Текст книги "Magic's Promise"

Автор книги: Mercedes Lackey

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Vanyel circled to Jervis' right, bouncing a little on his toes, waiting for a moment when he could get past that shield, or around it. Sweat began running down his back and sides, and only the scarf around his head under his helm kept it out of his eyes. He licked his lips, and tasted salt. His concentration narrowed until all he was aware of was the sound of his own breathing, and the opponent in front of him.

Jervis returned his feints, his blows, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Vanyel scored on him far more often than vice versa. But every time he made a successful pass, Jervis would back out of reach for a moment. It was maddening and inexplicable; he'd just fall completely out of fighting stance, shuffle and glare, and mutter to himself, before returning to the line and mixing in again.

This little series of performances began to wear on Vanyel's nerves. It was far too like the stalking he used to get when Jervis wanted to beat him to a pulp and didn't quite dare – and at the same time, it was totally unlike anything in the old man's usual pattern.

What's he doing? What's he waiting for? Those aren't any love-taps he's been giving me, but it isn't what I know he's capable of, either.

Finally, when he was completely unnerved, Jervis made the move he'd been expecting all along – an all-out rush, at full-strength and full-force, the kind that had bowled him over time after time as a youngster – the kind that had ended with his broken arm.

Blade a blur beside Jervis' shield and the shield itself coming at him with the speed of a charging bull, the horrible crack as his shield split – the pain as the arm beneath it snapped like a green branch.

But he wasn't an adolescent, he was a battle – seasoned veteran.

His boot-soles scuffed on the sanded wood as he bounced himself out of range and back in again; he engaged and used the speed of Jervis' second rush to spin himself out of the way, and delivered a good hard stab to Jervis' side with the main – gauche as the man passed him -

– or meant to deliver it. For all his bulk, Jervis could move as quickly as a striking snake. He somehow got his shield around in time to deflect the blow and then continued into a strike with the shield-edge at Vanyel's face.

Vanyel spun out of the way, and let the movement carry him out of sword range. But now his temper was gone, completely shattered.

“Damn you, you bullying bastard! Preach about honor and then turn a shield – bash on me, will you!” His voice cracked with nerves. “Come on! Try again! Try and take me! I'm not a child, armsmaster Jervis. I'm not as easy to knock down and beat up anymore! You can't make a fool and a target of me the way you do with Medren! I know what I'm doing, damn you, and my style is a match for yours on any damned field!”

Jervis pulled off his battered helm with his shield hand, and sweat – darkened tendrils of gray – blond hair fell into his eyes. “That's enough,” he said. “I've seen what I wanted t' see. Seems those songs got a grain of truth in 'em.”

Vanyel choked his temper down. “I trust you won't require any more sparring sessions, armsmaster?''

Jervis gave him another long, measuring look. “I didn't say that. I'll be wantin' t' practice with you again, master Vanyel.”

And he turned on his heel and left Vanyel standing in the middle of the salle, entirely uncertain of who had won what.

Have we got a truce ? Have we ? Or is this another kind of war?

“My Shadow-Lover, bear me into light,'' Vanyel sang softly, as the odd, minor chords blended one into another, each leaving a ghost of itself hanging in the air for the next to build from. This new gittern did things to this particular song that carried it beyond the poignant into the unearthly. He paused a moment, brushed the last chording in a slow arpeggio, and finally opened his eyes.

Medren sat on the edge of the bed, his mouth open in a soundless “O.”

Vanyel shook off the melancholy of the song with an effort. “How long have you been there?” he asked, racking the gittern on its stand, and uncoiling from his window seat.

“Most of the song,” Medren shivered. “That's the weirdest love song I ever heard! How come I never heard it before?”

“Because Treesa doesn't like it,” Vanyel replied wryly, stretching his fingers carefully. “It reminds her that she's mortal.” He saw the incomprehension on Medren's face, and elaborated. “The lover in the song is Death, Medren.”

“Death? As -” the boy gulped, “– a lover?”

The stricken look on the boy's face recalled him to the present, and he chuckled. “Oh, don't look that way, lad. I'm in no danger of throwing myself off a cliff. I have too much to do to go courting the Shadow-Lover.”

The boy's face aged thirty years for a moment. “But if He came courting you-”

I'd take His kiss of peace only too readily, Vanyel thought. Sometimes I'm so damned tired. He thought that – but smiled and said, “He courts me every day I'm a Herald, nephew, but He hasn't won me yet. What brings you here?”

