Four

“All right, Tylendel, that was passable, but it wasn’t imparticularly smooth,” Herald-Mage Savil admonished her protege, tucking her feet under the bottom rung of her wooden stool, and absently smoothing down the front of her white tunic. “Remember, the power is supposed to flow; from you to the shield and back again. Smoothly, not in spurts. You tell me why.”

Tylendel, a tall, strikingly attractive, dark blond Herald-trainee of about sixteen, frowned with concentration as he considered Savil’s question. She watched the power-barrier he had built about himself with her Mage-Sight, and Saw the pale violet half-dome waver as he turned his attention to her question and lost a bit of control over the shield. She could feel the room pulsing as he allowed the shield to pulse in time with his heartbeat. If he let this go on, it would collapse.

“Tylendel, you’re losing it,” she warned. He nodded, looked up and grimaced, but did not reply; his actions were reply enough. The energy comprising the half-dome covering him stopped rippling, firmed, and the color deepened.

“Have you an answer to my question yet?”

“I think so,” he answered. “If it doesn’t flow smoothly, I’ll have times when it’s weak, and whatever I’m doing with it will be open to interruption when it
weakens?’’

“Right,” Savil replied with a brisk nod. “Only don’t think in terms of ‘interruption,’ lad. Think in terms of ‘attack.’ Like now.”

She flung a levinbolt at his barrier without giving him any more warning than that, and had the satisfaction, not only of Seeing it deflected harmlessly upward to be absorbed by the Work Room shields, but Seeing that he shifted his defenses to meet it with no chance to prepare at all.

“Now that was good, my lad,” she approved, and Tylendel’s brown eyes warmed in response to the compliment. “So - “

Someone knocked on the door of the Work Room, and Savil bit off what she was going to tell him with a muffled curse of annoyance. “Now what?” she muttered, shoving back her tall stool and edging around Tylendei’s mage-barrier to answer the door.

The Work Room was a permanently shielded, circular chamber within the Palace complex that the Herald-Mages used when training their proteges in the Mage-aspects of their Gifts. The shielding on this room was incredibly ancient and powerful. It was so powerful that the shielding actually muffled physical sound; you couldn’t even hear the Death Bell toll inside this room. One of the duties of every Herald-Mage in the Circle was to augment the protections here whenever they had the time and energy to spare. This shielding had to be strong; strong enough to contain magical “accidents” that would reduce the sparse furniture within the room to splinters. Those “accidents” were the reason why the walls were stone, the furniture limited to a couple of cheap stools and an equally cheap table, and why every Herald-Mage put full personal shields on himself and his pupil immediately on entering the door of this room.

Those accidents were also the reason why anyone who disturbed the practice sessions going on in the Work Room had better have a damned good reason for doing so.

Savil yanked the door open, and glared at the fair-haired, blue-uniformed Palace Guard who stood there, at rigid and proper attention. “Well?” she said, letting a bit of ice creep into her voice.

“Your pardon, Herald-Mage,” he replied, his expression as stiff as his spine, “But you left orders to be notified as soon as your nephew arrived.” He handed her a folded and sealed letter. “His escort wished you to have this.”

She took it and stuffed it in a pocket of her breeches without looking at it. “Oh, bloody hell,” she muttered. “So I did.”

She sighed, and became a bit more civil. “Thank you, Guard. Send him and whatever damned escort he brought with him to my quarters; I’ll get with them as soon as I can.”

The Guard saluted and turned sharply on his heel; Savil shut the door before he finished his pivot, and turned back to her pupil.

“All right, lad, how long have we been at this?”

Tylendel draped an arm over his curly head and grinned. “Long enough for my stomach to start growling. I’m sorry, Savil, but I’m hungry. That’s probably why my concentration’s going.”

She shook her finger at him. “Tchah, younglings and their stomachs! And just what do you plan to do if you get hungry in the middle of an arcane duel? Hmm?’’

“Eat,” he replied impishly. She threw up her hands in mock despair.

“All right, off with you - ah, ah,” she warmed, wagging her finger at him as he made ready to dispel the barrier the quick and dirty way; by pulling the energies into the ground. “Properly, my lad - “

He bowed to her in the finest courtly manner. She snorted. “Get on with it, lad, if you’re in such a hurry to stuff your face.”

She Watched him carefully as he took down the barrier - properly - did so with quite a meticulous attention to little details, like releasing the barrier-energy back into the same flow he’d taken it from. She nodded approvingly when he stepped across the place where the border had been and presented himself to have the shields she’d put on him taken off.

“You’re getting better, Tylendel,” she said, touching the middle of his forehead with her index finger, and absorbing the shield back into herself. Her skin tingled for a moment as she neutralized the overflow. “You’re coming along much faster than I guessed you would. Another year - no, less, I think - and you’ll be ready to try your hand at a Border stint with me. And not much longer than that, and I’ll shove you into Whites.”

“It’s my teacher,” he replied impishly, seizing her hand and kissing it, his long hair falling over her wrist and tickling it. “How can I help but succeed in such attractive surroundings?’’

She snatched her hand back, and cuffed his ear lightly. “Get on with you! Even if I wasn’t old enough to be your grandmother, we both know I’m the wrong sex for you to find me attractive!”

He ducked the blow, grinning, and pulled the door open for her. “Oh, Savil, don’t you know that the real truth is that I’d lost my heart to my teacher, knew I had no hope, and couldn’t accept a lesser woman than - “

“Out!” she sputtered, laughing so hard she nearly choked. “Liar! Before I do you damage!”

He ran off down the wood-paneled hallway, his own laughter echoing behind him.

She closed the Work Room door behind her and leaned against the wall, still laughing, holding her aching side. The imp. More charm than any five younglings, and all the mischief of a young cat! I haven’t laughed like this in years - not the way I have since I acquired Tylendel as a protege. That boy is such a treasure - if I can just wean him out of that stupid feud his family is involved in, he’ll make a fine Herald-Mage. If I don’t kill him first!

She gulped down several long breaths of air, and composed herself. I’m going to have to deal with that spoiled brat of a nephew in a few minutes, she told herself sternly, using the thought to sober herself. And I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to do with him. Other than have him strangled - no, that’s not such a good notion, it would please Withen too much. Great good gods, the man has turned into such a pompous ass in the last few years! I hardly recognized him. That ridiculous letter a week ago could have come from our father.

She smoothed her hair with her hands (checking to see that the knot of it at the base of her neck had not come undone), tugged on the hem of her tunic, and made sure that the door of the Work Room was closed and mage-locked before heading up the hall toward her personal quarters. The heels of her boots clicked briskly against the stone of the hallway, and she nodded at courtiers and other Heralds as they passed her.

If only Treesa hadn’t spoiled the lad so outrageously, there might be something there worth salvaging. Now, I don’t know. I certainly don’t have the time to find out for myself. Huh. I wonder - if I put the buy into lessons with the other Herald-trainees, then leave him to his own devices the rest of the time, that just might tell me something. If he doesn’t turn to gambling and hunting and wild parties - (I he becomes bored with the flitter-heads in the Court -

She pushed open one half of the double doors to the new Heralds’ quarters, and strode through. Her own suite was just at the far end and on the left side of the hall.

Changes, changes. Five years ago we were crammed in four to a room, and not enough space to throw a tantrum in. Now we rattle around in this shiny-new barracks like a handful of peas in a bucket. And me with a suite and not getting forlorn looks from Jays or Tantras because one of the rooms is vacant. I can’t see how we’ll ever get enough bodies to fill this place . . .

The door stood slightly ajar; she shoved it out of the way, and paused a few steps into her outer room, crossing her arms and surveying the trio on the couch beneath her collection of Hawkbrother featherwork masks at the end of the room.

Only one of them was actually on the couch; Vanyel. Beside him, only too obviously playing his jailers, stood a pair of Withen’s armsmen. On Vanyel’s right, a short, stocky man - axeman, if Savil was any judge. On his left, one about a head taller and very swarthy; a common swordsman. And Vanyel, sitting very stiffly on the edge of the couch.

Savil heaved a strictly internal sigh. Lad, a year obviously hadn’t improved you except in looks - and that’s no advantage. You’re too damned handsome, and you know it.

Since she’d last seen him, Vanyel’s face and body had refined. It was a face that could (and probably did) break hearts - broad brow, high cheekbones, pointed chin, sensuous lips - fine-arched black brows, and incredible silver eyes; all of it crowned with thick, straight, blue-black hair most women would kill to possess. The body of an acrobat; nicely muscled, if not over-tall.

And the posture was arrogant, the mouth set in sullen silence; the eyes sulky, and at the same time, challenging her.

Lord and Lady. Do I believe my fool brother, or do I take the chance that a good portion of what’s wrong with the boy is due to Withen trying to mold him into his own image?

While she tried to make up her mind, she nodded at the two armsmen. “Thank you, good sirs,” she said, crisply. “You have performed your duty admirably. You may go.”

The taller one coughed uneasily, and gave her an uncomfortable look.

“Well?” she asked, sensing something coming-something she wasn’t going to like. Something petty and small-minded -

“The boy’s horse - “

“Stays, of course,” she interrupted, seeing the flash of hurt in Vanyel’s eyes before he masked it, and reacting to it without needing to think about which way she was going to jump.

“But, Herald, it’s a valuable animal!” the armsman protested, his mouth thinning unhappily. “Lord Withen - my lord - surely you’ve beasts enough here - “

“What do you think this is?” she snapped, turning on him with unconcealed anger. Gods, if this was symptomatic of the boy’s trip here, no wonder he was sullen.

Take the boy’s horse, will you? You bloody little - She took control of herself, and gave them irrefutable reasons to take back to their master. They were, after all, only following orders.

“You think we run a damned breeding farm here? We haven’t horses to spare. The boy will be taking equitation lessons, of course, and he’s hardly going to be able to go over the jumping course on foot!”

“But - “ the armsman sputtered, not prepared to give up, “Surely the Companions - “

“Bear their Chosen and no other. “ She took a deep breath and forced her temper to cool. The man was making her more than annoyed with his obstinacy, he was making her quite thoroughly enraged, and if this was a measure of what Vanyel had been subjected to over the past few years, well, perhaps the boy wasn’t entirely to blame for his current behavior.

“I said,” she told the men, glaring, “you may go.”

“But - I have certain orders - certain things I am to tell you - “

“I am countermanding those orders,” she Answered swiftly, invoking all of her authority, not just as a Herald, but as one of the most powerful Herald-Mages in the Heraldic Circle, second only to Queen’s Own, Seneschal’s, and Lord-Marshal’s Herald. “This is my place, and my jurisdiction. And you may tell my brother Withen that I will make up my own mind what is to be done with the boy. If he wants to deposit young Vanyel in my care, then he’ll have to put up with my judgments. And you can tell him I said so. Good day, gentlemen.” She smiled with honeyed venom. “Or need I call a Guard to escort you?”

They had no choice but to take themselves off, though they did so with extreme reluctance. Savjl waited until they had gone, and were presumably out of hearing range, before taking the letter she’d been given out of her pocket. She held it up so that Vanyel could see that it had not been opened, then slowly, deliberately tore it in four pieces and dropped the pieces on the floor.

