Eight

“You look like hell,” said a rough voice just above I his head.

What an amazing coincidence, Savil, Vanyel thought without opening his eyes. I feel like hell.

“I seem,” his aunt continued dryly, “to spend an inordinate amount of time at your bedside. And don't try to pretend you're not awake.”

“I wouldn't think of it,” he whispered, cracking his right eye open. Savil was lounging in the chair she'd pulled up next to his bed, feet on his bed. “Mother will have a cat,” he observed, prying his left eye open as well. “You know how she feels about boots on the bedcovers.”

“Your mother isn't here at the moment. How are you feeling?”

He took a quick inventory. ”Other than some assorted joint-aches, about the same as when I got back to Haven. Which is to say, as you pointed out, like hell. What's been going on? How long was I out this time?''

“Your outside matches your inside, we're not in a war with Lineas quite yet, and three days.” She quirked one corner of her mouth as he groaned, and continued. “I took the liberty of deep-scanning you while you were wit-wandering, and I got in touch with a couple of merchant-contacts in Highjorune. Useful birds, pigeons. Particularly when one can tell their little heads exactly where you want them to go. You want your briefing in sequence, or by specifics?”

He had been inching into a sitting position while she was talking. She poured a goblet of cider from a pitcher next to her, and handed it to him when he was secure.

“In sequence,” he said, after a sip to help moisten his throat. “And you'd better start with how Father is taking the new houseguest.”

“Your father doesn't know about him, thank the gods.” The other corner of her mouth twitched up to make a real smile. “Your old aunt is no fool, ke'chara; he was due to make his Harvest-tide inspection round of the freeholders the same morning you Gated back and fell on your nose. I simply installed Tashir in the guest room next to yours and didn't bother to tell anyone until after Withen was gone.” She hesitated a moment before continuing. “I have to tell you, having that boy around is unnerving. He acts like a ghost, whisking out of sight when he sees me coming; he's given me chills more than once. He's too like our lost one... Well. He is not well-wrapped, even I can tell that, and I'm no Mind-Healer.”

Vanyel nodded thoughtfully. “I've got too many questions, and nowhere near enough answers. So Tashir is here, and Father doesn't know about it. A not insignificant blessing. Keep going.”

“Yfandes and the new Companion got back about noon. By nightfall I'd gotten a pigeon or two back with news. Lores is going back to Haven to protest your actions to Randale, and he's carrying a demand from what's left of Deveran's Council that Tashir be turned over to them. Vedric finally stuck his nose in; he showed up the next day. He seems to be on the side of the Lineans, but he wants Tashir turned over to the Mavelans for trial and sentencing.” She paused for breath. “That's the bad news. The good news is that since that fathead Lores - yes, dear, I know him, he's a fathead and always has been one - isn't a Herald-Mage, he can't Gate back to Haven. It's going to take him a good long while to get there, especially since the Companions are in on our little conspiracy. ''

“The - how?”

“Jenna is going to be an invalid all the way home. If he makes the same time he'd make on a spavined horse, he'll be lucky.”

He coughed on a swallow of cider. Savil patted his back, a gleam of amusement in her eye. “I got that from 'Fandes through Kellan. Jenna is not happy with her Chosen, and intends to make him pay for it. So, Lores is going to be delayed. So far as I know, nobody knows where you and the lad are; Lores assumed you'd gone to Haven. That's more good news. So you're safe for a bit, maybe long enough to find out what really happened.”

“Even when people do find out where we are,'' Vanyel pointed out, “I can't be countermanded by anyone other than Randale. Randi is going to stall, I know him. He knows that if there weren't something damned odd going on, I'd have Gated to Haven with Tashir. So - what about our guest?''

“Well, I told you, he's been acting like a ghost. He's been hovering over you whenever there wasn't someone in here, but he seems to know when someone is coming, and slips back into his own room just before they get here. Fortunately I scanned you before I tried to read his mind. Someone or something certainly made him sensitive to that. I judged we didn't need any broken vases.”

“Exactly.” Vanyel sat up a little straighter, feeling better by the moment. “I wish I dared Mindtouch him long enough to figure out what his Gifts are. Fetching for certain - probably Mindspeech; that would account for knowing when someone was coming. Has anybody been seeing that he's fed?”