“Oh,” Medren looked down at his hands. “Jervis. Some of the other kids – they told me he's got something special going today. For me.”

Vanyel thought of the “sparring session” and went cold. And a seed of an idea finally sprouted and flowered. He stood, and walked slowly to the bed, to put his hand lightly on Medren's shoulder. “Medren, would you rather deal with Jervis, or be sick?”

“What?” The boy looked up at him with the same incomprehension in his eyes he'd shown when Vanyel had spoken of the Shadow-Lover.

“I have just enough of the Healing-Gift that I can make you sick.” That wasn't exactly what he would do, but it was close enough. “Then I can keep you sick; too sick to go to practice, anyway.” There was measles in the nursery; that would keep the boy down for a good long time.

“Will I lose my voice?” The boy looked up at him with the same complete trust Jisa had, and that shook him.

He grinned, to cover it. “No, you'll just come out in spots, like Brendan. In fact, I want you to sneak into the nursery and spend a candlemark with Brendan when I 'm done with you.” As much as I'm going to depress his body, if he isn't fevered by nightfall I'll eat my lute. “Make sure nobody sees you, and go straight to your mother after and tell her you have a headache.”

“As long as I won't lose my voice,” Medren said, grinning, “I think I can take spots and itching.”

“It won't be fun.”

“It's better than being beat on.”

“All right.” Vanyel put his hand on Medren's shoulders, and focused down and out -

“Funny about Medren,” Radevel said, “coming down with spots so sudden-like. I would've sworn he had 'em once already.''

Vanyel just shrugged. He was in Radevel's room following another “sparring session” – this time one in which he sparred with Rad under Jervis' eye. It had been easier to deal with than the last one, but Jervis was still acting out of character. We have a truce of sorts. I don't know why, but I won't take the chance that it will extend to cover Medren. I daren't.

Radevel had invited him here afterward in a burst of hearty comradeship, and Vanyel had decided to take him up on it. Over the past hour he'd come to discover he liked this good – natured cousin more than he'd ever dreamed.

“‘Mother funny thing I can't figure,” Radevel continued, feet propped up on a battered old table, mug of watered wine in hand. “Old Leren. Saw him watching you an' Jervis an' me at practice this afternoon, an' if looks were arrows, you'd be a damned pincushion. What in hell did you ever do to him?''

Vanyel shrugged, took a long drink of the cool wine, and turned his attention back to repairing his torn leather gambeson with needle and fine, waxed thread in a neat, precise row of carefully placed stitches. The past four years had seen him out more often than not beyond the reach of the Havenbred comforts and the servants that saw to the needs of Heralds. He'd gotten into the habit of repairing things himself, and around Radevel, that habit (which Radevel shared) made itself evident at the smallest excuse. “Don't know,” he said shortly. “Never did. I would almost be willing to pledge to you that he's hated me from the moment he came here. Mother swears it's because I asked too many questions, but I thought priests were supposed to encourage questions. Our old priest did. I may have been only four when he died, but I remember that.''

Radevel nodded agreement. “Aye, I remember that, too. Jervis always said that Osen was a good man. Made you feel like taking things to him, somehow. 'The gods gave you a brain, boy,' he'd say. 'If you want to honor them, use it.' Never made you feel like you were beneath him.” He brooded over his mug, his plain face quiet with thought. “This Leren, now – huh. I dunno, Van. You know, I stopped going to holydays here a long time ago – hike down into the village with Jervis when we feel like we need a dose of priest-talk. Tell you something else – young Father Heward down in the village don't care much for Leren either. He did his best not to let on, but he was downright gleeful to see us come marching down to the village temple, an' I know he don't care much for fighters, being a peace-preacher. Figure that.”

“I can't,” Vanyel replied.

He “felt” Savil's distinct “presence” coming up to the door of Radevel's room, so he didn't jump when she spoke. “Is this a 'roosters only' discussion, or can an old hen join?''

Vanyel did not bother to turn around. Radevel grinned past Vanyel's shoulder at Savil, and reached – without needing to look – into the cupboard over his head for another mug. “I dunno,” he mused. “Old hens, welcome, but old bats-?”

“Give me that, you shameless reprobate,” she mock-snarled, snatching the clean mug out of his hand and pouring herself wine from the jug. She tasted it and made a face. “Gods! What's that made of, old socks?”

