Magic's Price

Savil's cry was cut off, abruptly, and Vanyel doubled up and fell to the floor -

Pain -

- knives of fire slicing him from neck to crotch-

- lungs aching for air-

- teeth fastening in his throat-

Then, nothing -

He found himself gasping for breath, curled in a fetal position on the floor, Stefen staring at him from the bed with his eyes wide with fear. It had felt like an eternity, yet it had taken only a few heartbeats from the moment Savil called him until now.

Savil!

He grabbed his robe from the floor beside him where he had dropped it and struggled to his feet, pulling it on. He burst out the door and ran down the corridor-joined by every other Herald in the wing just as the Death Bell tolled. This time he hadn't been the only one to feel the death-struggle.

And this time there was no doubt. This was no accident.

Savil's door was locked; Vanyel kicked it open. His aunt lay in the center of a circle of destruction; furniture overturned, lamps knocked over, papers scattered. Blood everywhere. Some of the others, Herald-trainees who had probably never seen violent death before, gasped and turned green - or blanched and fled.

Claw and teethmarks on Savil's throat and torso showed that she'd put up a fight. A trail of greenish ichor and a broken-bladed knife told that her enemy had not escaped unscathed.

But there was no sign of it, and the trail ended at the locked door.

Not that it mattered to him. The damage was already done, and this time Vanyel's hard-won detachment failed entirely. While the others checked the locks, and looked for clues or any sign of what had attacked her, he sank down to his knees beside the body, and took one limp hand in , his - and wept.

Oh, gods - Savil, you were right, and I didn't listen to you. Now you're gone, and it's all my fault. . . .

Some of the others stopped what they were doing, and looked at him with pity and concern. Very few of them had ever seen Vanyel emerge from behind the cool mask of the first-ranked Herald-Mage of Valdemar. Fewer still had seen him break down like this, especially in public. He had heard that he had a reputation for such coolness and self-isolation that even fellow Heralds seemed to think nothing could crack his icy calm.

They were finding out differently now. “She - thought someone was - targeting the Herald-Mages,” he said brokenly, to no one in particularly. “She was afraid she was going to be next; she asked me to help her, and I just thought she was being hysterical. I promised to strengthen her wards, and I didn't; I forgot. This is all my fault -”

She's never going to sit there in her chair and expound at me again. I can't ever ask her for advice. She'll never take on Father for me - she was my mother in everything but flesh, and I failed her, I failed her, when I'd promised to help her.

He hung his head, and closed his eyes, choking down the sob that rose and cut off his breathing.

Savil, Savil, I'm so sorry - and sorry isn't enough. Sorry won't bring you back.

Tears escaped from under his closed eyelids, and etched their way down his cheeks. He couldn't swallow; he could hardly breathe.

A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up, slowly, through eyes that burned and vision that wavered with tears.

“Van?” Tantras said quietly. “I know you're in no shape to do anything, but you're the only Herald-Mage left, and we can't check all the magical locks she had to see if they were violated.”

He blinked, then reckoned up in his head ail the deaths over the last couple of years.

Oh, gods - I'm not just the only Herald-Mage they have left here, I'm the very last Herald-Mage. There aren't any more but me.

He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and rose slowly to his feet. “Clear everyone out,” he said in a