Margret is going to have my hide, she thought wryly. II she’s told me once not to throw things on the floor, she’s told me a hundred times -

“I don’t know what Withen had to say in that letter,” she told the strange and silent boy. Was that sullenness in the set of his mouth, or fear? Was that suspicion in the back of his eyes, or arrogance? “Frankly, I don’t care. This much I can tell you - young man, you are going to stand or fall with me by your own actions. I tell you now that I very much resent what Withen has done; I have three proteges to train, and no time to waste on cosseting a daydreamer.” Might as well let him know the truth about how I feel right out and right now; he ‘II find out from the gossip sooner or later. I can’t afford to have him pulling something stupid in the hopes I ‘II pull him out of it and give him some attention. “I have no intention of trying to make you into something you aren’t. But I also have no intention of allowing you to make a fool out of me, or inconvenience me.”

There was a whisper of sound at the door.

Without turning around, Savil knew from the brush of embarrassed Mindspeech behind her that Tylendel and her other two proteges, Mardic and Donni, had come in behind her, not expecting to find anyone except Savil here. They had stopped in the doorway - startled at finding their mentor dressing down a strange boy, and more than a bit embarrassed to have walked in at such a touchy moment.

And of course, now it would be even more embarrassing for them to walk back out and try to pretend it hadn’t happened:

“You’ll be taking lessons with some of the Herald-trainees and with some of the young courtiers as soon as I get a chance to make the arrangements,” Savil continued serenely, gesturing slightly with her right hand for her three “children” to come up beside her. “Now - Vanyel, this is Donni, this Mardic, and this Tylendel. As Herald-trainees, they outrank you; let’s get that straight right now.”

“Yes, Aunt,” Vanyel said without changing his expression a hair.

“Now what that actually means is not one damned thing, except I expect you to be polite.”

“Yes, Aunt.”

“My servant Margret tends to us; breakfast and lunch are cold and left over on that table over there. Supper will be with the Court for you once I get you introduced. If you miss it, you can take your chances with us. Lessons, hmm. For now - oh - Donni, I want you to take him with you in the morning and turn him over to Kayla; Withen was rather insistent on his getting weapons work, and for once I agree with him.”

“Yes, Savil,” the short, tousle-haired trainee said calmly. Savil blessed the girl’s soothing presence, and also blessed the fact that she was lifebound to Mardic. Nothing shook a lifebond except the death of one of the pair. Vanyel’s handsome face wasn’t going to turn her head.

She rather dreaded the effect of that face on the rest of the younglings at the Court, though.

“Mardic?”

The imperturbable farmer’s son nodded his round head without speaking.

“Take him to Bardic Collegium in the afternoon for me, and get them to put him into History, Literature, and - “ she wrinkled her brow in thought as her three proteges arranged themselves around her.

“How about Religions?” Tylendel suggested. He raised one dark-gold eyebrow and Mindspoke his teacher in Private-mode, his lips thinning a little. :He’s lovely, Savil. And he Feels like he’s either an arrogant little bastard, or somebody’s been hurting him inside for an awfully long time. Frankly, I couldn’t tell you which. Is he going to be as much trouble as I think?:

:Don’t know, lad,: Savil Mindspoke soberly. :But don’t get wrapped up with him, not until we know. And don’t fall in love with him. I have no idea where his preferences lie, but even Withen didn’t hint he was shay’a’chern. I don’t want to have to patch your broken heart up. Again.:

:Not a chance, Teacher,: Tylendel mind-grinned. :I’ve learned better.:

:Huh. I should hope. Oh, Lord of Light - I did give all of you grabs at Dominick’s old room, didn’t I? I don’t want to start this off with hurt feelings - :

:Yes, you did, and none of us wanted to move,: Tylendel mind-chuckled. The garden door may be nice but it’s drafty as the Cave of the Winds. If I had someone to keep me warm - :

:I could get you a dog,: she suggested, and watched his lips twitch as he tried not to smile. :Well, that’s one worry out of the way.: Then said aloud, “All right, Vanyel, History, Literature and Religions it is, and weapons work with Kayla in the morning. She teaches the young highborns, and she’s very good - and if I find out you’ve been avoiding her lessons, I’ll take a strap to you.”

Vanyel flushed at that, but said nothing.

“Donni, Mardic, Tylendel, give Vanyel a hand with his things; we’ll put him in the garden chamber. I had Margret get it ready for him this morning.”

As the three trainees scooped up a pack apiece, and Vanyel bent slowly to take the fourth, Savil added a last admonition.

“Vanyel, what you do with your free time is your own business,” she said, perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended. “But if you get yourself into trouble, and there’s plenty of it to get into around here, don’t expect me to pull you out. I can’t, and I won’t. You’re an imposition. It’s your job to see that you become less of one.”

Vanyel thanked the trainees for their help as they dropped his packs to one side of the door, speaking in a voice that sounded dull and exhausted even in his own ears.

The blond one hesitated for a moment - just long enough to give him what looked like a genuine smile, before slipping out the door.

But despite that smile, Vanyel was mortally glad when they didn’t linger. He closed the door behind them, then leaned up against it with his eyes shut. The entire day had been confusing and wearying, an emotional obstacle course that he was just happy to have survived.

The worst of it had been the past couple of hours; first, being shuttled off to Savil’s quarters with Erek and Garth suddenly deciding to act like the jailers that they were, then the interminable wait - then the Interview.

Her words had hurt; he willed them not to. He willed himself not to care.

Then he moved to the middle of his new room and looked around himself, and blinked in surprise.

It was - amazing. Warm, and welcoming, paneled and furnished in goldenoak, and as well-appointed as his mother’s private chamber. Certainly nothing like his room back at Forst Reach. A huge bed stood against one wall, a bed almost wide enough for three and covered with a thick, soft red comforter. In the corner, a wardrobe, not a simple chest, to hold his clothing. Beside it a desk and padded chair - Havens, an instrument rack on the wall next to the weapons-rack! Next to the window a second, more heavily padded chair, both chairs upholstered in red that matched the comforter. His own fireplace. A small table next to the bed, and a bookcase. But that wasn’t the most amazing thing -

His room had its own private entrance, something that was either a small, glazed door or an enormous window that opened up on a garden.

I don’t believe this, he thought, staring stupidly through the glass at the sculptured bushes and the glint of setting sun on the river beyond. I just do not believe this. I expected to be in another prison. Instead - He, tried the doorIwindow. It was unlocked, and swung open at a touch.

- instead, I’m given total freedom. I do not believe this! His knees went weak, and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed before he collapsed. The breeze that had been allowed to enter when he opened the window made the light material used as curtains flap lazily.

Gods - he thought, dazedly. I don’t know what to think. She saves Star - then she humiliates me in front of the trainees. She gives me this room - then she tells me I’m the next thing to worthless and she threatens to beat me herself. What am I supposed to believe ?

He could hear the murmuring of voices beyond the other door, the one the tall blond had closed after himself. They sound so comfortable out there, so easy with each other, he thought wistfully. They were terribly un-alike, the three of them. The one called Donni could have been Erek’s twin sister; they looked to have been cast from the same mold - dark, curly-haired, phlegmatic. The shorter boy, Mardic, had the look of one of Withen’s smallholders; earthy, square, and brown. But the third -

Vanyel was experiencing a strange, unsteady feeling when he thought about the tall, graceful blond called Tylendel. He didn’t know why.

Not even the minstrel Shanse had evoked this depth of - disturbance - in him.

There was a burst of laughter beyond the door. They sound so happy, he thought a bit sadly, before his thoughts darkened. They’re probably laughing at me.

He clenched his teeth. Damn it, I don’t care, I won’t care. I don’t need their approval.

He closed his walls a little tighter about himself, and began the mundane task of settling himself into his new home. And tried not to feel himself left on the outside, telling himself over and over again that nothing mattered.

The slender girl Vanyel’s aunt had called “Donni” looked askance at all the padding and armor Vanyel picked off his armor-stand and weapons-rack. “Are you really taking all that?” she asked, hazel eyes rather wide with surprise.

He nodded shortly.

She shook her head in disbelief, her tight, sable curls scarcely moving. “I can’t see why you want all that stuff, but I guess it’s your back. Come on.”

There’d been no one in the suite when Vanyel woke, but there had been cider, bread and butter, cheese, and fruit waiting on a sideboard in the central room. He had figured that was supposed to be breakfast, seeing that someone - or several someones, more like - had already made hearty inroads on the food. He had helped himself, then found a servant to show him the way to the bathing-room and the privies, and cleaned himself up.

He’d pulled on some of his oldest and shabbiest clothing in anticipation of getting’ them well-grimed at the coming weaponry-lesson. He was back in his own room and in a very somber mood, sitting on the floor while putting some new leather lacings on his practice armor, when Donni came hunting him.

He gathered up his things and followed one step behind her out through his garden door and into the sunlit, fragrant garden, trying not to let any apprehension seep into his cool shell. She took him on a circuitous path that led from his own garden door, past several ornamental grottoes and fish ponds, down to a graveled pathway that followed the course of the river.

They trudged past what looked like a stable, except that the stalls had no doors on them, and past a smaller building beside it. Then the path took an abrupt turn to the right, ending at a gate in a high wooden fence. By now Vanyel’s arms were getting more than a little tired; he was hot, and sweating, and he hoped that this was at least close to their goal.

But no; the seemingly placid trainee flashed him what might have been a sympathetic grin, and opened the gate, motioning for Vanyel to go through.

“There,” she said, pointing across what seemed to be an expanse of carefully manicured lawn as wide as the legended Dhorisha Plains. At the other end of the lawn was a plain, rawly new wooden building with high clerestory windows.

“That’s the salle,” she told him. “That’s where we’re going. They just built it last year so that we could practice year ‘round.” She giggled. “I think they got tired of the trainees having bouts in the hallways when it rained or snowed!”

Vanyel just nodded, determined to show no symptoms of his weariness. She set off across the grass with a stride so brisk he had to really push himself to keep up with her. It was all he could do to keep from panting with effort by the time they actually reached the building, and his side was in agony when she slowed down enough to open the door for him.

Once inside he could see that the structure was one single large room, with a mirrored wall and a carefully sanded wooden floor. There were several young people out on the floor already, ranging in apparent age from as young as eleven or twelve to as old as their early twenties. Most of them were sparring -

Vanyel was too exhausted to take much notice of what they were up to, although the pair nearest him (he saw with a sinking heart) were working out in almost exactly the weapons style Jervis used.

“This him?”

A woman with a soft, musical contralto spoke from behind them, and Vanyel turned abruptly, dropping a vambrace.

“Yes, ma’am,” Donni said, picking the bracer up before Vanyel had a chance even to flush. “Vanyel, this is Weaponsmaster Kayla. Kayla, this stuff is all his; I guess he brought it from home. I’ve got to get going, or I’ll miss my session in the Work Room.”

“Havens forfend,” Kayla said dryly. “Savil would eat me for lunch if you were late. Don’t forget you have dagger this afternoon, girl.”

Donni nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Vanyel alone with the redoubtable Weaponsmaster.

For redoubtable she was. From the crown of her head to the soles of her feet she was nothing but sinew and muscle. Her black hair, tightly braided to her head, showed not a strand of gray, despite the age revealed by the fine net of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Those gray-green eyes didn’t look as if they missed much.