“Standard mere ration, milady Herald ma'am, an' watered down, too. Grows on you, though. Got into liking it 'cause of Jervis.”

“Huh. Grows on you like foot-rot.”

Vanyel stuck the needle under a line of stitches and moved over to make room for her. She sat down beside him, careful to avoid unbalancing the bench. She sipped again. “You're right. Second taste has merit – unless it's just that the first swallow ate the skin off my tongue. What was all this about Leren?”

“Radevel said he was watching me and Rad spar with Jervis this afternoon,” Vanyel supplied, frowning at his work. The leather was scraped thin here, and likely to tear again if he wasn't careful where he placed his stitches.

“To be precise, he was watching Herald Van, here. Like he was hoping me or Jervis would slip – up like and break his neck for him,” Radevel said. “I'll tell you again, I do not like that man, priest or no priest. Makes my skin fair crawl with some of those looks he gives.”

“I've noticed,” Savil said soberly. “I don't like him either, and damned if I know why.''

Radevel held up one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I spent more time around him than either of you, and I just can't put a finger on it. Treesa doesn't like him either; only reason she goes to holyday services is 'cause she reckons herself right pious, and facing him's better'n not going. But if she had her druthers, he'd be away and gone. It's about the one thing I agree with that feather-head on. Pardon, Van.”

“Mother is a featherhead; I won't argue there. But – Savil, did you realize that she's very slightly sensitive? Not Thought-sensing, not Empathy, but like to it – something else, some kind of sensitivity we haven't identified yet. The gods only know what it is; I haven't got it nor have you. But it's a sensitivity she shares with Yfandes.”

“Treesa? Sensitive like a Companion?” Savil gave him a look of complete incredulity. “Be damned! I never thought to test her.”

He nodded. “The channel's in 'Fandes, wide open. The same channel Treesa has, only hers is to 'Fandes the way a melting icicle is to a waterfall. I don't know what it is, but I'd say we shouldn't discount feelings of unease just because Treesa shares them. She could very truly be feeling something.”

“Huh,” Radevel said, after a moment. Then he grinned. “I got a homely plain man's notion. That mare of yours ever dropped a foal?”

“Why, yes, now that you mention it. Two, a colt and a filly-both before she Chose me. Dancer and Megwyn. Why?”

“Just that about every mother I ever saw, human to hound, knew damned well when somebody had bad feelings toward her children, no matter how much that somebody tried to make out like it wasn't true. Even Milady Treesa.” He grinned as Vanyel's jaw fell, and Savil's expression mirrored his. “Now Savil, you never had children, and it'd take a miracle from the Twain themselves to make Van a momma. So, no – what you call – channel. Make sense?''

“Damned good sense, cousin,” Vanyel managed to get out around his astonishment. “For somebody who has no magic of his own, you have an uncanny grasp of principles.”

Savil nodded. “You know, this enmity could also be partially that the man was pushed into the priesthood by his family and hates it. A priest with no vocation is worse than no priest at all.”

“Could be,” Radevel replied. “One thing for sure, it wasn't this bad 'fore Van came home. It's like something about Van brings out the worst in the old crow. Thought I'd say something.” He shrugged. “I don't like him, Jervis don't like him. Jervis's got a feel for things like enemies sneakin' up on your back. You might want to keep an eye on Leren.”

Oh, yes, cousin, Vanyel thought quietly. If you are seeing the hint of trouble, stolid as you are, I will surely keep an eye on him.

:Things in your bed again?: Yfandes asked sweetly.

Vanyel snarled, hung the lantern he was carrying on a hook, climbed up on the railings of the box, and hauled his bedroll down from the rafters above her stall. “This is not my idea of a good time,” he replied. “I didn't come home with the intention of sleeping in the stable!” The bedroll landed on the floor, and he jumped down off the top rail to land beside it. “Here I thought I'd get past her by getting dinner with the babies and sneaking up to my room at sunset, and there she is waiting for me, bold as a bad penny. Not nude this time, but in my bed. 'Fandes, this is the third night in a row! Has the woman no shame? And I locked the damned door!”

:Why didn't you just put her out the door?:

He glared at her, and heaved the bedding into the stall. “I do not,” he said between clenched teeth, “feel like engaging in a wrestling match with the woman. Dammit, there's going to be frost on the ground in the morning. It's getting chilly at night.”

