even though the mage he'd destroyed had been a self-centered, power-hungry bastard, without a drop of compassion in his body, and with no interests outside his own aggrandizement, experiencing his death directly, mind-to-mind, had been one of the worst things Vanyel had ever endured. No, unless there was no other way, he didn't ever want to do that again.
Maybe he's unusually good at concentrating. Or maybe he's already so paranoid that having the vrondi watching him didn't make things any worse for him.
The mage at Van's feet was ordinary enough. He looked no different, in fact, from any number of petty nobles Van had encountered over the years; sandy hair and beard, medium build, a little soft and certainly not much accustomed to exercise or physical labor. His nondescript, blue-gray woolen clothing was that of “minor noble” quality, though cut a little differently from what was currently popular in Valdemar, and of heavier materials.
He must have come in over the Western Border; he certainly isn't from around here. Van waited impatiently for the mage to regain consciousness. He wanted to scan his mind, and wouldn't be able to do that effectively unless the mage was at least partially awake. The best information came when people reacted to questions, especially when they had something to hide.