Magic's Promise

Now sure of his reception - and that he wasn't interrupting anything - he crossed the remaining distance to Savil's door and pushed it open.

Savil, her silver hair braided like a coronet on the top of her head, was enthroned in her favorite chair, a huge, blue monstrosity as comfortable as it was ugly. Tall Jaysen (who always looked bleached, somehow) was half- sprawled on her couch, but he rose at Vanyel's entrance- then did a double take, and staggered back a step, hand theatrically clutched to his chest.

'My heart!' he choked. 'Savil, look at your nephew! Barefoot, shaggy - headed, and shabby! Where in Havens has our peacock gone?'

'He got lost somewhere south of Horn,' Vanyel replied. 'I last saw him in a tavern singing trios with my mind and my wits. I haven't seen either of them in a while, either.'

'Well, you surely couldn't tell it from the reports we got back,' Jaysen answered, coming quickly forward and clasping his forearms with no sign of the uneasiness he'd once had around the younger Herald. “There's three new songs about you out of your year down south, in case you didn't know. Very accurate, too, amazingly enough.'

Vanyel sighed. 'Gods. Bards.'

Jaysen cocked his graying head to the side. 'You should be used to it by now. You keep doing things that make wonderful songs, so how can they resist?' He grinned. 'Maybe you should stop. Become a bricklayer, for instance.'

Vanyel shook his head and groaned. 'It's not my fault!'

Jaysen laughed. 'I'd best be off before that trio wrecks my workroom. Did Savil tell you? I've been given the proteges you'd have gotten if you hadn't been in a combat zone. Count your blessings - one's a farmgirl who had much rather be a fighter than a Herald-Mage, thank you; one's a very bewildered young man who can't for a moment imagine why he was Chosen and as a result has no confidence whatsoever; and the third is an overly confident sharpster who's actually a convicted lawbreaker!'

'Convicted of what?' Vanyel asked, amused at the woebegone expression on Jaysen's face.

'Chicanery and fraud. The old shell-and-pea game at Midsummer Fair; he was actually Chosen on the way to his sentencing, if you can believe it.'

'I can believe it. It's keeping you busy, anyway.'

'It is that. It's good to see you, Van.' Jaysen hesitated a moment, and then put one hand on his shoulder. 'Vanyel-' He locked his pale, near-colorless blue eyes with Vanyel's, and Van saw disturbance there that made him, uneasy. 'Take care of yourself, would you? We need you. I don't think you realize how much.'

He slipped out the door before Vanyel could respond. Van stared after him with his mouth starting to fall open.

'What in the name of sanity was that about?' he asked, perplexed, turning back to his aunt, who had not left the comfortable confines of her chair. She looked up at him measuringly.

'Have you any notion how many Herald-Mages we've lost in the last four years?' she asked, her high - cheekboned face without any readable expression.

'Two dozen?' he hazarded.

Now she looked uneasy. Not much, but enough that he could tell. 'Slightly more than half the total we had when you and I came back from k'Treva. We can't replace them fast enough. The Mage- Gift was never that common in the first place, and with a rate of attrition like that - ' She grimaced. 'I haven't told you about this before, because there was nothing you could do about it, but after the deaths of the last year, you should know the facts. You become more important with each loss, Van. You were the only one available to send to replace those five casualties on the Karsite Border. You were the only one who could replace all five of them, all by yourself. That's why we couldn't relieve you, lad, or even send you one other Herald-Mage to give you a breather. We simply didn't have anyone to send. Speaking of which - ' She raised one eyebrow as she gave him such a penetrating look that Vanyel felt as if she was seeing past his clothes to count his ribs and mark each of his scars. ' - you look like hell.'

'Can't anyone greet me without saying that?' he complained. 'You, Tran, Jays - can't you tell me I'm looking seasoned? Or poetic? Or something?''

'Horseturds; you don't look 'seasoned,' you look like hell. You're too damned thin, your eyes are sunken, and if my Othersenses aren't fooling me, you've got no reserves - you're on your last dregs of energy.'

Vanyel sighed, and folded himself up at her feet, resting his back against the front of her chair and his head against her knee. That was 'home,' and always would be - as Savil was more his mother