Magic's Price

“Oh, just that whatever it is that makes someone shaych, it probably isn't learned or inherited. Brightstar has a half dozen young ladies of the Tayledras with whom he trades feathers on a regular basis, and he'd probably have more if he had the stamina.”

“Trades feathers?” Stef said with puzzlement.

“Tayledras custom. When you want to make love to someone you offer them a feather. If you want a more permanent relationship, it's a feather from your bondbird.”

“Oh.” That gave his fertile imagination something to work on. And feathers were easier come by in the dead of winter than, say, flowers. . . .

Van was finally relaxing under his hands. In fact, from the way his head kept nodding, the Herald was barely awake. Which meant Stef could probably coax him into bed without too much trouble.

Of course, he may not get much sleep. Stefen sighed contentedly, and slowly ran his fingers through Vanyel's hair, grateful just for his lover's presence.

Van relaxed for the first time in three months, and gave himself over completely to the gentle strength of Stef's callused hands. Stef felt the cold more than most - he was so thin it went straight to his bones - so he'd built the fire up to the point where he was comfortable. That meant that even without his tunic, Van basked in drowsy warmth.

The mage-focus glowed just above his heart, touching him with a different sort of warmth. That piece of amber was truly extraordinary. It might have been made for him, fitting into his cupped hand perfectly, meshing with his power-patterns and channeling them with next to no effort on his part. Given how things had worked out, perhaps it had been; in the same way that the rose-quartz crystal he'd given Savil years ago had seemingly been made for her, though it had been given to him.

He'd told Stef the truth, though; if the Bard had bought the thing with dishonorable coin, he couldn't have worn it. If Stef had failed to realize why that kind of perversion of his Gift was wrong, Vanyel would have had misgivings every time he put it on.

Stef had changed, though Van had never tried to change him. He'd become a partner, someone Van could rely on, despite his youth. And because he's my partner, he had to know about Jisa and the others. Partners shouldn't have secrets from one another. That information could be important some day. It's good to be able to tell someone-especially him. . . .

It was so easy to relax, letting all his responsibilities slide away for a moment. He felt himself drifting off into a half-doze, and didn't even try to stop himself.

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