Vanyel closed his eyes, suddenly too tired to try to find something wrong with what appeared to be a perfectly ordinary situation.
“You're probably right,” he said, :'Fandes, do you agree?:
:Quite reasonable,: she said, wearily. :That's very typical of heart-failure; the shock goes straight to us, too. And Kilchas' Rohan was as old as he was. That's a much more logical explanation than foul play - it's just that so few of you live long enough these days for your hearts to fail that I forgot that. I think we may be overreacting because we're tired and we're so used to treachery and ambush that we ignore other answers, love.:
“ 'Fandes agrees with you -” he began; the Stef started something that had nothing to do with a therapeutic massage, and he murmured a little exclamation of surprise.
“Have we disposed of the topic, ashke?” Stef asked, breathing the words into his ear, his chest pressed against Vanyel's back.
:I think,: Yfandes said tactfully, :that it's time for me to get some sleep. Good night, dearheart,:
:Good night, love,: he replied - then his attention was taken elsewhere.
And it was quite a while before either he or Stefen actually slept.
Fifteen
Vanyel forgot all about his misgivings in the weeks that followed. His time was devoured by Council meetings, Audience sessions where he and Treven stood as proxies for Randale, and long-distance spellcasting. Desperation at being unable to be two places at once had led him to discover that he could work magic through a Herald without the Mage-Gift, provided that the Herald in question was both a Thoughtsenser and carried Mage-Gift in potential. He immersed himself in the nodes so often he began to feel very much akin to the Tayledras.
He often returned to his room at night long past the hour when sane folk retired. When he did so, he found Stef invariably curled up sleepily next to the fire, light from the flames making a red glow in his hair, for he refused to take his own rest until Van returned. The Bard's patient care was the one constant in his life besides Yfandes, and as fall deepened into winter, he came to rely more and more on both of them, just to keep a hold on sanity and optimism in a world increasingly devoid of both.
Karse had declared holy war on the “evil mages of Valdemar,” though as yet they had done nothing about it. The agents both the Lord Marshal and the Seneschal had in place reported that the Prophet-King (as he styled himself) had his hands full with rooting out “heresy” in his own land. But no one was under any delusions; the consensus was that as soon as the followers of the Sun Lord needed an outside enemy to unify what was left of the populace, there would be an army of fanatics hammering the Southern Border.
That would only add to the bandits who had taken over the buffer zone between the two countries, motley bands of brigands who had escaped or been turned loose during the revolution, those who had been accused of magery and fled their homes but had declined to cross the Border, and opportunists who preyed on both sides.
“At least there won't be any mages in the Prophet's pay,” the Seneschal said, as they all leaned over the maps and tried to find weak points in their defenses.
“Maybe,” the Archpriest replied dubiously. His tour of the south had garnered mixed results. On the whole he was happy with the outcome, for his presence had kept any overt activities to a minimum. The net result, however, was that there were no enclaves of the Sun Lord in Valdemar any more. Roughly half of the devotees had been so revolted by the Father-House's actions that they had converted to some other way. The rest had decamped across the Border to Karse, to join their fellows. The holdings themselves had gone to those who had remained behind, thus staying in the hands of those who had remained loyal to Valdemar.
Supposedly loyal, at any rate. Both the Seneschal and the Archpriest were keeping a wary eye on them in case some of these “conversions” were intended as a ruse, to cover later subversion. That there were spies planted in the midst of these enclaves was a given.
“What do you mean, 'maybe'?” asked the Seneschal, hand poised above a marker representing a Guard detachment.
“What's the difference between a miracle and a magic spell?” the Archpriest asked, looking from Arved to Van and back again.
“A miracle comes from the gods; magic comes from a mage,” the Seneschal replied impatiently.
“That's purely subjective,” the Archpriest pointed out. “To the layman, there is no discernible difference. The Prophet can easily have mages within his own ranks, claim their powers are from the Sun Lord, and be completely within strict doctrinal boundaries.”
“Damn. You're right,” the Lord Marshal said softly. “I wonder how many he does have?”
“There's no way of knowing,” Vanyel replied, as they all turned to look at him. “I don't think he has anyone a Herald couldn't counter, though. My operatives aren't reporting any 'miracles' other than Healing and the odd illusion, not even when the Prophet's Children are trying to capture mages. The powerful mages in the pay and employ of the Karsite Crown were all known as such, and have either been killed or fled the country. That's not to say that the Mage-Gifted won't end up in the Sun Lord's priesthood in the future; I'd virtually guarantee that, but they won't get effective training, because there won't be anyone experienced enough to train them thoroughly, and they probably won't be permitted to use their Gift combatively.”
“Why not?” the Archpriest asked.
Van smiled thinly, and fingered a marker representing an agent. “Because if they learn what they can do, what's to stop them from declaring themselves the chosen of the God and doing exactly what the Prophet did?”
“Only with more success, because they have 'miracles' to prove their power,” the Archpriest mused, his eyes half-closed. “Interesting speculation. It's fortunate that you are on our side, Vanyel.”
Van bowed with intended irony. “A Herald tends to be altogether too well acquainted with the ways of treachery for anyone's comfort, including his own, my lord,” he said. “One could say that it is part of the job.”
“To know, and not use?” The Archpriest's smile was genuine and his eyes warmed with it. “I am aware of that, my son. I think that most of you would have been comfortable within the ranks of the clergy had there been no Companions to Choose you.”
“Most?” Vanyel chuckled, knowing the Archpriest was blissfully unaware of his relationship with Stefen. “Some, maybe, but I assure you, my lord, not all. By no means all. We are far too worldly for most orders to ever accept us!”
He would have said more, but suddenly -
His eyes burned. A giant hand closed itself around his chest, as his lungs caught fire. He tried to breathe, and only increased the pain. His heart spasmed; once, twice-then exploded.
He found himself sprawled facedown over the table, the rest of the Councillors, his father among them, frantically trying to revive him. He stared at the lines of the map just under his nose, unable to remember what they were.