For the rest, Kayla’s shoulders were nearly a handspan wider than his, and her wrists as thick as his ankles. Vanyel had no doubt that she could readily wield any of the blades in the racks along the wall, even the ones as tall or taller than she. He did not particularly want to face this woman in any sort of combat situation. She looked like she could quite handily take on Jervis and mop the floor with his ugly face.

Vanyel remained outwardly impassive, but was inwardly quaking as she in turn studied him.

“Well, young man,” she said quietly, after a moment that was far too long for his liking. “You might as well throw that stuff over in the corner over there - “ she nodded toward the far end of the salle, and a pile of discarded equipment, “ - we’ll see what we can salvage of it. You certainly won’t be needing it.”

Vanyel blinked at her, wondering if he’d missed something. “Why not?” he asked, just as quietly.

“Good gods, lad, that stuff’s about as suited to you as boots on a cat!” she replied, with a certain amusement. “Whoever your last master was, he was a fool to put you in that gear. No, young man - you see Redel and Oden over there?’’

She pointed with her chin at a pair of slender, androgynous figures involved in an intricate, and possibly deadly dance with very light, slender swords.

“I’ll make Duke Oden your instructor; he’ll be pleased to have a pupil besides young Lord Redel. That’s the kind of style suited to you, so that’s what you’ll be doing, young Vanyel,” she told him.

His heart rose to its proper place from its former position - somewhere in the vicinity of his boots.

Kayla graced him with a momentary smile. “Mind you, lad, Oden’s no light taskmaster. You’ll find you work up as healthy a sweat and collect just as many bruises as any of the hack-and-bashers. So let’s get you suited for it, eh?”

If the morning was an unexpected pleasure - and it was; for the first time in his life he received praise for weapons work, and preened under it - the afternoon was an unalloyed disaster.

It started when he returned with equipment that weighed a third of what he’d carried over. He racked it with care he usually didn’t grant to weaponry, and sought the central room of the suite.

Someone - probably the hitherto invisible Margret - had taken away the food left on the sideboard this morning and replaced it with meat rolls, more fruit and cheese, and a bottle of light wine.

Tylendel was sprawled on the couch, a meat roll in one hand, a book in the other, a crease of concentration between his brows. He didn’t even look up as Vanyel moved hesitantly just into the common room itself.

Once again he got that strange, half-fearful, fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach. He cleared his throat, and Tylendel jumped, dropping his book, and looking up with his eyes widened and his hair over one eye.

“Good gods, Vanyel, make some noise, next time!” he said, bending to retrieve his book from the floor. “I didn’t know there was anyone here but me! That’s lunch over there - “

He pointed with the half-eaten roll.

“Savil says to eat and get yourself cleaned up; she’s going to present you to the Queen before the noon recess. Then you’ll be able to have dinner with the Court; the rest of us get it on the fly as our schedules permit. Savil will be back in a few minutes so you’d better move.” He tilted his head to one side, just a little, and offered, “If you need any help. ...”

Vanyel stiffened; the offer hadn’t sounded at all unfriendly, but - it could be Tylendel was looking for a way to spy on him. Savil hadn’t necessarily told the truth.

- if only -

“No,” he replied curtly, “I don’t need any help.” He paused, then added for politeness’ sake, “Thank you.”

Tylendel gave him a dubious look, then shrugged and dove back into his book.

Savil was back in moments; Vanyel had barely time to make himself presentable before she scooped him up and herded him off to the Throne Room.

The Throne Room was a great deal smaller than he had pictured; long and narrow, and rather dark. And stuffy; there were more people crammed into this room than it had ever been intended to hold. Somewhere down at the farther end of it was the Throne itself, beneath a huge blue and silver tapestry of a rampant winged horse with broken chains on its throat and legs that took up the entire wall over the Throne. Vanyel could see the tapestry, but nothing else; everyone else in the room seemed to be at least a hand taller than he was, and all he could see were heads.

The presentation itself was a severe disappointment. Vanyel waited with Savil at his side for nearly an hour while some wrangle or other involving a pair of courtiers was ironed out. Then Savil’s name was called; the two of them (Vanyel trailing in Savil’s formidable wake) were announced by a middle-aged Herald in full Court Whites. Vanyel was escorted to the foot of the Throne by that same Herald, where Queen Elspeth (a thin, dark-haired woman who was looking very tired and somewhat preoccupied) nodded to him in a friendly manner, and said about five words in greeting. He bowed and was escorted back to Savil’s side, and that was all there was to it.

Then Savil hustled him back to change out of Court garb and into ordinary daygarb for his afternoon classes. Mardic practically flew in the door from the hallway and took him in tow. They traversed a long, dark corridor leading from Savil’s quarters, out through a double door, to a much older section of the Palace. From there they exited a side door and out into more gardens - herb gardens this time, and kitchen gardens.

Mardic didn’t seem to be the talkative type, but he could certainly move. His fast walk took them past an l-shaped granite building before Vanyel had a chance to ask what it was, and up to a square fieldstone structure. “Bardic Collegium,” Mardic said shortly, pausing just long enough for a couple of youngsters who were running to get past him, then opening the black wooden door for him.

He didn’t say another word; just left him at the door of his first class before vanishing elsewhere into the building.

He was finding it hard to believe that Savil was going so far in ignoring his father’s orders as to put him in lessoning with the Bardic students. Nevertheless, here he was.

Inside Bardic Collegium. Actually inside the building, seated in a row of chairs with three other youngsters in a small, sunny room on the first floor.

More than that, pacing back and forth as he lectured or questioned them was a real, live Bard in full Scarlets; a tall, powerful man who was probably as much at home wielding a broadsword as a lute.

At home Vanyel had always been a full step ahead of his brothers and cousins when it came to scholastics, so he began the hour with a feeling of boredom. History was the proverbial open book to him - or so he had always thought. He began the session with the rather smug feeling that he was going to dazzle his new classmates.

The other three boys looked at him curiously when he came in and sat down with them, but they didn’t say anything. One was mouse-blond, one chestnut, and one dark; all three were dressed nearly the same as Vanyel, in ordinary day-clothing of white raime shirt and tunic and breeches of soft brown or gray fabric. He couldn’t tell if they were Heraldic trainees or Bardic; they wore no uniforms the way their elders did. Not that it mattered, really, except that he would have liked to impress them with his scholarship if they were Bardic students.

The room was hardly bigger than his bedroom in Savil’s suite; but unlike the Heralds’ quarters, this building was old, worn, and a bit shabby. Vanyel had a moment to register disappointment at the scuffed floor, dusty furnishings, and fuded paint before the leonine Bard at the window-end of the room began the class.

After that, all he had a chance to feel was shock.

“Yesterday we discussed the Arvale annexation; today we’re going to cover the negotiations with Rethwellan that followed the annexation.” With those words, Bard Chadran launched into his lecture; a dissertation on the important Arvale-Zalmon negotiations in the time of King Tavist. It was fascinating. There was only one problem.

Vanyel had never even heard of the Arvale-Zalmon negotiations, and all he knew of King Tavist was that he was the son of Queen Terilee and the father of Queen Leshia; Tavist’s reign had been a quiet one, a reign devoted more to studied diplomacy than the kind of deeds that made for ballads. So when the Bard opened the floor to discussion, Vanyel had to sit there and try to look as if he understood it all, without having the faintest idea of what was going on.

He took reams of notes, of course, but without knowing why the negotiations had been so important, much less what they were about, they didn’t make a great deal of sense.

He escaped that class with the feeling that he’d only just escaped being skinned and eaten alive.

Religions was a bit better, though not much. He’d thought it was Religion, singular. He found out how wrong he was - again. It was, indeed, Religions in the plural sense. Since the population of Valdemar was a patchwork quilt of a dozen different peoples escaping from various unbearable situations, it was hardly surprising that each one of those peoples had their own religion. As Vanyel heard, over and over again that hour, the law of Valdemar on the subject of worship was “there is no ‘one, true way,’ “ But with a dozen or more “ways” in practice, it would have been terribly easy for a Bard - or Herald - to misstep among people strange to him. Hence this class, which was currently covering the “People of the One” who had settled about Crescent Lake.

It was something of a shock, hearing that what his priest would have called rankest heresy was presented as just another aspect of the truth. Vanyel spent half his time feeling utterly foolish, and the other half trying to hide his reactions of surprise and disquiet.

But it was Literature - or rather, an event just before the Literature class - which truly deflated and defeated him.

He had been toying with the idea of petitioning one of the Bards to enroll him in their Collegium before he began the afternoon’s classes, but now he was doubtful of being able to survive the lessons.

Gods, I - I’m as pig-ignorant compared to these trainees as my cousins are compared to me, he thought glumly, slumping in the chair nearest the door as he and the other two with him waited for the teacher of Literature to put in her appearance. But - maybe this time. Lord of Light knows I’ve memorized every ballad I could ever get my hands on.

Then he overheard Bard Chadran talking out in the hallway with another Bard; presumably the teacher of this class. But when he heard his own name, and realized that they were talking about him, he stretched his ears without shame or hesitation to catch all that he could.

“ - so Savil wants us to take him if he’s got the makings,” Chadran was saying.

“Well, has he?” asked the second, a dark, sensuously female voice.

“Shanse’s heard him sing; says he’s got the voice and the hands for it, and I trust him on that,” said Chadran, hesitantly.

“But not the Gift?” the second persisted.

Chadran coughed. “I - didn’t hear any sign of it in class. And it’s pretty obvious he doesn’t compose, or we’d have heard about it. Shanse would have said something, or put it in his report, and he didn’t.”

“He has to have two out of three; Gift, Talent, and Creativity - you know that, Chadran,” said the woman. “Shanse didn’t see any signs of Gift either, did he?”

Chadran sighed. “No. Breda, when Savil asked me about this boy, I looked up Shanse’s report on the area. He did mention the boy, and he was flattering enough about the boy’s musicality that we could get him training as a minstrel if - “

“If-”

“If he weren’t his father’s heir. But the truth is, he said the boy has a magnificent ear, and aptitude for mimicry, and the talent. But no creativity, and no Gift. And that’s not enough to enroll someone’s heir as a mere minstrel. Still - Breda, love, you look for Gift. You’re better at seeing it than any of us. I’d really like to do Savil a favor on this one. She says the boy is set enough on music to defy a fairly formidable father - and we owe her a few.”

“I’ll try him,” said the woman, “But don’t get your hopes up. Shanse may not have the Gift himself, but he knows it when he hears it.”

Vanyel had something less than an instant to wonder what they meant by “Gift” before the woman he’d overheard entered the room. As tall as a man, thin, plain-she still had a presence that forced Vanyel to pay utmost attention to every word she spoke, every gesture she made.

“Today we’re going to begin the ‘Windrider’ cycle,” she said, pulling a gittern around from where it hung across her back. “I’m going to begin with the very first ‘Windrider’ ballad known, and I’m going to present it the way it should be dealt with. Heard, not read. This ballad was never designed to be read, and I’ll tell you the truth, the flaws present in it mostly vanish when it’s sung.”

She strummed a few chords, then launched into the opening to the “Windrider Unchained” - and he no longer wondered what the “Gift” could be.

Because she didn’t just sing - not like Vanyel would have sung, or even the minstrel (or, as he realized now, the Bard) Shanse would have. No - she made her listeners experience every word of the passage; to feel every emotion, to see the scene, to live the event as the originals must have lived it. When she finished, Vanyel knew he would never forget those words again.