:Poor abused baby. I know somebody who 'II gladly keep you warm.:

He glared at her again, poised halfway over the railings of the box – stall, one foot on either side. “ 'Fandes, you're pushing my patience.”

:Me.:

“Oh, 'Fandes. ...” His tone cooled a little, and he swung his leg over the top rail of the stall, and hopped down beside her to hug her neck. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't take the fact that I'm ready to kill her out on you.”

She rubbed her cheek against his, her smooth coat softer than any satin, and nibbled at his hair. Her breath puffed warm against his ear, sweet, and hay-scented. Farther down in the stable, beyond the light of Vanyel's lantern, one of the horses whickered sleepily, and another stamped.

:I'm rather selfishly glad to have you with me,: she said, watching him heap up straw and spread his sleeping roll on it. :I like having you here with no danger to keep us wakeful, a quiet night, nothing to really disturb us.

Remember how you used to spend nights out in the Vale with me, watching the stars?:

“And waiting for Starwind to take a header out of his treehouse!” Vanyel laughed, with her rich chuckle bubbling in his mind. “You're right; that was a good time, even if I did spend the first few months of it in various states of hurting. Gods of Light, 'Fandes, I miss them. It's been far too long since I last saw them. Brightstar must be-what-nearly ten? I wish we had time to go back there.”

They don't shake me to my shoes the way Shavri and Randi do. Is it only because I don't see them too often, or -

Yfandes' interrupted his thought.

:'You 'd have to Gate, or else spend months on the road.: she replied sadly. :We daren't take the time, and I won't let you Gate yet, not unless it's an emergency. You’re still drained. :

Her tone cheered him a little. “Yes, little mother,” Vanyel chuckled, climbing into his crude bed, good humor fully restored. And to prove that he wasn't quite so drained as Yfandes seemed to think, he snuffed the lamp with a thought.

:Show-off,: she teased, settling down carefully next to him so that he could curl up beside her, for all the world like a strange sort of gangly foal. He wriggled himself and blankets in against her warm, silken side, and slipped one hand out to rest on her foreleg.

He yawned. With his anger gone, his energy seemed to be gone too. “ 'Night, dearheart,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.

She nuzzled his cheek. :Goodnight, beloved.:

They howled around him, trying to crawl inside his mind. Horrible, vile, they made him retch to look at them, but he couldn't look away from their distorted faces and maimed bodies. They drove fear before them and raised terror about them, making a whirlwind with himself in the center; they had knives for teeth and scythes for claws, red eyes full of madness and an insatiable hunger he could feel beating at his frail shell of protection in waves of heat. They were shadows, deadly, kitting shadows, and they couldn't get at him, but they could and would find other prey. They howled off and away on the wind, and he screamed (or tried to) and hid his head and made himself as small as he could while the killing and dying began. And he wept with terror and shrieked-

Vanyel shook off the grip of the nightmare and came up out of it with a rush, choking against the black bile of fear in his throat. He clawed his way out of his blankets, and lay panting and unthinking against Yfandes' side in the aftermath of all-consuming horror, while his heart pounded in his ears.

The night about him was quiet, peaceful, undisturbed.

On the surface. But -

Beneath the surface?

Automatically he reached out with his Othersenses, to touch the energy currents that lay beneath the material night.

No, it hadn't been a nightmare; his Othersenses showed him the new, churning eddies in the currents of power all about him. Something had happened tonight. Somewhere out there something had used Power, used it freely, and to a terrible end. His nightmare had only been the far-off echo of something much, much worse. There was evil on the Otherwinds-and the world beneath shivered to feel it.

If I'd been in my room, I'd never have felt this, he realized, coming fully awake. My room is shielded and so is Savil's. But I never shield when I'm with Yfandes. That means Savil hasn't felt this. I'm the only one who knows there's something wrong.

“ 'Fandes?” He reached out for her shoulder; the muscles were bunched with tension, and her head was up, sniffing the crisp breeze.

:Hush. Listen.:

Faint, and far off – a mind-cry for help? Or just a mind crying in despair? It wavered maddeningly in and out of his sensing-range.

:That's because he's bonded. It's a Companion, a young one. He's Chosen, and his Chosen is emperiled. I can hardly hear him.: She stretched her neck out, as if simply trying harder could make what she sensed clearer. :That's – he 's caught in his Chosen 's fear, and he's nearly hysterical. :

“Which, Companion or Chosen?” Vanyel scrambled completely out of his bedroll, and flared the lamp to life with a blink of thought. We'd better deal with this. We may be the only ones close enough to hear them.

