Magic's Price

The prospect was not an appetizing one.

Ten

“Lamentable,” said Father Tyler, regarding the trussed-up mage, who was propped against a corner of the low wall surrounding the father's stone cottage. From the look of things, the mage was neither happy nor comfortable, not that Van was inclined to wish him either of those states.

Father Tyler shook his head again, his tightly-curled blond hair scarcely moved. “Most regrettable.”

“I wouldn't feel too sorry for him, Father,” Vanyel said sourly, rubbing a pulled shoulder. The man had somehow gotten heavier when the time came to get him off Black-foot's back, and Van had wrenched his back getting the mage to the ground. “He brought at least two thirds of this on himself. Maybe more; mages aren't supposed to cross into Valdemar without registering themselves, but I doubt you'll find a record of this one. Be that as it may, his problem stems from power-theft. He's certainly guilty of that, and he's managed to do as much harm to himself as he ever did to his victims.”

“Just how serious is power-theft?” the priest asked, rubbing his chin, a look of intense concentration on his long face. “I admit the seminary never covered that.”

“Somewhere between rape and larceny,” Vanyel replied, absently, wondering if he could get Blackfoot back to the stables without running into his relatives. “Power becomes part of a mage; it has to, if he's going to be able to use it effectively. Because of that, having your power stolen is a little like rape; there's a loss of 'self that's very disturbing on a purely mental level. But that's why this fool ran into trouble. He wasn't good enough to cleanse the power he stole of all the personality overtones, and they became part of him. Pretty soon he never knew if what he was thinking stemmed from his own personality, or what was from outside, and he couldn't control what was going on in his dreams and random thought processes anymore. He put on tighter and tighter shields to stop the problem, which only made it worse. The pressure in there must have been intolerable. Then the vrondi started spying on him, and he snapped completely. But if he hadn't stolen the power in the first place, this never would have happened.”

“Well, it is your job to judge, Vanyel,” the priest said, with a smile that made it clear he intended no insult. “But it is part of mine to forgive, and mend. I'll see what can be done for this poor fellow.”

That only succeeded in making Van feel guiltier, but he smiled back and thanked the priest. He thought about warning him that the mage was strong and far from harmless -

But Father Tyler was younger than Vanyel himself, quite as strong as any of the stablehands; besides, he was the successor to Father Leren. He had been part of the united Temples' effort at cleansing their own ranks and was probably quite well acquainted with all the faces of treachery.

He'll be all right, Vanyel told himself as he made his farewell and took Blackfoot's reins. She was quite willing to go; in fact she tried her best to drag him to the stable. He would have been amused if he hadn't been so preoccupied.

He held Blackfoot to a walk by brute force, and turned again to his personal dilemma. The problem of Stef was no closer to a solution. Van still couldn't see how he would be able to reconcile all the warring factors in his life.

“What would you do?” he asked the mare, who only strained at the reins on her halter and tried to get him to quicken his pace. “Oh, I know what you'd do,” he told her. “You'd eat.”

She ignored him, and tugged impatiently as they crossed the threshold of the stable. Several of the stalls that had been occupied were empty when Blackfoot hauled him back to her loose-box. So luck was with him - it looked like the masculine contingent of Forst Reach had taken themselves off somewhere, en masse. And since Treesa had Stef as a semi-captive provider of entertainment, she wouldn't be looking for her son.

Vanyel unsaddled the mare and groomed her; evidently she was one of those animals that liked being groomed, as she leaned into his brushstrokes and sighed happily, behaving as charmingly as if she hadn't spent most of the ride fighting him. While he curried her, Van tried to think of somewhere about the keep he could go to think. What he needed was someplace where he could be found if someone really went looking for him, but a place no one would go unless they really were looking all over for him.

Then it occurred to him: the one side of the manor that hadn't yet been built on was the side with that relatively inaccessible porch. It was tree-shaded and quite pleasant, but since the only entry was through a pantry, hardly anyone ever used it. It was too open for trysting, and too awkward for anything else. Which meant it should be perfect for his purposes.

Blackfoot whickered entreatingly at him and rattled her grain bucket with her nose.

“You greedy pig - I'm surprised you aren't as fat as a pony!” he exclaimed, laughing. “Well, you don't fool me. I know the rules around here, girl, and you don't get fed until after evening milking.”