“Oh, he comes to meals, but not with the family. He slips down to the kitchen at First Call for the servants and the armsmen; gets himself something portable, and pelts back up here. I guess he returns whatever dishes he takes after the kitchen shuts down for the night; nobody's complained to me about missing plates. Your mother is alive with curiosity about him, and he won't get any nearer to her than he will to me.''

“Why is he so - I don't know what to call it; battle-shy, maybe?” Vanyel chewed at a fingernail. “I never heard that Deveran was all that bad a man.”

“Rumor and the truth are sometimes fairly different things, ke'chara,” Savil reminded him. “And Deveran was a man well-beset by problems, saddled with a wife he didn't care for, an enemy on one of his Borders which forced him to make his little kingdom into a client-state of Valdemar, his eldest was a problematical bastard, and he was unsteady enough on his throne that his people could pressure him into disinheriting the boy.” She shrugged eloquently. “This doesn't make for happy times in Lineas. Men under pressure have been known to take their unhappiness out on the defenseless.”

“Tashir.” Vanyel sighed. “So we have a new presumptive Herald with major Problems. Not good, Savil. What do we tell Father when he gets back?''

“Good question. No more than that you've retrieved Tashir newly-Chosen and - damaged. The less he knows of this mess, the better. I can't remember if he's ever seen Vedric or Tashir; if he hasn't, it might be best not to - “

:FearfearfearTRAPPED. Away! Get away! DON'T TOUCH ME! FEAR!:

“What in hell!” Savil exclaimed.

“Tashir,” Vanyel croaked, throwing himself out of bed, staggering across the room.

“Van!”

He ignored Savil, and pulled open the door to his room. “He's in the bower. Treesa must have cornered him somehow, and frightened him.”

He stumbled down the hall at an unsteady run, bare feet slapping on the wooden floor, weaving a little from side to side, but not slowing. He was halfway down the hallway before Savil caught up with him and threw a robe over him.

“Treesa would not appreciate a naked man breaking into her solar,” she rasped at him, as he wrestled it on, then outraced his aunt again.

It was a damned good thing that Treesa's bower wasn't far from the guest quarters, because he was winded when he got there, and holding his aching side.

Feminine shrieks met him halfway there. The pain - that was Tashir's and that was all emotional. So whatever was happening, it wasn't a repetition of the slaughter at Highjorune.

He yanked open the door on chaos. Heavy furniture was dancing all over the room; lighter things like embroidery frames and stools circled the ceiling like demented bats, now and again pausing to throw themselves at the wall before circling again. Piles of shards showed where a few fragile ornaments had performed the same maneuvers to a more fatal end. Tashir was cowering in the corner nearest the doorframe, head buried in his arms; the women were cowering against the far wall, screaming at the tops of their lungs.

Vanyel and Savil acted in concert. He clamped down on Tashir; the furniture froze in mid-dance, and the flying pieces began gently lowering themselves to the floor. Savil took the women, collectively paralyzing their throats so they couldn't scream.

It was a fragile solution, at best; Vanyel sensed that the moment he or Savil loosed control, the young man would continue to panic.

The clatter of boots on the staircase heralded the unlikely answer to his prayers; Withen and Jervis stormed into the mess with drawn swords, probably expecting looting and rapine from all the screams. They stopped cold on the threshold. Vanyel would remember the looks on their faces for a long time.

Then Tashir looked up at the intruders; Vanyel got ready to tighten down on the youngster if another surge of fear broke him out of control. But instead, he felt the first flickers of hope and something very like trust when Tashir focused on Jervis.

Jervis? Lady have mercy - but I am not looking sideways at a gift horse!

The women clearly saw Withen and Jervis as deliverers; they relaxed immediately, and Savil let them go, one at a time. “Sorry about this, Withen. We've got a presumptive Herald here with a problem,” Savil said, slowly and carefully. “Van rescued him, he's very jumpy - his Gift is Fetching, ladies, and he was just trying to get you to leave him alone. He panicked when you started screaming. It's all right, Withen, nobody's hurt, and it looks like the only damage is a couple of ornaments.”

Treesa, white and shaking, actually managed a tremulous smile. “Th-they were those horrible ch-cherubs Thorinna insisted on g-g-giving me,” she stammered. “I shan't m-m-miss them.”

Vanyel, meanwhile, managed to snag Jervis' elbow and draw him away from Withen. “I've got a very frightened lad here, Jervis,” he whispered. “I'll tell you everything I can later. For now, he seems to see you as somebody he can depend on. Do you think you can handle him, get him calmed down?''