And he knew to the depths of his soul that he would never be able to do what she had just done.

Oh, he tried; when she prompted him to sing the next Windrider ballad while she played, he gave it his best. But he could tell from the look in his fellow classmates’ eyes - interest, but not rapt fascination - that he hadn’t even managed a pale imitation.

As he sat down and she gestured to the next to take a ballad, he saw the pity in her eyes and the slight shake of her head - and knew then that she knew he’d overheard the conversation in the hallway. That this was her way of telling him, gently, and indirectly, that his dream could not be realized.

It was the pity that hurt the most, after the realization that he did not have the proper material to be a Bard. It cut - as cruelly as any blade. All that work - all that fighting to get his hand back the way it had been - and all for nothing. He’d never even had a hope.

Vanyel threw himself onto his bed, his chest aching, his head throbbing -

I thought nothing would ever be worse than home - but at least I still had dreams. Now I don’t even have that.

The capper on the miserable day was his aunt, his competent, clever, selfless, damn-her-to-nine-hells aunt.

He flopped over onto his stomach, and fought back the sting in his eyes.

She’d pulled him aside right after dinner; “I asked the Bards to see if they could take you,” she’d said. “I’m sorry, Vanyel, but they told me you’re a very talented musician, but that’s all you’ll ever be. That’s not enough to get you into Bardic when you’re the heir to a holding.”

“But - “ he’d started to say, then clamped his mouth shut.

She gave him a sharp look. “I know how you probably feel, Vanyel, but your duty as Withen’s heir is going to have to come first. So you’d better resign yourself to the situation instead of fighting it.”

She watched him broodingly as he struggled to maintain his veneer of calm. “The gods know,” she said finally, “I stood in your shoes, once. I wanted the Holding - but I wasn’t firstborn son. And as things turned out, I’m glad I didn’t get the Holding. If you make the best of your situation, you may find one day that you wouldn’t have had a better life if you’d chosen it yourself.”

How could she know? he fumed. I hate her. So help me, I hate her. Everything she does is so damned perfect! She never says anything, but she doesn’t have to; all she has to do is give me that look. If I hear one more word about how I ‘m supposed to like this trap that’s closed on me, I may go mad!

He turned over on his back, and brooded. It wasn’t even sunset - and he was stuck here with his lute staring down at him from the wall with all the broken dreams it implied.

And nothing to distract him. Or was there?

Dinner was over, but there were going to be people gathered in the Great Hall all night. And there were plenty of people his age there; young people who weren’t Bard trainees, nor Herald proteges. Ordinary young people, more like normal human beings.

He forgot all his apprehensions about being thought a country bumpkin; all he could think of now was the admiration his wit and looks used to draw at the infrequent celebrations that brought the offspring of several Keeps and Holdings together. He needed a dose of that admiration, and needed its sweetness as an antidote to the bitterness of failure.

He flung himself off the bed and rummaged in his wardrobe for an appropriately impressive outfit; he settled on a smoky gray velvet as suiting his mood and his flair for the dramatic.

He planned his entrance to the Great Hall with care; waiting until one of those moments that occur at any gathering of people where everyone seems to choose the same moment to stop talking. When that moment came, he seized it; pacing gracefully into the silence as if it had been created expressly to display him.

It worked to perfection; within moments he had a little circle of courtiers of his own flocking about him, eager to impress the newcomer with their friendliness.

He basked in their attentions for nearly an hour before it began to pall.

A lanky youngster named Liers was waxing eloquent on the subject of his elder brother dealing with a set of brigands. Vanyel stifled a yawn; this was sounding exactly like similar evenings at Forst Reach!

“So he charged straight at them - “

“Which was a damn fool thing to do if you ask me,” Vanyel said, his brows creasing.

“But - it takes a brave man - “ the young man protested weakly.

“I repeat, it was a damn fool thing to do,” Vanyel persisted. “Totally outnumbered, no notion if the party behind him was coming in time - great good gods, the right thing to do would have been to turn tail and run! If he’d done it convincingly, he could have led them straight into the arms of his own troops! Charging off like that could have gotten him killed!”

“It worked,” Liers sulked.

“Oh, it worked all right, because nobody in his right mind would have done what he did!”

“It was the valiant thing to have done,” Liers replied, lifting his chin.

Vanyel gave up; he didn’t dare alienate these younglings. They were all he had -

“You’re right, Liers,” he said, hating the lie. “It was a valiant thing to have done.”

Liers smiled in foolish satisfaction as Vanyel made more stupid remarks; eventually Vanyel extricated himself from that little knot of idlers and went looking for something more interesting.

The fools were as bad as his brother; he could not, would never get it through their heads that there was nothing “romantic” about getting themselves hacked to bits in the name of Valdemar or a lady. That there was nothing uplifting about losing an arm or a leg or an eye. That there was nothing, nothing “glorious” about warfare.

As soon as he turned away from the male contingent, the female descended upon him in a chattering flock; flirting, coquetting, each doing her best to get Variyel’s attention settled on her. It was exactly the same playette that had been enacted over and over in his mother’s bower; there were more players, and the faces were both different and often prettier, but it was the identical seript.

Vanyel was bored.

But it was marginally better than being lectured by Savil, or longing after the Bards and the Gift he never would have.

“ - Tylendel,” said the pert little brunette at his elbow, with a sigh of disappointment.

“What about Tylendel?” Vanyel asked, his interest, for once, caught.

“Oh, Tashi is in love with Tylendel’s big brown eyes,” laughed another girl, a tall, pale-complected redhead.

“Not a chance, Tashi,” said Reva, who was flushed from a little too much wine.

She giggled. “You haven’t a chance. He’s - what’s that word Savil uses?”

“Shay’a’chern,” supplied Cress. “It’s some outland tongue.”

“What’s it mean?” Vanyel asked.

Reva giggled, and whispered, “That he doesn’t like girls. He likes boys. Lucky boys!”

“For Tylendel I’d turn into a boy!” Tashi sighed, then giggled back at her friend. “Oh. what a waste! Are you sure?”

“Sure as stars,” Reva assured her. “Only just last year he broke his heart over that bastard Nevis.”

Vanyel suppressed his natural reaction of astonishment. Didn’t - like girls. He knew at least that the youngling courtiers used “like” synonymously with “bedding.” But - didn’t “like” girls? “Liked” boys?

He’d known he’d been sheltered from some things, but he’d never even guessed about this one.

Was this why Withen –

“Nevis - wasn’t he the one who couldn’t make up his mind which he liked and claimed he’d been seduced every time he crawled into somebody’s bed?” Tashi asked in rapt fascination.

“The very same,” Reva told her. “I am so glad his parents called him home!”

They were off into a dissection of the perfidious Nevis then, and Vanyel lost interest. He drifted around the Great Hall, but was unable to find anything or anyone he cared to spend any time with. He drank a little more wine than he intended, but it didn’t help make the evening any livelier, and at length he gave up and went to bed.

He lay awake for a long time, skirting the edges of the thoughts he’d had earlier. From the way the girls had giggled about it, it was pretty obvious that Tylendel’s preferences were something short of “respectable.” And Withen -

Oh, he knew now what Withen would have to say about it if he knew that his son was even sharing the same quarters as Tylendel.

All those times he went after me when I was tiny, for hugging and kissing Meke. That business with Father Leren and the lecture on ‘ ‘proper masculine behavior.’’ The fit he had when Liss dressed me up in her old dresses like an overgrown doll. Oh, gods.

Suddenly the reasons behind a great many otherwise inexplicable actions on Withen’s part were coming clear.

Why he kept shoving girls at me, why he bought me that - professional. Why he kept arranging for friends of Mother’s with compliant daughters to visit. Why he hated seeing me in fancy clothing. Why some of the armsmen would go quiet when I came by - why some of the jokes would just stop. Father didn’t even want a hint of this to get to me.

He ached inside; just ached.

I’ve lost music - no; even if Tylendel is to be trusted, I can’t take the chance. Not even on - being his friend. If he didn’t turn on me, which he probably would.

All that was left was the other dream - the ice-dream. The only dream that couldn’t hurt him.

* * *

The chasm wasn’t too wide to jump, but it was deep. And there was something - terrible - at the bottom of it. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he knew it was true. Behind him was nothing but the empty, wintry ice-plain. On the other side of the chasm it was springtime. He wanted to cross over, to the warmth, to listen to bird-song beneath the trees - but he was afraid to jump. It seemed to widen even as he looked at it.

“Vanyel?”

He looked up, startled.

Tylendel stood on the other side, wind ruffling his hair, his smile wide and as warm and open as spring sunshine.

“Do you want to come over?” the trainee asked softly. He held out one hand. “I’ll help you, if you like. “

Vanyel backed up a step, clasping his arms tightly to his chest to keep from inadvertently answering that extended hand.

“Vanyel?” The older boy’s eyes were gentle, coaxing. “Vanyel, I’d like to be your friend. “ He lowered his voice still more, until it was little more than a whisper, and gestured invitingly. “I’d like,” he continued, “to be more than your friend. “

“No!” Vanyel cried, turning away violently, and running as fast as he could into the empty whiteness.

When he finally stopped, he was alone on the empty plain, alone, and chilled to the marrow. He ached all over at first, but then the cold really set in, and he couldn’t feel much of anything. There was no sign of the chasm, or of Tylendel.

And for one brief moment, loneliness made him ache worse than the cold.

Then the chill seemed to reach the place where the loneliness was, and that began to numb as well.

He began walking, choosing a direction at random. The snow-field wasn’t as featureless as he’d thought, it seemed. The flat, smooth snow-plain that creaked beneath his feet began to grow uneven. Soon he was having to avoid huge teeth of ice that thrust up through the crust of the snow - then he could no longer avoid them; he was having to climb over and around them.

They were sharp-edged; sharp as glass shards. He cut himself once, and stared in surprise at the blood on the snow. And, strangely enough, it didn’t seem to hurt

There was only the cold.

Five

Tylendel was sprawled carelessly across the grass in the garden, reading. Vanyel watched him from behindthe safety of his window curtains, half sick with conflicting emotions. The breeze was playing with the trainee’s tousled hair almost the same way it had in his dream.

He shivered, and closed his eyes. Gods. Oh, gods. Why me? Why now? And why, oh why, him? Savil’s favorite protege -

He clutched the fabric of the curtain as if it were some kind of lifeline, and opened his eyes again. Tylendel had changed his pose a little, leaning his head on his hand, frowning in concentration. Vanyel shivered and bit his lip, feeling his heart pounding so hard he might as well have been running footraces. No girl had ever been able to make his heart race like this. . . .

The thought made him flush, his stomach twisting. Gods, what am I? Like him? I must be. Father will - oh, gods. Father will kill me, lock me up, tell everyone I’ve gone mad. Maybe I have gone mad.

Tylendel smiled suddenly at something he was reading; Vanyel’s heart nearly stopped, and he wanted to cry. If only he’d smile at me that way - oh, gods, I can’t, I can’t, I daren’t trust him, he’ll only turn on me like all the others.

Like all the others.

He turned away from the window, invoking his shield of indifference with a sick and heavy heart.

If only I dared. If only I dared.