:Both – the Companion, at least.: She lurched to her feet, her eyes black with distress. Moonlight poured in through the open upper half of the door to the paddock, silvering her. :Vanyel, please – we must go to them!:

“What's it look like I'm doing?” he demanded, throwing her blanket over her, then pulling down the saddle itself. “I'll have you saddled in half a moment. Where is this?”

:Lineas. Highjorune. :

“The Linean throne-seat.” He made a quick check of his mental maps. “That's relatively near our Border. Can we be there by dawn? “

:Before. : All her attention was back on the West.

“Good, because I have the feeling what we're about to do isn't legal, at least by Linean standards, and I'd rather not break laws while people are awake to catch me. Kellan!”

A stamp and a whicker told him that Savil's Companion had heard him.

“Get Savil awake and tell her what we know and where we're going. And why.”

Snort of agreement.

“ 'Fandes, wait a minute, I'd better change.” He began stripping his clothing off, cursing the laces that wouldn't come undone, and snapping them when he realized how much time this was taking.

She swung her head around to stare at him frantically. :We can't afford the time!:

“We can't afford not to take the time,” he said reasonably. “Think about it, love. I had damn well better be in uniform. Even the Lineans will think twice about stopping a Valdemar Herald, but a man on a white horse won't rate that second thought. I am something less than fond of being a target, even a moving one.” He rummaged in the saddlebags, coming up with a slightly crumpled set of Whites. “Thought I left those here. Thank the gods for battle-line habits.” He shrugged on the breeches and tunic and belted them tight; pulled on the boots he'd pulled off when he'd wormed into his blankets. “Good thing I've only got the one pair of boots. Damn, I wish I'd thought to leave a sword here.”

:Meke left one in the tack bin by the stud.:

“Bless you -”

He vaulted the railings to fetch it; it was not a good blade, but it was serviceable. He strapped it and his long dagger on, inserted the short ones into their pockets in his boots.

His cloak-he looked for it quickly; he'd need it out there. There it was, half tangled with the blankets. He pulled it out of the tangle, shook it out, flung it over his shoulders, fastened the throat-latch, and returned to the task of harnessing Yfandes. He swung the saddle onto her back, gave a quick pull of the cinch, got chest– and rump-bands buckled and snugged in – she was ready.

He snatched her hackamore off its peg and tossed it over her head; he mounted while she shook it into place as the bells on it jangled madly. She booted the bottom of the door into the paddock open with her nose while he grabbed for the reins and brought them over her neck, and then with a leap a wild deer would envy she was off into the darkness.

Seven

Gods, it's like another Border-alert. Though Yfandes was frantic with the call in her mind, Vanyel kept his wits about him and reached out with a finger of power to snuff the lantern as they cleared the stable-door.

Yfandes raced across the black-velvet of the paddock, hooves pounding dully on the turf, uncannily surefooted in all the moon-cast, dancing shadows. He'd forgotten for a moment that their path out was going to be blocked. He glanced ahead barely in time to see the fence at the far end coming at them and set himself instinctively when he felt her gather under him. They flew over the bars and landed with a jar that drove his teeth together and threw him against the pommel of the saddle. He fought himself back into balance and felt her begin to hesitate in mid-stride.

:Van?:

He clenched his teeth and wrenched himself into place. :Just go – I'm fine.:

She stretched out flat to the ground and ran with all the heart that was in her. Vanyel pulled himself down as close to the level of her outstretched neck as he could, kept his silhouette low and clean, and balanced his weight just behind her shoulders where she could carry it easiest. And fed her with his power.

No one except another Herald could know how exhausting “just riding” could be, especially on a ride like this. He was constantly moving, altering his balance to help her without thinking about it. It was work, and involved tiny muscle adjustments to complement her exertions.

He kept his cloak tucked in all around, but it didn't help much; the wind cut right through it, and chilled him terribly. His hands and face were like ice before a candlemark had passed. The wind whipped his hair into snarls and numbed his ears, and there was nothing he could do except endure it all, and keep his Othersenses alert for trouble.

I'll have to do something about the Border Guards when we get there. Something that isn't intrusive.