Jervis didn't waste any time with questions or arguments. He took one look at Tashir's strained, white face, sheathed his sword, and nodded.

Vanyel, with Jervis at his elbow, moved toward Tashir as quietly and unthreateningly as he could. The youngster looked up at them with a measure of both hope and fear. “I'm going to take the shields off you, Tashir,” Vanyel said, as if none of this had happened, projecting calm with all his power. Empathy was not one of his strong Gifts, but he did have it, and he used it to the limit. “I want you to go back to your room with Jervis. Jervis, this is Tashir. Lad, Jervis is our armsmaster.''

Again that flash of hope, and trust-stronger this time - in response to the identification of Jervis.

“I want you to get yourself calmed down. I know you can. Once you do, all these strange things will stop happening. What you have is something we call a Gift, and it's no more unnatural than being able to paint well or fight well. And the proof of that is that you're going to feel exhausted in a minute, just like you'd been fighting. You have - only with your mind. We'll help you figure out how to keep it under control so that things like this won't happen again. No one is angry at you - you heard Lady Treesa - and no one is going to punish you for any of this. These things happen to some people, and we understand that here in Valdemar; we look for people like you, Tashir, and we train them to use what they have. This little mess wasn't your fault, and I won't allow anyone to blame you for it.”

“Vanyel's all right,” Jervis said gruffly, clapping Vanyel on the shoulder and making him stagger a little. “If he says you're going to be fine, you will be. He won't lie, and he keeps his promises.”

Without daring to Mindtouch, Vanyel couldn't tell what the youngster was thinking; he was forced to rely on what Tashir was projecting that he was picking up Empathically. There was doubt there - but a trust in Jervis that was increasing by the moment. Clearly, Tashir would trust Jervis where he wouldn't trust anyone else.

There was a glimmering, a hint of something else for a moment, then it was gone, slithering away before Vanyel could read it. That was frustrating in the extreme, but he certainly didn't want to set Tashir off again. So he slowly let his control over the youngster fade, little by little, until it was gone. Tashir slumped against the wall in total exhaustion, closing his eyes.

“Here, lad,” Jervis stepped forward and took him by the elbow; the boy transferred his weight from the wall to Jervis; a sign Vanyel read with relief. “Come on, let's get you back to your room, hey? If what young Van here says is true, you're probably feeling like you've just gone through a round-robin tourney in weighted armor,”

Tashir nodded, and let Jervis lead him out, stumbling a little with fatigue.

With Tashir gone, the tension left the solar, and everyone in it reacted to the relief differently. Treesa and her ladies were twittering in their corner like a flock of flustered sparrows. Vanyel found a chair and sat in it before his knees gave out on him. Withen suddenly seemed to remember the sword in his hand, and sheathed it.

“Fine, we've got Tashir taken care of, now can any of you tell us what happened?” Vanyel asked wearily.

The women started, and stared at him - with fear. Even his mother. Everyone except Melenna.

Their fear hit him like a blow to the heart, making him feel sick. That fear - Gods. They never saw me work magic before. The stories were just-stories. Now I've conjured myself from Highjorune in a night, brought a wizardling with me - dispelled his magic with a look. Now I'm Vanyel Demonsbane. I'm not anyone they know anymore. I'm not anyone they could know. I'm someone with powers they don't understand, someone to fear.

He could deal with this now - or let the situation worsen. He chose for the Heralds; chose to withdraw himself, Vanyel, inside a kind of mental shell and let Herald-Mage Vanyel come to the fore.

“Ladies, please,” the Herald-Mage said, gently, and with a winning smile, exerting all the charm he had. “This is important to all of you if I'm to understand what set the lad off. The idea is to keep him from doing it again, after all.”

One or two tittered nervously, the rest looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. Then after a moment during which his smile remained steady, they relaxed a little.

His heart sank when Melenna worked her way to the front of the group. He wasn't hoping for much coherency out of her.

But she was surprisingly calm. “Lady Treesa found the young man with Medren,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. “She's been terribly curious about him - well, we all were, really - so she ordered him to come with her to the solar and present himself properly right then. He didn't want to - well, that's what Medren said - but she ordered him, so he followed her. He was very polite, but even I could see that he was very unhappy, and the more Treesa asked about his family - because he told us who he was right off - the unhappier he got. As soon as Treesa noticed it, that was when she did - like she does with you, milord Van. You know, she gets sort-of flirty, but at the same time she starts getting very mothering. She got up and started to go to him, to put him at ease - and he sort of jumped back, and one of the couches jumped right between him and Treesa. It just - jumped, like a trained dog, or something. Lady Treesa nearly had heart failure, and she screamed, she was so surprised - that was when Tashir went absolutely white and everything in the room began flying around.”