Savil locked the brassbound door of her own private version of the Work Room with fingers that trembled a little, and turned to face her favorite protege, Tylendel, with more than a little trepidation.

Gods. This is not going to be easy. She braced herself for what was bound to be a dangerous confrontation; both for herself and for Tylendel. She didn’t think he was going to go for her throat - but - well, this time she was going to push him just a little farther than she had dared before. And there was always the chance that it would be too far, this time.

He stood in the approximate center of the room, arms folded over the front of his plain brown tunic, expression unwontedly sober. It was fairly evident that he had already gathered this was not going to be a lesson or an ordinary discussion.

There was nothing else in this room, nothing at all. Unlike the public Work Room, this one was square, not circular; but the walls here were stone, too, and for some of the same reasons. In addition there was an inlaid pattern of lighter-colored wood delineating a perfect circle in the center of the hardwood floor. And there was an oddness about the walls, a sense of presence, as if they were nearly alive. In a way, they were; Savil had put no small amount of her own personal energies into the protections on this room. They were, in some senses, a part of her. And because of that, she should be safer here than anywhere else, if something went wrong.

“You didn’t bring me in here to practice,” Tylendel stated flatly.

Savil swallowed and shook her head. “No, I didn’t. You’re right. I wanted to talk with you; I have two subjects, really, and I don’t want anyone to have a chance at overhearing us.”

“The first subject?” Tylendel asked. “Or - I think I know. My family again.” His expression didn’t change visibly, but Savil could sense his sudden anger in the stubborn setting of his jaw.

“Your family again,” Savil agreed. “Tylendel, you’re a Herald, or nearly. Heralds do not take sides in anyone’s fight, not even when their own blood is involved. Your people have been putting pressure on you to do something. Now I know you haven’t interfered - but I also know you want to. And I’m afraid that you might give in to that temptation.”

His mouth tightened and he looked away from her. “So Evan Leshara can pour his poison into the ear of anyone at Court who cares to listen - and I ‘m not allowed to do or say anything about it, is that it? I’m not even allowed to call him a damned liar for some of the things he’s said about Staven?” He pulled his gaze back to her, and glared at her as angrily as if she were the one responsible for his enemy’s behavior. “It’s more than just my blood, Savil, it’s my twin. By all he believes, by all he holds true, we’ve got blood-debt to pay here - and Staven, for all that he’s young, is the Lord Holder now. It’s his decision; the rest of us Frelennye must and will support him. And besides all that, he’s in the right, dammit!”

“Lord Holder or not, young or not, right or not, he’s a damned hotheaded fool,” Savil burst out, flinging up both her hands before her in a gesture of complete frustration. “Blood-debt be hanged, it’s that kind of fool thinking that got your people and the Leshara into this stupid feud in the first damned place! You can’t bring back the dead with more blood!’’

“It’s honor, dammit!” He clenched his hands into fists. “Can’t you even try to understand that?”

“It has nothing to do with real honor,” she said scornfully. “It has everything to do with plain, obstinate pride. ‘Lendel, you cannot be involved.”

She froze with her heart in her mouth as he made one angry step toward her.

He saw her reaction, and halted.

She plowed onward, trusting in the advice she’d gotten. Please, Jaysen, be right this time, too.

“This whole feud is insanity! ‘Lendel, listen to me! lt has got to be stopped, and if it goes on much longer it’s the Heralds who’ll have to stop it and you cannot take sides!”

All right so far, she hadn’t said anything new. Now for the fresh goad. And hope it wasn’t too much of a goad, too soon.

“ ‘Lendel, I know you’ve never been able to figure out why both you and Staven weren’t taken by Companions - well, dammit, it’s exactly this insanity that’s the reason your beloved twin didn’t get Chosen and you did. You at least can see the futility of this when you aren’t busy defending him - he’s too full of vainglory and too damned stubborn to ever see any solution to this but crushing the Leshara, branch and root! Your twin is an idiot, ‘Lendel! He’s just as much an idiot as Wester Leshara, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to get people killed out of plain stupidity! And I will not permit this to go on for very much longer. If I have to denounce Staven to end your involvement with this, I will. Never doubt it. You have more important things to do with your life than waste it defending a fool.”

Tylendel’s fists clenched again; he was nearly rigid with anger, as his eyes went nearly black and his face completely white with the force of his emotions - and for one moment Savil wondered if he’d strike her this time. Or strike at her, that is; if he came for her, she didn’t intend to be where his fist landed. Or his levinbolt, if it came to that.

Please, Lord and Lady, don’t let him lose it this time, let him stay in control - I’ve never pushed him this far before. And don’t let him try magic. If he hits out, I may not be able to save him from what my protections will do.

She prayed, and looked steadfastly (and, she hoped, compassionately) into those angry eyes.

She could Feel him vibrating inside, caught between his need to strike out at the one who had attacked his very beloved twin and his own conscience and good sense.

Savil continued to hold her ground, refusing to back down. The tension in the room was so acute that the power-charged walls picked it up, reverberating with his rage. And that fed back into Savil, will-she, nill-she. It was all she could do to hold fast, and maintain at least the appearance of calm.

Then he whirled and headed blindly into a corner. He rested his forehead against the cool stone of the wall with one arm draped over his head, pounding the fist of his free hand against the gray stones, cursing softly under his breath.

Now Savil let him alone, saying absolutely nothing.

Once you get him worked into a rage, let him deal with his anger and his internal turmoil in his own way, had been Jaysen’s advice. Leave him alone until he’s calmed himself down.

Finally he turned back to the room and her, bracing himself in the corner, eyes nearly closed; breathing as hard as if he’d been running a mile.

“You’ll never get me to agree to stop supporting Staven, you know,” he said in a perfectly conversational tone. “I won’t interfere with the Heralds, I won’t help with the feud, and I won’t call Evan Leshara a damned liar - but I will defend Staven and what he thinks is right, if only to you. I love him, and I will not give that up.”

There was no sign that a moment before he’d been in - literally - a killing rage.

“I know,” Savil replied, just as calmly, giving no indication that she was still shaking inside. “I’m not asking you to give up loving Staven. All I want is for you to think about this mess, not just react to it. If it was only your two families, it would be bad enough, but you’re involving the whole region in your feuding. We know very well that you’ve both been looking for mages to escalate this thing - and ‘Lendel, I do not want to hear a single word about which side started that. The important thing is that you’ve done it. The important thing is that if either side involves magic in this, the Heralds must and will take a hand. We can’t afford to have wild magic loose and hurting innocent people. You are a Herald, or nearly. You have to remember that you cannot take a side. You have to be impartial. No matter what Evan Leshara does or says.”

Tylendel shrugged, but it was not an indifferent shrug. His pain was very real, and only too plain to his mentor; she hurt for him. But this was one of the most important lessons any Herald had to learn - that he had to be impartial, no matter what the cost of impartiality was. And no matter whether the cost was to himself, or to those he cared for.

“All right,” he said, tonelessly. “I’ll keep out of it. So. Now that you’ve turned my guts inside out, what else did you want to discuss?’’

“Vanyel,” Savil said, relaxing enough that her voice became a little dulled with weariness. “He’s been here for more than a month. I want you to tell me what you think.”

“Gods.” He sagged back against the wall, and opened his eyes completely. They had returned to their normal warm brown. “You would bring up His Loveliness.”

“What’s the matter?” Savil asked sharply, and took a closer look at him; he was wearing a most peculiar half-smile, and she smelled a rat - or at least a mouse. “

‘Lendel, don’t tell me you’ve gone and fallen in love with the boy!”

He snorted. “No, but the lad is putting a lot of stress on my self-control, let me tell you that! When I don’t want to smack that superior grin off his face, I want to cuddle and reassure him, and I don’t know which is worse.”

“I don’t doubt,” Savil replied dryly, walking over to where he leaned, and draped herself against the wall opposite him. “All right, obviously you’ve had your eye on him; tell me what you’ve figured out so far. Even speculation will do.”

“Half the time I think you ought to drown him,” her trainee replied, shaking his golden head in disgust. “That miniature Court he’s collected around himself is sickening. The posing, the preening - “

Savil made a little grimace of distaste. “You don’t have to tell me. But what about the other half?”

“In my more compassionate moments, I’m more certain than ever that he’s hurting, and all that posing is just that - a pose, a defense; that the little Court of his is to convince himself that he’s worth something. But I’ve made overtures, and he just - goes to ice on me. He doesn’t hit at me, he just goes unreachable.”

“Well - “ Savil eyed her protege with speculation.

“That particular scenario hadn’t occurred to me. I thought that now he’d been given his head, he was just showing his true colors. I was about ready to wash my hands of him. Foster him with - oh - Oden or somebody - somebody with more patience, spare time, and Court connections than me.”

“Don’t,” Tylendel said shortly, a new and calculating look on his face. “I just thought of something. Didn’t you tell me one of the things his father was absolutely livid about was his messing about with music?”

“Yes,” she said, slowly, pretending to examine the knuckles of her right hand as if they were of intense interest, but in reality concentrating on Tylendel’s every word. The boy was a marginal Empath when he wasn’t thinking about it. She didn’t want to remind him of that Gift just now; not when she needed the information she could get from it. “Yes,” she repeated. “Point of fact, he told me flat I was to keep the boy away from the Bards.”

“And you told me Breda let him down gently, or as gently as she could, about his ambitions. How often has he played since then ?’’

Now Savil gave him a measuring look of her own. “Not at all,” she said slowly,

“Not a note since then. Margret says there’s dust collecting on that lute of his.”

“Lord and Lady!” Tylendel bit his lip, and looked away, all his attention turned inward. “I didn’t know it was that bad. I thought he might at least be playing for those social butterflies he’s collected.”

“Not a note,” Savil repeated positively. “Is that bad?”

“For a lad who’s certainly good enough to get a lot of praise from his sycophants? For one whose only ambitions lay with music? It’s bad. It’s worse than bad; we broke his dream for him. Savil, I take back the first half of what I said.” Tylendel rubbed his neck, betraying a growing unease. He looked up at the ceiling, then back down at her, his eyes now frank and worried. ‘‘We have a problem. A serious problem. That boy is bleeding inside. If we can’t get him to open up, he may bleed himself to death.”

“How do we get at him?” Savil asked, taking him at his word. Her weakness - and what made her a bad Field Herald, although it was occasionally an asset in training proteges - was in dealing with people. She didn’t read them well, and she didn’t really know how to handle them in a crisis situation. This business with Tylendel and his twin and the feud, for instance -

I would never have thought of this solution - desensitizing him, weaning him into thinking about it logically by bringing him to the edge over and over but never letting him slip past that edge. Bless Jaysen. And damn him. Gods, every time we play this game it wreaks as much damage on me as it does on poor ‘Lendel. I’m still vibrating like a harpstring.

Tylendel pondered her question a long time before answering, his handsome face utterly quiet, his eyes again turned inward. “I just don’t know, Savil. Not while he’s still rebuffing every overture he gets. We need some time for this to build, I think, and then some event that will break his barricades for a minute. Until that happens, we won’t get in, and he’ll stay an arrogant bastard until he explodes.”

She felt herself grow cold inside. “Suicidal?”

To her relief, Tylendel shook his head. “I don’t think so; he’s not the type. It wouldn’t occur to him. Now me - never mind. No, what he’ll do is go out of control in one way or another. He’ll either do it fast and have some kind of breakdown, or slowly, and debauch himself into a state where he’s got about the same amount of mind left as a shrub.”

