But the potions let him sleep, a sleep without dreams. And he’d had the snow-dreams again - that was what had thrown him into that fit.
Oh, gods - he’d thought - he’d thought they’d never come again. He’d thought ‘Lendel had driven them away.
But they weren’t the dreams about being walled in by ice, so maybe ‘Lendel had -
Maybe not. He couldn’t tell. It was the other dream, anyway. Clear, vivid as no other dream he’d dreamed had ever been, and much more detailed than the last time he’d had it.
He’d been in a canyon, a narrow mountain pass with walls that were peculiarly smooth. He’d known, in the dream, that this was no real pass - that this passage had been created, cut armlength by armlength, by magic.
He’d known, too, that the magic had been wrong, skewed. It had an aura of pain and death about it, as if every thumblength of that canyon had been paid for in spilled blood.
It had been night; cloudy, with a smell of snow on the wind. Where he stood the canyon had narrowed momentarily, choked by avalanches on either side. He’d been very cold, despite the heavy weight of a fur cloak on his shoulders; his feet had been like blocks of the ice that edged the canyon walls.
He had felt a feeling of grim satisfaction, when he’d seen that at this one point the passage was wide enough for two men, but no more. And he knew that hehad somehow caused those blockages, to create a place where one man could, conceivably, hold off an army.
Because an army was what was coming down that canyon.
He’d sent for help, sent Yfandes and Tylendel -
Tylendel? But Tylendel was dead -
- but he’d also known that help was unlikely to arrive in time.
He had waited until they were almost on him, suspecting nothing, and knowing that they could not see him yet because he willed it so. Then he had raised his right hand high over his head, and a mage-light had flared on it; so bright that the front ranks of that terrible army winced back, and their shadows fell black as the heart of night on the snow behind them. He had said nothing; nothing needed to be said. He barred the way; that was all the challenge required.
They were heavily armored, those fighters; armor of some dull, black stuff, and helms of the same. They carried the weight of that armor as easily as Vanyel wore his own white fur cloak. They bore unornamented round shields, again of the same dull, black material, and carried long broadswords. For the rest, what could be seen of their clothing under the armor and their cloaks over it, they were a motley lot. But they movedwith a kind of sensitivity to the presence of the next-in-line that had told Vanyel in the dream that they had been drilled together by a hand more merciless than ever Jervis had been.
They stared at him, and none of them moved for a very long time -
Until the front ranks parted, and the wizard stepped through.
Wizard he was, and no doubt; Vanyel could feel the Power heavy within him. But it was Power of the same kind as that which had cut this canyon; paid for in agony. And when it was gone, there would be no more until the wizard could torture and kill again. Vanyel had all the power of life itself behind him; the power of the sleeping earth, of the living forest -
He spread his arms, and the life-energy flowed from him, creating a barricade across the valley -
- like the barricade across his heart-
- and a shield behind which he could shelter. He faced the wizard, head held high, defiance in the slightest movement, daring him to try and pass.
But the ranks of the fighters parted again, and the first wizard was joined by a second, and a third. And Vanyel felt his heart sinking, seeing his own death sentence written in those three-to-one odds.
Still, he had stood his ground -
Until Mardic touched his mind.
It had hurt, that touch; salt on raw flesh. He’d interpreted it as an attack of the wizards, and had struck back, struck to kill, and only as he’d made his strike had realized that -
- a dream, oh, gods- it’s a dream, it isn’t real, and that’s Mardic -
And had tried to pull the blow; hadpulled the blow, but that sent the aborted power coursing back down places that burned in agony when it touched them. And he’d tried to stop the flow, but that had only twisted things up inside him, until he was a thrashing knot of anguish and he didn’t know where he was or what he was doing. It all hurt, everything hurt, everything burned, and he was trapped in the pain, in the torment, crying out and knowing no one could hear him, and lost - he couldn’t feel his body anymore, couldn’t hear or see; he was foundering in a sea of agony -
Then a shock - like being struck -
He found himself gasping for breath, frozen to his teeth, but back in a normal body that hurt in a normal way.
Then he had blacked out for a moment; came to with the Healer shaking him, talking to him.
He was soaking wet, and shivering.
Mardic? What about Mardic?
The Herald Jaysen was holding him upright, more than half supporting him -
Tylendel, dead, crumpled at Jaysen’s feet. My fault, oh, gods, my fault-
The grieving came down on him, full force; but somewhere at the back of his mind he knewthat theywere feeling what hewas feeling and he clamped down on it - closed that line off -
In the stunned, mental silence he heard Jaysen’s anguished thoughts, as clearly and intimately as if he was speaking them into Vanyel’s ear.
:Gods-oh, gods, I didn’t know, I didn’t guess- Ithought he was playing with the boy, I thought he was- oh, gods, what have I done?:
He shuddered away from the unwanted sympathy, from the mind-words that were like acid in his wounds, and blocked thatline just as ruthlessly.
Then had come the potions - and the numbness. The blessed unfeeling. He drifted, nothing to hold him, not even his worry for Mardic. It was pitchy dark, they hadn’t left a single flame in the room, which under the circumstances was probably wise. Scraps of what he now knew were thoughts drifted over to him; now Savil’s mind-voice, now Jaysen’s (dark with guilt, and Vanyel wondered why), now Mardic’s.
If he had been on his feet, he would have staggered with relief at hearing that last. I didn’t kill him- thank the gods, I didn’t kill him.
He drifted farther, until he couldn’t hear anything anymore. Until he lost even his own thoughts. Until there was nothing left but sleep, and the sorrow that never, ever left him.
Savil stood beside the garden door with one hand on the frame, and prayed. She didn’t pray often; most Heralds didn’t. Praying usually meant asking for something - and the kind of person that became a Herald tended to be the kind that didn’t look outside of himself for help until the last hope had been exhausted.
For Savil, at least, it had gotten to that point.
Just beyond the window, bundled in quilts and blankets and half-lying against Yfandes’ side, Vanyel dozed in the sun, still kept in a sleepy half-daze by Andrel’s potions. Jaysen had carried him out there, with his own mind so tightly shielded against leaking his thoughts that Savil fair Saw him quivering under the strain. Jaysen would be back for the boy in another two candlemarks, which was all Andrel would allow in this cold. This was the third day of the routine; there had been no real repetition of the crisis that had precipitated it, but Savil more than half expected one every night.
Vanyel sighed in sleep, and one arm stole out of the blankets to circle around Yfandes’ neck. The Companion nuzzled his ear, and instead of pulling away, he cuddled closerto her.
But before Savil had a chance to really take in this first, positive sign that the Herald-Companion bond was taking root in the boy, someone poundedon her outer door. She half-turned, and heard Donni pattering across the common room to answer it. There was a murmur too indistinct to make but.