She paused, then looked up, very shyly, with none of her usual coquettishness. “We were terribly frightened, milord Van. I mean, I know you and milady Savil are magicians, and I'm sure it all seems very tame to you, but-we've never seen magic like that. Furniture - just shouldn't do that. I'm going to feel funny sitting on a chair for the next week, wondering if it's going to take it into its head to fly.''

Vanyel almost felt himself liking her, for the first time in years. “I can't say I blame you; I keep forgetting most of you have never even seen me do - oh, this.'“

He made a tiny mage-light in the center of the palm of his outstretched hand. It was about all he had the energy for, and it impressed the ladies out of all proportion to its size. They ooh'd and ah'd, but they did not come any nearer.

“Milord Van,” Melenna said, recapturing his attention, “there's something you really need to know. Nothing hit anyone. Nothing even came close. Even when those horrid cherubs hit the wall and shattered, no one was cut, no one was hurt. And do you know, that almost made the whole thing scarier.''

Vanyel nodded; this incident only confirmed his feeling that the youngster couldn't have been guilty of that wholesale slaughter in Lineas. If he didn't remember what had happened, it could have been sheer terror that made his mind hide the memory.

But he found himself seeing the other possibilities.

That works both ways. He could have done it, just as Lores pointed out. And because he's basically a good lad, the sheer horror of what he did made his mind hide the memory so deeply there was no sign of it.

He shivered, in a preoccupied way, and drifted out of the bower, ignoring the following gazes of Treesa, her ladies, and Melenna.

He dressed and ate, all in a fog comprised of weariness and preoccupation. It was hours later when he finally faced the obvious-that he'd put a very vulnerable young man in the hands of someone who had abused him.

He wouldn't. Would he? Oh, gods.

He went looking for Jervis in a state of increasing alarm, and found him in the salle, working out against the pells. And by the time he found the armsmaster, he was ready to kill the man himself if Jervis had even thought of bullying the boy.

Bluff him. He doesn't know how worn out I am. If I go on the offensive right away, he won't have time to think.

Planting both feet firmly on the sanded wooden floor, he took an aggressive stance, arms crossed over his chest.

“Jervis,” he called, loudly enough to be heard over the racket of practice blade against pells.

The armsmaster pivoted and pulled off his helm. He must have been at the exercise for some time; sweat beaded his brow, and dripped oif the ends of his hair. “Aye?”

Vanyel did not move. “One word for you. I don't know what this game you've been playing with me means, and at this point I don't dare take any chances. I'm warning you now; harm Medren - harm Tashir - you'll be dealing with me. Not Herald Vanyel - plain Vanyel Ashkevron. And you know now I can take you; any time, any place; with magic, or without. And I won't hesitate to use any weapon I've got.”

Jervis flushed; looked dumbfounded. “Harm 'em? Me? What d'you take me for?”

“The man who broke my arm, Jervis. The man who's been trying to intimidate me on this very floor for the past week. The man that was too damned inflexible to suit the style to the boy - so he tried to break the boy.”

Jervis flung his helm down, going scarlet with anger. The helm dented the floor and rolled off. “Dammit, you fool! Don't you see that was what I was tryin' t'do? I was tryin' t'learn your damned style - and for Medren! Hell-fire! A fool could see that poor little sprout Medren was no more suited t' my way then puttin' armor on a palfrey!”

Vanyel felt as if someone had just dropped him into a vat of cold water. He blinked, relaxed his stance, and blinked again. Feeling poleaxed is getting to become a regular occurrence, he thought, trying to get his jaw hinged again. His knees were trembling so much with reaction that he wasn't certain they'd hold him.

Jervis saved him the trouble. He threw his gear over into his chest at the side of the practice area, stalked over to Vanyel's side, and took his elbow. “Look,” he said, gruffly, “I'm tired, and we've got a lot between us that needs talking about. Let's go get a damned drink and settle it.”

I shouldn't be drinking unwatered wine this tired, Vanyel thought, regarding the plain clay mug Jervis was filling with unease.