“Wonderful.” She placed her right hand over her forehead, rubbing her eyebrows with thumb and forefinger. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

Tylendel made one of his expressive shrugs. “You asked.”

“I did,” she said reluctantly. “Gods, why me?”

“If it’s any comfort, it’s not going to happen tomorrow. ‘‘

“It better not. I have an emergency Council session tonight.” She sighed, and rubbed her hands together. “I’ll probably be up half the night, so don’t wait up.”

“Does that mean the interview is over?” he asked quirking one corner of his mouth.

“It does. You can have the suite all to yourself tonight - just don’t leave crumbs on the floor or grease on the cushions. I wouldn’t care, but Margret will take your hide off in one piece. And don’t look for the lovebirds, either - they’re out on a fortnight Field trial with Shallan and her brood. So you’ll be all alone for the evening.”

“Oh, gods, all alone with the beautiful Vanyel - you really want to test my self-control, don’t you!” He laughed, then sobered, shoving away from the wall and straightening. “On the other hand, this might give me the chance I was talking about. If I get him alone, maybe I can get him to open up a bit.’’

Savil shrugged and pushed away from the wall herself. “You’re better than I with people, lad, that’s why I asked your advice. If you think you have an opportunity, then take it. Meanwhile, I have to go consult with the Queen’s Own.”

“And from there, straight to the meeting? No time for a break?” Tylendel asked, sympathetically. She nodded.

He reached for her shoulders and embraced her closely. “See that you eat, teacher,” he murmured into her hair. “I want you to stay around for a while, not wear yourself into another bout of pneumonia, and maybe kill yourself this time.

Even when I hate you, you old bitch, you know I love you.”

She swallowed down another lump in her throat, and returned the embrace with a definite stinging in her eyes.

“I know, love. Don’t think I don’t count on it.” She swallowed again, closed her eyes, and held him as tightly, a brief point of stability in a world that too often was anything but stable. “I love you, too. And don’t you ever forget it.”

The emptiness of the suite almost oppressed Tylendel. With the “lovebirds” gone, Savil due (so the dinnertime rumor in the kitchens had it) for a till-dawn Council session in her capacity as speaker for those Heralds teaching proteges, and Vanyel presumably entertaining his little coterie of followers, there was nothing and no one to break the stifling silence. It closed around him like a shroud, until the very beating of his heart was audible. Outside the windows it was as dark as the heart of sin, and so overcast not even a hint of moon came through. His scalp was damp, hot, and prickly. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and soaked into his collar. It felt a whole lot later than it actually was; time was crawling tonight, not flying.

Tylendel gave up trying to read the treatise on weather-magic Savil had assigned him and switched to a history instead. A handwritten pamphlet on weatherworking was not what he needed to be reading right now, anyway; not with a storm threatening. His energy control often wasn’t as good as he’d like, and he didn’t want to inadvertently augment what was coming in. He was a lot better at controlling his subconscious than he had been, but there was no point in taking chances with Savil out of reach.

That storm was at least part of what was making the suite seem stuffy; Tylendel Sensed the thunderheads building up in the west even though he couldn’t see them from where he was sprawled on the couch of the common room. That was the Gift that made him a Herald-Mage trainee and not just a Herald-trainee; the ability to See (or otherwise Sense) and manipulate energy fields, both natural and supernatural. His Gifts had come on him early and a long time before he was Chosen; they’d given him trouble for nearly half of his short life, and only his twin’s support had kept him sane in the interval between their onset and when his Companion Gala finally appeared -

:Are you tucked safe away, dearling?: he Mindspoke to her. :When this blow comes, it’s going to be a good one.:

The drowsy affirmative he got told him that she was half-asleep; heat did that to her.

Heat mostly made him irritable. He had propped every window and door wide open (and to hell with bugs), but there wasn’t even a whisper of breeze to move the air around. The candle flames didn’t even waver, and the honey-beeswax smell of the candles placed all around the common room was almost choking him with its sweetness.

He shook back his damp hair, rubbed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on his book, but part of him kept hoping for a flash of lightning in the dark beyond the windows, or the first hint of cooling rain. And part of him kept insisting that all he had to do was nudge it a little. He told that part of himself to take a long walk, and waited impatiently for the rain to come of itself.

Nothing happened. Just an itchy sort of tension building.

He gave up trying to concentrate, got up and went to the sideboard for a glass of wine; he needed to get centered and calmed, and a little less sensitive, and he wasn’t going to be able to do it on his own. The only wine left was a white, and it was a bit dry for his taste, but it did accomplish what he wanted it to. With just that hint of alcohol inside him, he finally managed to relax and get into the blasted book.

He got so far into it, in fact, that when the first simultaneous blast of wind and thunder came, he nearly jumped off of the couch.

Half the candles - the ones not sheltered in glass chimney-lamps - blew out. Wind whipped through the suite, sending curtains flying and carrying with it a welcome chill and the scent of rain. The shutters in Mardic’s and Donni’s room banged monotonously against the walls; not hard enough to shatter the glass yet, but it was only a matter of time. He dropped the book and got up to head for their door just as Vanyel stumbled in through the corridor door and into the brightness of the common room.

The boy stood as frozen as a statue, blinking owlishly at the light. Tylendel’s stomach gave a little lurch; Vanyel looked like death.

It was bad enough that the boy was light-complected; bad enough that he was wearing stark black tonight, which only accentuated his fair skin. But his face had no color at the moment; it was so white it was almost transparent. His eyes looked sunken, and his expression was of someone who has seen, but been denied, the Havens.

“Vanyel - “ Tylendel said - whispered, really - his voice barely audible above the banging shutter and the sound of the storm. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Vanyel, I didn’t expect you back so - uh - soon. Is something wrong?”

For one moment - for one precious moment - Tylendel thought he had him; he was sure that the boy was going to open up to him. His eyes begged for pity; his expression, so hungry and haunted, nearly cracked Tylendel’s own calm. The trainee made a tentative step toward him -

It was the wrong move; he knew that immediately. Vanyel’s face shuttered and assumed his habitual expression of flippant arrogance. “Wrong?” he said, with false gaiety. “Bright Lady, no, of course there’s nothing wrong! Some of the Bards just came over from their Collegium and started an impromptu contest; it got so damned hot in the Great Hall with all those people crowded in that I gave up - “

Just then the shutters in both the lifebonded’s room and Savil’s crashed against the walls with such force that it was a wonder that the windows didn’t shatter.

“Havens!” Vanyel yelped, “She’ll kill us!” and dove for Savil’s room. Tylendel dashed into the other, mentally cursing his own clumsiness, and cursing himself for letting his reaction to the boy cloud his reading of him.

By the time he got everything secured and returned to the common room, Vanyel had retreated into his own room and the door was firmly and irrevocably shut.

“Vanyel,” the trainee said, softly, his eyes dark with compassion and understanding, “Is something wrong?”

“I - “ Vanyel began, then closed his eyes as a jit of trembling hit him. ‘ ‘I - the music - I - ‘‘

Suddenly Tylendel was beside him, holding him, quieting his shivering. ‘ ‘It’s all right,’’ he murmured into Vanyel’s ear, his breath warm and like a caress in his hair. ‘ ‘It’s all right, I understand. ‘‘

Vanyel stood as unmoving as a dead stick, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to open his eyes. Tylendel stroked his hair, the back of his neck, his hands warm and light - and Vanyel thought his heart was going to pound itself to pieces. ‘ I understand,’’ he repeated. ‘ ‘I know what it’s like to want something, and know you ‘II never have it. “

‘ ‘You - do ?’’ Vanyel faltered.

Tylendel chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound.

And his fingers traced the line of Vanyel’s spine, slowly, sensuously. Vanyel started to relax in Tylendel’s arms - and his eyes popped open in startlement when his own hands at Tylendel’s chest encountered, not cloth, but skin.

The trainee was starkly, gloriously nude.

“Then again, “ Tylendel whispered, looking deeply into Vanyel’s eyes. ‘ ‘Maybe I will get it. ‘‘

Vanyel made a strangling noise, wrenched himself away, and fled into darkness, into cold -

Into the middle of his old dream.

First there had been the snow-plain, then as he walked across it, the teeth of ice had begun poking their way up through the granular snow. They’d grown higher as he walked, but what he hadn’t known was that they were growing behind him as well. Now he was trapped inside a ring of them. Trapped inside walls of ice, smoother than the smoothest glass, colder than the coldest winter. He couldn’t break out; he pounded on them until his arms were leaden, to no effect. Everywhere he looked - ice, snow, nothing alive, nothing but white and pale blue and silver. Even the sky was white. And he was so alone - so terribly alone.

Nothing soft, nothing comforting. Nothing welcoming. Only the ice, only the unyielding, unmoving ice and the white, grainy snow.

He was cold. So appallingly cold - so frozen that he ached all over.

He had to get out.

Hoping to climb over the barrier, he reached for the top of one of the ice-walls, and pulled back his hands as pain stabbed through them. He stared at them stupidly. His palms were slashed nearly to the bone, and blood oozed sluggishly from the cuts to pool at his feet.

There was blood on the snow; red blood - but as he stared at it in numb fascination, it turned blue.

Then his hands began to burn with the cold, yet fiery pain of the wounds. He gasped, and tears blurred his vision; he wanted to scream, but could only moan.

Gods, it hurt, he’d give anything to make it stop hurting!

Suddenly, the pain did stop; his hands went numb. His eyes cleared and he looked down at his injured hands again - and saw to his horror that the slashes had frozen over and his hands were turning to ice; blue, and shiny, and utterly without feeling. Even as he gazed at them, the ice crept farther up; over his wrists, crawling up his forearms - and he cried out -

Then he wasn’t there anymore, he was somewhere else. It was dark, but he could see; by the lightning, by a strange blue glow about him. Lightning flickered overhead, and seemed to be controlled by what he did or thought; he was standing on a mound of snow in the center of a very narrow valley. To either side of him were walls of ice that towered over his head, reaching to the night sky in sheer, crystalline perfection. Behind him - there was nothing - somehow he knew this. But before him -

“Vanyel!”

Before him an army; an army of mindless monsters-creatures with only one goal. To get past him. Already he was wounded; he twisted to direct the lightning to lash into their ranks, and felt pain lancing down his right side, felt the hot blood trickling down his leg into his boot and freezing there. There were too many of them. He was doomed. He gasped and wept at the horrible pain in his side, and knew that he was dying. Dying alone. So appallingly alone -

“Vanyel!”

He struggled up out of the canyon of ice, out of the depth of sleep; shaken out of the nightmare by hot, almost scorching hands on his shoulders and a commanding voice in his ears.

He blinked; feeling things, and not connecting them. His eyes hurt; he’d been crying. His hair, his pillow were soggy with tears, and he was still so cold - too cold even to shiver. That was why Tylendel’s hands on his bare shoulders felt so hot.

“Vanyel - “ Tylendel’s eyes were a soft sable in the light of the tiny bedside candle; like dark windows on the night, windows that somehow reflected concern.

His hands felt like branding irons on Vanyel’s skin. “Gods, Vanyel, you’re like ice!”

As he tried to sit up, Vanyel realized that he was still leaking tears.