The Border – friendly in name only, neutral in truth – was guarded by sentries and watchtowers. They reached it at just about midnight, and Vanyel blinked in amazement when the first of those towers loomed up above the trees on the horizon, a black column against moon – whitened clouds. He'd had no way to judge Yfandes' speed in the dark; only the wind in his face and the thin, steady pull of power from him, power that he in turn drew from the nodes and power-streams they passed as they came into sensing range. Her speed wasn't natural, and required magic to sustain over any distance.

:The watchtowers-: That was the first time she'd Mindspoken him since they'd leapt the paddock fence, and her mind-voice, though preoccupied, was dark with apprehension. :The Border Guards-:

:I've got it figured,: he told her; got a wash of relief, and then felt her turn her attention back to the race and her footing, secure in the belief that he would handle the rest.

He closed his eyes against distractions, and Looked out ahead. He found and identified each mind that could possibly see them passing – those who were awake and those who were not – he left nothing to chance anymore. Not after he'd once been detected on a crawl through the enemy camp by a cook who happened to head for the privy-trench at just the wrong time. So, calling on more of that node-energy he'd garnered on the run, he built a Seeming that touched all those minds.

There is nothing on the road, his mind whispered to theirs. Only shadows under the moon, the drumming of a partridge, the hooves of startled deer. You see nothing, you hear only sounds you have heard before. There is nothing on the road.

There were plenty of circumstances that could break this Seeming. It was too delicate to hold against a counterspell and it would certainly break if they had the misfortune to run into someone physically. But anyone touched by the spell would see only shadows, hear only sounds that could easily be explained away.

More importantly, they would feel a subtle aversion to investigating those sounds, a bored lassitude that would keep them in the shelter of their posts.

They passed the Border – guard station, vaulting the twin gates that barred the road, Valdemar and Lineas sides, as lightly as leaves on the wind. The Linean Guard was actually leaning on the gatepost, lounging beneath a lantern, his face a startlingly pale blur above his dark uniform. He looked directly at them, and Vanyel felt him yawn as they leaped the gate. Then he was lost in the dark behind as they raced on. Vanyel did not look back, but set the spell to break the moment they were out of sight. He would cloak his own passing; he would not leave the Border to spell-mazed guardians.

He spent no more magical energies in such spells; he didn't particularly care if the common folk of Lineas saw them. They were familiar enough with the uniform of the Heralds. If any Lineans saw him, they would assume, reasonably enough, that he'd been properly dealt with at the Border and belonged here.

Yfandes raced on, through pocket-sized villages in tiny, sheltered river-hollows, even through a larger town or two. All were as dark as places long abandoned. Finally, in the dead hours of the night, the time when death and birth lie closest, they came to Highjorune.

Most of the city was as dead and dark as the villages, but not all; no city slept the night through. More and stronger magic would be required to get them to their goal – whatever it was-without being stopped. Vanyel reached, seeking node-energy to use to pass the city gates as they had the Border, and recoiled a little in surprise.

For a place so adamantly against mages and their Gifts, Highjorune was crawling with mage-energy. It lay on the intersection of three – five – seven lines of force, none of them trivial, all flowing to meet at a node beneath it, liquid rainbows humming the random songs of power, strong enough for even new-made Adepts to use, provided they had the sensitivity to detect them-though the node where they met would be too wild, too strong for any but an experienced Adept.

:Yfandes, stop a bit.:

Yfandes obeyed. He raised his hands, preparing to spin out a true spell of illusion and sound – dampening; taking the power directly from the closest stream, bracing himself for the shock as his mind met the flow of energy.

The city gate was too well-guarded and well-lit, and the city itself too crowded with people to chance the kind of spell he'd worked on the Border Guards. He wanted to hurry the spell, but knew he didn't dare. Careful – he told himself. This is Savil's area of expertise, not yours. Rush it, and you could lose it.

Yfandes fidgeted, her bridle – bells chiming, her hooves making a deeper ringing on the hard paving of the road. :Hurry,: she urged, her own Mindvoice dense with fear. :Please. He'll die, they'll die – there's another Companion, she's nearly gone mad, she can't speak -:

: 'Fandes, don't interrupt. I'm working as fast as I can, but if I don't pull power now, I won't have anything when we need it.: The raw power was beginning to fill him, fill all the echoing emptiness. Natural, slow recovery had not been able to do this! He was going to have to wait until the achingly empty reservoirs of power within him were full again before he could spin a shield this complicated, though at this rate it wasn't going to take long. Besides, he was all too likely to need power. If everything went to hell and he had to Gate out of here -