PAIN!
He didn't realize that he'd jumped to his feet until he found himself staring at Stef from halfway across the room. He blinked, and in that instant between one breath and the next, knew -
Kilchas! That pain was Herald-Mage Kilchas, and he was dying. Or being killed. Suddenly. Violently.
An unexpected side effect of the new Web. Unless someone was magically cut out of the Web, every Herald would know when another Herald died, as the Companions already knew.
And as Vanyel knew that something was wrong.
The Death Bell began tolling, and he grabbed his tunic from the back of the chair beside the one he'd been sitting in, pulling it on hastily over his head. Something was wrong, something to do with Kilchas, and he was the only one who might be able to see what it was. But he had to get there.
Stef fell back a step, startled. “Van, what did I -”
The Death Bell tolled, drowning out the rest of his words.
Stef had been at Haven long enough to know what that meant. But he'd never seen a Herald react to it the way Vanyel had - and he'd never heard of a Herald who had reacted before the tolling of the Bell.
“Van?” he said, and the Herald stared at him as if he'd never seen him before.
“Van?” he said again, which seemed to break Vanyel out of whatever trance he'd gotten stuck in. Vanyel grabbed his uniform tunic and began pulling it on over his head.
“Van,” Stef protested, “It's the Death Bell. There's nothing you can do, and even if there were, you just got back! You're tired, and you've earned a rest! Let somebody else take care of it.”
Van shook his head stubbornly, and bent down to reach for his boots. “I have to go - I don't know why, but I have to.”
Stefen sighed, and got both their cloaks; his, that had been draped on a hook behind the door, and Vanyel's spare from the wardrobe. As soon as the Herald straightened up from pulling his boots on, Stef handed him the white cloak and swung his own scarlet over his shoulders. Vanyel paused, hands on the throat-latch of his garment.
“Where are you going?” he asked, in a startled voice.
Stefen shrugged. “With you. If you're going to run off the first night you're home, at least I can be with you.”
“But Stef -” Vanyel protested. “You don't have to-”
“I know,” he interrupted. “That's one reason why I'm doing it anyway, lover.” He held the door open for the Herald, and waved him through it. “Come on. Let's get going.”
Someone had already beaten Vanyel to the scene; there were lights and moving shadows at the base of one of the two flat-topped towers at the end of Herald's Wing. The storm had blown off some time after Vanyel got in; the sky was perfectly clear, and the night windless and much colder than when he'd arrived. The slush had hardened into icy ridges that he and Stef slipped and stumbled over to get to the death-scene.
Kilchas lay facedown on the hardened snow, one arm twisted beneath him, head at an unnatural angle. He was dressed in a shabby old tunic and soft breeches, with felt house-shoes. Treven, cloak wrapped tightly around him, knelt beside the body. A very young, blond Guardsman stood next to him, holding a lantern that shook as the hand that held it trembled. “- there was this kind of cry,” he was saying, as Van stumbled within hearing distance. “I looked up at the tower, and he was falling, limplike; like somebody'd thrown a rag doll over. I ran to - to catch him, to try to help, but he was -” The young man shuddered and gulped. “So I came to get help, my lord.”
“Which was when you bowled me over in the corridor,” Treven said coolly, touching the body's shoulder with care. “You can go get me a Healer, but I think he'll just confirm that the poor old man died of a broken neck and smashed skull.” Though the young Heir spoke with every sign of complete composure, Van Felt him shaking inside. This was Trev's first close-up look at the violent death of a fellow human, and all his calm was pretense.
Not that it ever got easier emotionally with time and repetition; it was just easier to be calm about taking care of it.
“Trev.” Vanyel touched the young man's shoulder at the same time as he spoke; Trev and the Guardsman both jumped. The lantern swung wildly in the Guardsman's hand, making the shadows jerk and dance, and making the body appear to move for an instant.
“Trev, I'll take it from here if you want, but I think you've got things well in hand.” His first impulse had been to take over; this, after all, was not the first time he'd seen death near at hand - it was not even the first time he'd seen the death of someone he knew and cared for. No, that had happened so often he'd given up counting the times. . . . But taking over from Trev would have meant shoving the young Heir into the position of hanger-on, when what he needed to do was start assuming his authority. The sooner he started doing so, the more readily others would accept that authority when Randi died.
So even if the young Heir didn't have any experience in handling situations like this, Trev should be the one in charge.
Treven took a deep breath, and looked very much as if he wanted to hand that authority right back to Van. But instead, he said only, “This really isn't my area of expertise, Herald Vanyel. Would you mind having a look here?”
Van nodded. Beside him, Stef shivered, and pulled his cloak a little tighter. Vanyel knelt down beside the white-faced Heir, and examined the body without visible sign of emotion, though he wanted to weep for the poor old man. “The neck is broken, and the front of the skull as well,” he said quietly. He looked up, though all he could see of the top of the tower was the dark shape of it against the sky. “Kilchas has an observatory up on the top of this tower,” he told Treven. “Did he say anything about going up there tonight?”
Another pair of heralds had joined them; Tantras and Lissandra; Lissandra huddled in on herself, as though she was too cold for her cloak to warm her. “Oh, gods,” the woman said brokenly. “Yes, he told me that he was going up there if it cleared at all tonight. Phryny was conjuncting Aberdene's Eye, or some such thing. Only happens once in a hundred years, and he wanted to see it. He was so excited when it cleared up at sunset -” She sobbed, and turned away, hiding her face on Tran's shoulder. He folded his cloak around her, and looked down at the three kneeling in the snow.
“Poor old man,” Tantras said hoarsely. “He must have gotten so wrapped up in what he was doing that he forgot to watch his step.”
“There're probably ice patches all over the top of that tower,” Trev replied, “And the parapet is only knee-high. It's only enough to warn you that you're at the edge, not save you from falling.” He stood up, folding dignity around himself like a new cloak that was overlarge, stiff, and a trifle awkward. “Guard, would you please see that Kilchas' body is taken to the Chapel? I'll inform Joshel, and have him see to what's needed from there.” The Guardsman stood up, saluted, and trudged toward the Guard quarters, leaving the lantern behind. Before too long his dark blue uniform had been absorbed into the night.
Treven turned to Vanyel. “Thank you, Herald Vanyel. If Tantras and Lissandra don't mind, I'll have them stay with me to get things taken care of. You've just come in from a long journey, and you should get some rest.” He coughed uncomfortably, as if he wasn't sure what to say or do next.