As soon as he started moving he began shivering so hard he couldn’t speak. ‘‘I - “ he said, and could get nothing more out.

Tylendel snagged his robe from the foot of the bed without even looking around, and wrapped it about his naked shoulders. It wasn’t enough. Vanyel shook with tremors he could not stop, and the robe wasn’t doing anything to warm him.

“Vanyel,” Tylendel began, then simply wrapped his arms around Vanyel and held him.

Vanyel resisted - tried to pull away.

He blinked.

The snow-plain stretched all around him, empty - but not asking anything of him. Cold, but not a threat. But lonely, lonely - oh, gods, how empty -

But not asking, not hurting -

He blinked again, and Tylendel was still there, still staring into his eyes with an openness and a concern he could not doubt.

“Go away!” he gasped; waiting for pain, waiting to be laughed at.

“Why?” Tylendel asked, quietly. “I want to help you.”

He was turning to ice; soon there would be no feeling and nothing to feel - and he would be trapped.

Tylendel took advantage of his distraction to get his arms around him. “Van, I wouldn’t hurt you. I couldn’t hurt you.”

He closed his eyes and gasped for breath, his chest tight and hurting. - oh, gods - I want this -

“I’m just trying to get you warm again,” Tylendel said with a hint of impatience.

“That’s all. Relax, will you?”

He did relax; he couldn’t maintain his indifference - and to his shame, began crying again - and he couldn’t stop the tears any more than he could the shivering.

But not only did Tylendel not seem to mind -

“Come on, Vanyel,” he soothed, pulling him into a comfortable position on his shoulder, supporting him like a little child. “It’s all right, I told you I won’t hurt you. I wouldn’t ever hurt you. Cry yourself out, it’s just you and me, and I’ll never tell anyone. On my honor. Absolutely on my honor.”

It was already too late to save his battered dignity anyway -

Vanyel surrendered appearance, self-respect, everything. He sagged against Tylendel’s shoulder, burying his face in Tylendel’s soft, worn, blue robe. He let the last of his pride dissolve, releasing all the tears he’d been keeping behind his walls of indifference and arrogance. Soon he was crying so hard he couldn’t even think, just cling to Tylendel’s shoulders and sob. He didn’t really hear what Tylendel was saying, only the tone of his voice registered in his sleep-mazed grief; comforting, compassionate, caring.

He cried his eyes sore and dry; he cried until his nose felt swollen to the size of an apple. All the time he shivered with the terrible cold that seemed to have become one with his very bones; shivered until the bed shook.

Finally there just weren’t any tears left - and he wasn’t shivering anymore, he was warm - and more than warm; protected. And completely exhausted. Tylendel held him as carefully as if he was made of spun glass and would shatter at a breath; just held him. That was all.

It was enough. It was more than he ever remembered having. He wished it could last forever.

- may the gods help me. I’ve always wanted this -

“Done?” Tylendel asked, very quietly, a good while after the last of the sobs and the tremors had finished shaking his body.

He nodded, reluctantly, and felt the arms holding him relax. He sat up again, and Tylendel cupped both his hands around his face, turning him into the light. He winced away from it, knowing what he must look like; the trainee chuckled, but it had a kindly, not a mocking, sound.

“You’re a mess, peacock,” he said, somehow making the words a joke to be shared between them. Vanyel smiled, tentatively, and Tylendel dabbed at his eyes with the corner of the sheet.

“Do you have so common a thing as a handkerchief around here?” he asked, quite casually. Vanyel nodded, and fumbled at the drawer of the bedside table until Tylendel patted his hand away and got the square of linen out of it himself.

“Here,” he gave it to Vanyel, then settled back a little. “I couldn’t sleep; got up to get some wine and heard you. Do this often?”

Vanyel blew his nose, and looked up at the older boy through half-swollen eyes.

“Often enough,” he confessed.

“Nightmare?”

He nodded, and looked down at his hands.

“Know why?”

“No,” he whispered. But he did. He did. It was hearing the Bards - hearing what he’d never, ever have – and then encountering Tylendel and knowing-

Gods.

“Want to tell me about it?”

He dared another glance at the trainee; the quiet face of the older boy was not easy to read, but there were no signs of deception there that Vanyel could see.

But -

“You’ll laugh at me,” he said, ready to pull away again.

“No. On my honor. Van, I don’t lie. I won’t laugh at you, and nothing you tell me will go outside this room unless you want it to.”

Vanyel shivered again, and without any warning at all, the words came spilling out.

“It’s - ice,” he said, sniffing, studying his hands and the handkerchief he had twisted up in them. “It’s all around me; I’m trapped, I can’t get out, and I’m so cold - so cold. Then I cut myself, and I start to turn into ice. Then - sometimes, like tonight - I’m somewhere else, and I’m fighting these things, and I know I’m going to die. And the worst of it isn’t the pain, or the dying - it’s that - that - “ he faltered, “ - I’m - all alone. So totally alone - “

It sounded so banal, so incredibly foolish, just put into words like that. Especially when he didn’t, couldn’t, tell Tylendel the rest, the part about him. He looked up, expecting to see mockery in the older boy’s face - and froze, seeing nothing of the kind.

“Van, I think I know what you mean,” Tylendel said slowly. “There are times when - when being alone is a hurt that’s worse than dying. When it’s easier to die than to be alone. Aren’t there?”

Vanyel blinked, caught without words.

Tylendel’s voice was so soft he might well have been speaking to himself. “Sometimes, maybe it’s better to have had someone and lost them than to have never had anyone - “

Then Tylendel’s eyes focused for a moment on Vanyel. And Vanyel’s heart spasmed at the flash of emotion he saw. A longing he’d not ever dreamed to see there. Directed at him.

- oh - gods. I never - I thought - he can’t -

He does. He is. Father will -

I don’t care!

He snatched at what was proffered before it could be taken away.

“Vanyel - “ the blond began.

“ ‘Lendel - “ Vanyel interrupted, urgently, daring the nickname he’d heard his aunt use. “Stay with me - please. Please.” His words tumbled over one another as he hurried to get them out before Tylendel could interrupt; he caught hold of the older boy’s wrist. “The ice is still there, I know it is, it’s inside me and it’s freezing me from the inside out - it’s killing my - feelings. I think it’s killing me. Please, please, don’t leave me alone with it - “

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” Tylendel said, almost angrily; pulling his hand out of Vanyel’s, his eyes no longer readable. “You can’t know. You don’t know what Iam.”

“But I do,” Vanyel protested desperately. “I do, the girls tell me things to get my attention - they told me you’re - uh - shay’a’chern, they said. That you don’t sleep with girls; that you - “ He felt himself blush, the rush of blood almost painful, his cheeks were so sore from crying.

“Then dammit, Vanyel, what do you think I’m made of?” Tylendel cried harshly, his face twisted and his eyes reflecting internal pain. “What do you think I am?

Marble? You’re beautiful, you’re bright, you’re everything I’d ever ask for - you think I can stay here and not want you? Good gods, I won’t take advantage of an innocent, but what you’re asking of me would try the control of a saint!”

“You don’t understand. I know what I’m asking,” Vanyel replied, catching his wrist again before he could get up and stalk off into the dark. “I do know.”

Tylendel shook his head violently and looked away.

“ ‘Lendel - look at me,” Vanyel pleaded, pouring his heart out in a confession he’d never have dared to make before this. “Listen - I don’t like girls either. I’m not an innocent, I know what I want, ‘Lendel, please, listen - I’ve been - rl’ve bedded enough of them to know that they don’t do anything for me. It’s - about as mechanical as dancing, or eating. They just don’t mean anything to me.”

Tylendel stopped trying to pull away, and turned a face to Vanyel that was so full of dumbfounded surprise that the younger boy had to fight hysterical laughter.

“And I do? You - “ Tylendel began, then his face hardened. “Don’t play with me, Vanyel. Don’t toy with me. I’ve had that game played on me once already - and I don’t want to hear you crying to Savil in the morning that I seduced you.”

Vanyel bit his lip, and looked directly into Tylendel’s eyes, pleadingly. “I’m not playing, ‘Lendel. Please.” He felt his eyes sting, and this time didn’t try to hide the two tears that spilled down his raw cheeks. “I - I’ve been thinking about this for a long while. Almost since I got here, and they - told me about you. And you never laughed at me. You - were - kind to me. You kept being kind to me even when I was pretty rude. It meant a lot to me. And I didn’t know how to thank you. I - started feeling - things around you. I was scared. I didn’t dare let you guess. I didn’t want to admit what I wanted; now I do.”

The older boy looked at him sideways. “Which is?”

Vanyel gulped. “I want to be with you, ‘Lendel. And if you go - I won’t have any choice but the ice - “

Once again Tylendel cupped his face between his strong hands, and gently brushed the tears away with hesitant fingers. He stared deeply into Vanyel’s eyes for so long, and so searchingly, that Vanyel thought he surely must be reading right down to the depths of his soul. Vanyel held his gaze, and tried to make his own eyes say that he meant every word he’d said. Tylendel finally nodded, once, slowly.

Then he reached out, quite deliberately, and snuffed the candle before taking Vanyel back into his arms.

It was very dark; no light outside, no sound but the rain falling. After a moment, Tylendel chuckled with what sounded like surprise, and said softly into Vanyel’s ear, “I’m beginning to wonder just who’s taking advantage of who, here.”

Then, a bit later, another chuckle to tell Vanyel that he was teasing. “Move over, you selfish little peacock, I’m about to freeze to death.”

Then no words at all.

Then again, they didn’t need words.

The halls were totally deserted, chill, and lit by lamps that were slowly flickering out as they used up the last of the night’s oil. Savil’s slow, weary footsteps echoed before and behind her without disturbing so much as a spider. At one point on the long walk back to her quarters from the Council Chamber, Savil wasn’t entirely certain she was going to make it. She was so damned tired she was about ready to give up and lie down in the middle of the cold hall.

I’m getting too old for this, she told herself. No more younglings after this lot. I can’t take the emotional ups and downs. And I truly cannot take these all-night sessions with a lot of stubborn old goats.

She grinned a little ironically at herself.

Of which I am one of the most stubborn. But gods - hours like this are for the young. I hurt. And I think I’m going to beg off ‘Lendel’s weather working lesson today, else my bones are going to ache more. Gods bless - the door at last.

She pushed open the door to the suite; Tylendel had left a night-candle burning, but it, too, was guttering. No matter, there was the pearly gray light of an overcast dawn creeping in through the windows of her room, the lifebonded’s, and Tylendel’s -

She froze. Tylendel’s bed was unoccupied; she could see it through the door.

Don’t panic, old woman - she cautioned herself. Just do a bit of a trace, first - you’ve shared magic; you ‘ve got the line to his mind. See where it leads.

She found the little energy-link that said Tylendel and followed it back to where Tylendel himself was. It wasn’t very far. Still in the suite, in fact. In Vanyel’s room.

Vanyel’s room?

Her first reaction was to fling the door open and demand to know what was going on. Her second was to chuckle; with aura overtones like that she bloody well knew what was going on!

