Magic's Promise: Book Two of the'last Herald-Mage'trilogy - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Mercedes Lackey is a full-time writer and has published numerous novels and works of short fiction, including the best-selling Heralds Of Valdemar series. She is also a professional lyricist and a licensed wild bird rehabilitator. She lives in Oklahoma with her husband, artist Larry Dixon, and their flock of parrots. She can be found at mercedeslackey.com.

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Copyright © 1990 by Mercedes R. Lackey.

All Rights Reserved.

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DAW Book Collectors No. 803.

First Printing, January 1990

ISBN: 9781101127889

DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES
—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.

S A.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Also by Mercedes Lackey

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

It was like something out of his worst nightmares. . . .

A Herald, with a heavy carter’s whip, beating the young Companion until his skin came away in strips and blood striped bright on the snowy hide, trying to separate him from his newly-Chosen boy.

Vanyel pulled on the power within him, feeling it leap, wild and undisciplined, as the other Herald staggered, prepared to lash out with the whip again. Flinging out his left hand, Van sent a lash of his own, a lash of lightning from his outstretched finger to the whipstock. The spark arced across the space between them with a crackle and the pungent smell of burning leather, and the dark, sallow-faced Herald dropped the whip with an exclamation of pain. Behind him, Yfandes was holding off the armsmen with squeals, lashing hooves and bared teeth; faced with her anger, they were not inclined to come to the Herald’s rescue.

“What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Vanyel thundered, letting the other feel his outrage, a wave of red anger. The older man backed up an involuntary pace, nursing his injured hand against his chest.

“Who are you to interfere—” he began, his face a caricature of thwarted authority.

“Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron,” Vanyel cut him off. “Called Demonsbane, called Shadowstalker, First Herald-Mage in Valdemar. I outrank you, Herald, and your damn fool actions tonight called me out of my bed and across the Border. You’ve exceeded your authority, and I’m ordering you to let this boy be. Who in hell are you?”

NOVELS BY MERCEDES LACKEY available from DAW Books:

THE HERALDS OF VALDEMAR

ARROWS OF THE QUEEN
ARROW’S FLIGHT
ARROW’S FALL

THE LAST HERALD-MAGE

MAGIC’S PAWN
MAGIC’S PROMISE
MAGIC’S PRICE

THE MAGE WINDS

WINDS OF FATE
WINDS OF CHANGE
WINDS OF FURY

THE MAGE STORMS

STORM WARNING
STORM RISING
STORM BREAKING

VOWS AND HONOR

THE OATHBOUND
OATHBREAKERS
OATHBLOOD

THE COLLEGIUM CHRONICLES

FOUNDATION
INTRIGUES
CHANGES
REDOUBT
BASTION

BY THE SWORD
BRIGHTLY BURNING
TAKE A THIEF
EXILE’S HONOR
EXILE’S VALOR

VALDEMAR ANTHOLOGIES:

SWORD OF ICE
SUN IN GLORY
CROSSROADS
MOVING TARGETS
CHANGING THE WORLD
FINDING THE WAY
UNDER THE VALE

Written with LARRY DIXON:

THE MAGE WARS

THE BLACK GRYPHON
THE WHITE GRYPHON
THE SILVER GRYPHON

DARIAN’S TALE

OWLFLIGHT
OWLSIGHT
OWLKNIGHT

OTHER NOVELS

GWENHWYFAR

THE BLACK SWAN

THE DRAGON JOUSTERS

JOUST
ALTA
SANCTUARY
AERIE

THE ELEMENTAL MASTERS

THE SERPENT’S SHADOW
THE GATES OF SLEEP
PHOENIX AND ASHES
THE WIZARD OF LONDON
RESERVED FOR THE CAT
UNNATURAL ISSUE
HOME FROM THE SEA
STEADFAST
BLOOD RED

And don’t miss:
THE VALDEMAR COMPANION
Edited by John Helfers and Denise Little

Dedicated to:
Elizabeth (Betsy) Wollheim
Who said—“Go for it”

One

The blue leather saddlebags and a canvas pack, all bulging with filthy clothing and miscellaneous gear, landed in the corner of Vanyel’s room with three dull thuds. The lute, still in its padded leather case, slithered over the back of one of the two overstuffed chairs and landed with a softer pumph, to rest in the cradle of the worn red seat cushion. Once safely there it sagged, leaning over sideways like a fat, drunken child. The dark leather lute case glowed dully in the mid-morning sun still coming in the single eastward-facing window. Two years of mistreatment had not marred the finish too much, although the case was scuffed here and there, and had been torn and remended with tiny, careful stitches along the belly.

Vanyel grimaced at the all-too-visible tear. Torn? No; no tear would be that even. Say cut, or slashed and it would be nearer the truth. Pray nobody else notices that.

Better the lute case than me . . . that came closer than I really want to think about. I hope Savil never gets a good look at it. She’d know what that meant, and she’d have a cat.

Herald-Mage Vanyel took the other chair gracelessly, dropping all his weight at once into the embrace of comfortable upholstered arms.

Home at last. Havens, I sound like the pack hitting the corner.

“O-o-oh.” Vanyel leaned back, feeling every muscle in his body crying out with long-ignored aches and strains. His thoughts fumbled their way into his conscious mind through a fog of utter exhaustion. He wanted, more than anything, to close his gritty eyes. But he didn’t dare, because the moment he did, he’d fall asleep.

Someday I’m going to remember I’m not sixteen anymore, and keep in mind that I can’t stay up till all hours, then rise with the dawn, and not pay for it.

A few moments ago his Companion Yfandes had fallen asleep, standing up in the stable, while he was grooming her. They’d started out on this last leg of their journey long before dawn this morning, and had pushed their limits, eating up the last dregs of their strength just to get to the sanctuary of “home” the sooner.

Gods. If only I would never have to see the Karsite Border again.

No chance of that. Lord and Lady, if you love me, just give me enough time to get my wind back. That’s all I ask. Time enough to feel like a human again, and not a killing machine.

The room smelled strongly of soap and the beeswax used to polish the furniture and wall paneling. He stretched, listening to his joints crack, then blinked at his surroundings.

Peculiar. Why doesn’t this feel like home? He pondered for a moment, for it seemed to him that his modest, goldenoak-paneled quarters had the anonymous, overly-neat look of a room without a current occupant. I suppose that’s only logical, he thought reluctantly. They haven’t been occupied, much. I’ve been living out of my packs for the last year, and before that I was only here for a couple of weeks at a time at most. Gods.

It was...