He thanked the man with a nod, and slipped inside.
Most of the time Randale was cold, so the room was as hot as a desert, with a fire in the fireplace despite the fact that it was full summer. The King lay on a day-bed beside the fire, bundled up in a blanket, Shavri on a stool beside him; he looked exhausted, but the pain lines about his mouth and eyes were mercifully few.
Those eyes were closed, but he wasn't sleeping. Vanyel saw his lids flutter a little the moment before he spoke. “So,” he said quietly. “What's sent you flying out of the Council Chamber this time? Good news, or bad?”
“Wish I could tell you,” Vanyel replied, dropping down beside the bed, and putting one hand on Shavri's shoulder. She brushed her cheek briefly against it, but didn't let go of Randale's hand. Van touched her dark, gypsy- tumble of curls for a moment, then turned his full attention back to the King. “We just got a messenger from the Border and the Karsites have just confirmed my belief that they're all completely mad.”
He outlined the situation as quickly as he could, while Randale listened, with his eyes still closed. The King had long ago shaved off his beard, saying it no longer hid anything and made him look like the business end of a mop, he'd grown so thin. That was the day he'd finally acknowledged his illness, and the fact that he was never going to recover from it; the day Van had been reassigned permanently and indefinitely to the Palace.
All of Randale that could be seen, under the swathings of blankets, were his head and hands. Both were emaciated and colorless; even Randale's hair was an indeterminate shade of brown. Herald Joshe, who was something of an artist, had remarked sadly that the King was like an under-painting, all bones and shadows.
But there was nothing wrong with his mind, and he demonstrated that he'd inherited his grandmother's good sense.
“Rethwellan,” he said, after listening to Vanyel. “They have mages in their bloodline; if Karse starts an anti- mage campaign, they'll be in as much danger as we. Get Arved to draft up some letters to Queen Lythiaren, feeling her out and offering alliance.” He paused a moment. “Tell him to word those carefully; she doesn't entirely trust me right now after that mess with the Amarites.”
“It wasn't your fault,” Vanyel protested, as Shavri stroked her lifebonded's forehead. Randale opened his eyes and smiled slightly.
“I know that, but she can't admit it,” he replied. “Have we got a 'limited powers' declaration around here somewhere? You'll need one for Everet.”
“I think so,” Vanyel answered, and got to his feet. After a moment of checking through the various drawers, he found what he was looking for - a pre-inscribed document assigning limited powers of the Crown, with blanks for the person and the circumstances. There was always pen, ink, and blotter waiting on the desk; in another moment Vanyel had filled in the appropriate blank spaces.
“Good, let me see it.” Randale read it carefully, as he always did. “Your usual thorough and lawyerlike job, Van.” He looked up at Vanyel, and smiled. “I hope you brought the pen with you.”
“I did.” Vanyel laid the bottom of the document over a book and held both so that Randale could initial the appropriate line. Blowing on the ink to dry it more quickly, he took the paper over to the desk and affixed the Seal of the Monarch. “What about the mages coming across the Border?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Unhindered passage via guarded trade-road into Rethwellan,” Randale told him. “But
“Not likely.” Vanyel left the paper where it was, and returned to Randale's side. “How has today been?”
“Shavri's beginning to understand what it is that young Bard of yours actually does,” Randale replied. “She's able to do a bit more for me. But yesterday was bad, I'd rather not give audiences today, because I don't think I can get past the door right now. No strength left.”
Vanyel touched his shoulder; Randale sighed, and covered Vanyel's hand with his own. “Then don't try,” Van said quietly. “Anything more I should do about Karse?”
“Get us inside information, then get our Herald operatives out of there,” Randale replied. “Then send a few non-Gifted agents to deliver aid to the rest, then insinuate themselves into the trouble. And let's get moving on the Rethwellan situation.”
By this time, the corners of his mouth were tight and pinched, and he was very pale. Vanyel felt a lump rising in his throat. Randale was proving a better King than anyone had ever expected; the weaker he became, the more he seemed to rise to the challenge. As his body set tighter physical limits on what he could do, his mind roved,