But - Vanyel? Gods have mercy. No sign he was shay ‘a ‘chern -

Then again, given Withen’s prejudices, he might have feared for a long time that the boy was fey. And Withen’s answer to that fear would have been -

Exactly what he’d been doing. Keeping the boy sheltered at home rather than fostering him out and trying to shove him in the direction Withen wanted. Trying to force the boy into a mold he was totally unsuited for. And he also might well have protected the boy from even the idea that same-sex pairings were possible. So the boy himself wouldn’t have known what he was - until he first found out about ‘Lendel.

Which answered a great many questions indeed. The question now was - what had led to this, and what was it going to mean for the future?

She took a deep breath of the chilly, damp air, and groped her way back to her own room. No use rushing things; questioning could be done just as easy with herself lying in her own warm bed. Easier, actually, given
how she felt.

She stripped herself down to the skin, promised her weary bones a bath later, and dragged on a bedgown before crawling into the blankets. The warm blankets, and she blessed Tylendel’s thoughtfulness for putting the warming spell on her bed before he’d taken to his own. Or - whatever.

She settled herself comfortably, and reached out a thin tendril of Mindspeech in Private-mode. If the imp was awake-

He was.

:Savil?: came the sleep-blurred thought, dense with a feeling of contentment. –

.Thought I heard you come in. Found me, hmm?:

:Aye. And I have a pile of questions.: She shifted herself until her left shoulder stopped aching quite so much. :The only important one is, how did you talk him into it?:

:I didn’t. It was all Van’s idea.:

She almost lost the Mindspeech thread with her start of surprise, and had to grope after it. :Sounds like I really missed something! What in the name of the Havens happened last night?:

:Too much to talk about now.: There were overtones of mental and physical weariness to his Mind-voice. :But he’s going to be all right, Savil. We did more than - just the physical. I think we must have talked for hours, before and after. He handed me the key to himself, and he wanted me to have it.:

She raised a sardonic mental eyebrow. :’Lendel - I don’t want to drench you with cold water, but may I remind you of what happened the last time morning arrived with you in someone else’s bed?:

:It ‘s all right, Savil, it really is this time.: A feeling of faint surprise. :You know, you ‘re always teasing me about falling in love - but - I don’t know, this feels different. :

Savil snorted. :Right; it always does. No, don’t let an old cynic disturb you.:

:Teacher - I think this is going to be something more than just a one-time; I think he needs me.:

:Oh, Havens. All right, if that’s the way you think it’s going - just let me know in the morning if you plan to move in with him. Or him with you, though his is the better chamber. We could use a spare for guests.:

Flavor of laughter like crisp apples. :You just want my room back. :

:If you aren’t using it - seriously, ‘Lendel, this is important. I want to have a long talk with him when I get up, and I want you there. He really should know what he’s letting himself in for as shay’a’chern. I don’t think we should let that get out, and I’ll Mindspeak with you on that before we talk with him. Hmm - cancel your classes this morning; I’m too tired, and I have the feeling you weren’t exactly early to sleep:

Another apple-feeling of laughter, and the mind-link faded. And she let exhaustion pull her down into a slumber that she really didn’t want, not anymore.

One last thought before sleep came.

Great good gods, what am I going to tell Withen ?

Tylendel raised himself up on his elbow and looked down at the slumbering boy beside him. Rest had repaired the damages that several hours of soul-wrenching weeping had done to Vanyel’s face; relaxed, and with all his barriers down, he looked as innocent as an unawakened child -

- which he was, as Tylendel now knew quite intimately, not. Not in any way; except, perhaps, his vulnerability.

“Van,” he whispered, touching his shoulder, and feeling just a faint chill of apprehension despite his words to his mentor, “can you wake up a little?”

Vanyel stirred, wrinkled his nose, and half-opened his eyes. And when he saw who was beside him, he smiled with heart-stopping sweetness. With all his masks gone, he was as charming as he was beautiful.

“Hmm?” he said, blinking, as Tylendel felt a surge of relief and gratitude that this was not going to be a repeat of the infamous Nevis affair.

“Want a roommate?”

“You - why?”

He grinned; he knew now that you had to show Van that something was a joke, or often he’d taken it seriously. “Savil seems to want my room back - for guests, she says. Besides, I like your company.”

Vanyel’s reply, though not verbal, was a definite and unmistakable affirmative.

“We have,” Savil said dryly, “several problems, here.”

She’d had that Mindspeech conference with Tylendel as she’d gotten herself put together for the day. Nice thing, Mindspeech; let you cover more than one thing at once. And after giving it thorough consideration while she bathed, she decided to have her “little talk” with Vanyel in his room. With any luck, he’d feel less threatened there.

She did usurp the most comfortable chair in the room, though. The privilege of age, she told herself, waiting for the two young men to settle themselves. Without seeming to consult about it, Tylendel sat on the edge of the bed, and Vanyel arranged himself cross-legged on the floor at his feet.

And the flexibility of youth. Would that I could still do that! The body language gave her spirits a lift, though; the way Vanyel had positioned himself was interesting. At Tylendel’s feet, below both her head and his lover’s. That could well show he’d given up that pose of arrogant superiority. Very interesting.

I wonder if having a steady lover at his side might well give ‘Lendel something to think about besides his twin and that damned feud. On the other hand - this lad’s been so affection-starved - this could be another sort of trouble.

“Yes, indeed, we have quite a few little problems here,” she repeated.

Tylendel nodded at her words; Vanyel looked puzzled, at first, then thoughtful.

“The first problem and the one that’s going to tie in to all the others, Vanyel, is your father.” She paused, and Vanyel bit his lip. “I’m sure that you realize that if he finds out about this, he is going to react badly.”

Vanyel coughed, and bowed his head, hiding his face for a moment. When he looked back up, he was wearing a weary, ironic half-smile; a smile that had as much pain in it as humor. It was, by far and away, the most open expression Savil had ever seen him wear.

“ ‘Badly’ is something of an understatement, Aunt,” he replied, rubbing his temple with one finger. “He’ll - gods, I can’t predict what he’ll do, but he’ll be in a rage, that’s for certain.”

“He’ll pull you home, Van,” Tylendel said in a completely flat voice. “And he can do it; you’re not of age, you aren’t Chosen, and you aren’t in Bardic.”

“And I can’t protect you,” Savil sighed, wishing that she could. “I can stall him off for a while, seeing as he officially turned guardianship of you over to me, but it won’t last more than a couple of months. Then - well, I’ll give you my educated guess as to what Withen will do. I think he’ll put you under house arrest long enough for everybody to forget about you, then find himself a compliant priest and ship you off to a temple. Probably one far away, with very strict rules about outside contact. There are, I’m sorry to say, several sects who hold that shay’a’chern are tainted. They’d be only to happy to ‘purify’ you for Withen and Withen’s gold. And under the laws of this kingdom, none of us could save you from them.”

Vanyel nodded; by the startled agreement in his eyes, Savil reckoned that this was a speculation he’d entertained before this, although for different causes. “So is there anything I can do?’’ he asked quietly.

“Obviously,” she said, “Or I wouldn’t be talking to you now. But you aren’t going to like the solution to your problem. It’s pretty heartbreakingly simple. Outside of this room, Vanyel, nothing is to change. “

“But - “ He twisted his head around to see what Tylendel thought about this, only to find that his lover was nodding, in complete agreement with her.

“Savil’s right, Van,” Tylendel said sadly.

“But - “ Vanyel protested, holding out one hand toward him in entreaty, then turning the same pleading eyes on Savil when Tylendel shook his head.

“Mardic and Donni are discreet, and I’d trust Margret to keep what she knows behind her teeth even under torture, but if you want to stay here, Vanyel, you won’t say or do anything to betray your relationship to ‘Lendel. The moment people start to talk, it’ll get back to your father.”

“The quickest way to make them talk, love,” Tylendel said in what was almost a whisper, “is to change. Is to even be friendlier to me than you have been. You told me the girls told you I was a pervert.” Vanyel’s eyes widened at Tylendel’s directness. “It can’t have escaped your notice how they sniggered and giggled about it, and they were being polite. My preferences are not generally socially acceptable. There are only two reasons why I have as little trouble as I do. The first is that I’m a Herald-trainee, and Heralds are allowed a bit more license than ordinary mortals. And my patron is Savil. She just happens to outrank everybody in the Circle except the Queen’s Own.”

“And the other reason?” Vanyel said in a very subdued voice.

What stretched Tylendel’s mouth was something less than a smile. “The fact that I took a couple of the worst offenders on and kept knocking them down until they didn’t get up.”

“Oh.”

Tylendel caught up one of his hands in both of his own. “I know you want everyone to know about us. I can’t tell you how much that means to me. But it will mean a lot more to me to know you were going to be able to stay with me.”

“And to do that, young Vanyel,” Savil said, intruding into the intense interaction between them, “you are going to have to begin a performance a Master Player couldn’t equal. ‘Lendel and I have been talking about you this afternoon.”

From the complete astonishment on his face, Savil could tell that he hadn’t guessed they’d been in conference via Mindspeech. For that matter, it might be that he didn’t know they both had that Gift.

“We share the Mindspeech Gift, lad, and it’s damned useful at times like this. He’s told me some of what you told him, and it rather changed my mind about you. But I will not lie to you; I’m going to help you because he wants it, because he wants you here. So now I’m going to order you; outside of this suite you are to be the same arrogant little bastard that arrived here. And if you can manage to be slightly rude to ‘Lendel, that’s even better. And in return, I’ll make this suite a little sanctuary for the two of you. Is it a bargain?”

Vanyel, who had gone rather pale, gulped, and nodded.

Savil smiled for the first time since she’d begun this conference.

“That’s a good lad. If you’re half of what ‘Lendel claims for you, I’m going to come to like you a great deal, and I’m sorry for the treatment you’ve had from your father. I’ll tell you that he isn’t the same person I knew when I was Chosen. He’s gone stiff and stubborn, and altogether hidebound. Maybe it’s age; maybe it’s that a lot of his old friends have taken the Long Walk and he’s seeing Death looking for him, too. Maybe it’s that priest he’s gotten tied up with - I just don’t know.” She coughed. “Well, that’s not to the point; what is to the point is that you’ll only have to keep up this charade until you’re eighteen; you’ll be your own man then, and can do what you please. And I’ll see to it that ‘Lendel begins having trouble with his Mage-lessons.” She winked, and Tylendel chortled. “I think we can keep him out of Whites until you’re of age. After that,” if this love affair lasts that long “you’ll have to make your decisions on your own. Fair enough?”

“More than fair, Aunt Savil.” Vanyel looked very subdued, and quite unlike the boy that had faced her something like a month ago. She couldn’t quite pinpoint why.

:’Lendel, what is it about him?: she Mindspoke, letting her puzzlement drift over.

:No masks,: came the immediate answer. .-This is the real Vanyel, dearheart. The one nobody but me - and maybe his sister - has seen. Now see why I love him?:

The last thought stopped her cold. :Are you that sure, ke’chara? Are you really that sure?:

His eyes caught hers over Vanyel’s head; caught and held them. :I’m that sure.:

:And him ?:

:I don’( know; but he was willing to defy his father for me, and I think that says something.:

She closed her own eyes against that burning, intense gaze. :Then may the gods help and guard you.:

She turned her attention back to Vanyel, and quickly. He was still looking toward Tylendel, and the very same look was in his eyes - and a vulnerability and apprehension that cut at her heart.

“I’ll help you all I can, son,” she said quietly. “I’ll help you all I can.”