It seemed Jervis had already thought of that. “Here,” he said, taking a loaf of coarse bread, a round of cheese, and a knife out of the same cupboard that had held the mugs and wine bottle, and shoving them across the trestle table at Vanyel. “Eat something first, or you'll be sorry. Not a good idea t' be guzzling this stuff if you ain't used t' it, but there's some pain between us, boy, and I need the wine t' get it out, even if you don't.”

They were still in the armory, in a little back room that was part office, part repair - shop, and part infirmary. Vanyel was sitting on a cot with his back braced against the wall; Jervis was on the room's only chair, with the table between and a little to one side of them, a table he'd cleaned of bits of harness and an arm - brace and tools by the simple expedient of sweeping it all into a box and shoving the box under the table with his foot.

The armsmaster followed his own advice by hacking off a chunk of bread and cheese and bolting it, before taking a long swallow of his wine. Vanyel did the same, a little more slowly. Jervis sat hunched over for a long moment, his elbows on his knees, contemplating the contents of the mug held between his callused hands.

“Do you begin,” Van asked awkwardly, “or should I?”

“Me. Your father -” Jervis began, and coughed. “You know I owe him, owe him for takin' me on permanent. Oh, he owed me some, a little matter of watchin' his back once, but not what I figured would put me here as armsmaster. So I figure that put me on the debit side of the ledger, eh? Well, that was all right for a while, though it weren't no easy thing, makin' fighters out of a bunch of plowboys an' second an' third sons what couldn't find the right end of a spear with both hands an' a map. Your granther-he reckoned it best t'hire what he needed. Your father-he figured best t' train his own, an' that was why he kept me. Gods. Plowboys, kids, it was a damn mess. No, it weren't easy. But I did it, I did it - an' then along comes you, first-born, an' Withen calls in the real debt.”

The former mercenary sighed, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He gave Vanyel a measuring look before taking another drink and continuing. “I 'spect by now it ain't gonna come as a surprise t' hear your old man figured you for - what're they sayin' now, shaych? - yeah, figured you for that from the time you came outa the nursery. Times were you looked more girl than boy - gah, that stuck in his craw for sure. Hangin' about with Liss, fightin' shy of th' foster-boys - then you took up with music, an' gods, he was sure of it. Figured he could cure you if he made sure you never knew there was such a thing, and he got somebody t' beat you into shape. That somebody was s'pposed t' be me.”

He stabbed a gnarled thumb toward his chest and snorted. “Me! Kernos' Horns! 'Make the boy a man,' he says. 'I don't care what you have to do, just make 'im a man!' An' every day, just about, askin' me how you was shapin' up. I been under pressure before, but damn, this was enough t' make an angel sweat. I owed that man, an' what the hell was I supposed t' do? Tell him I never saw no beatin's turn no kids from fey if that was how they was bent? Tell him there were no few of the meres his father'd hired was shieldmates, an' looked about as fey as me an' fought like hell's own demons?”

“You could have tried -”

Jervis snarled a little. “And lose my place? You think there's jobs for old meres 'round any corner? I was flat desperate, boy! What in hell was I supposed to do?”

Vanyel bit back his resentment. “I didn't know,” he said finally. “I didn't guess.”

Jervis grimaced. “You weren't supposed to, boy. Well, hell, my style suited you, you poor little scrap, 'bout as well as teats on a bull. 'Bout the same as Medren.”

“If you knew that-” Vanyel bit back his protest.

“Yeah, I knew it. I just couldn't face it. Then you went all stubborn on me, you damned well wouldn't even try, an' I didn't know what the hell t' do! I was 'bout ready t' bust out, you made me so damned mad, an' your old da on me every time I turned around - an' if that weren't enough, gods, I useta get nightmares 'bout you.”

“Nightmares?” Vanyel asked. He knew he sounded skeptical, mostly because he was.

“Yeah, nightmares,” Jervis said defensively. “Shit, you can't live on the damn Border without seein' fightin' sooner or later. An' you likely t' get shoved out there with no more sense of what t' do t' keep yourself alive than a butterfly. Look, smart boy - you was firstborn; you bet I figured you for bein' right in th' front line some day, an' I figured you for dead when that happened. An' I don't send childer outa my damned hands t' get killed, dammit!''

His face twisted and his shoulders shook for a moment, and he finished off the wine in his mug at a single gulp. Vanyel could sense more pain than he'd ever dreamed the old man could feel behind that carved-granite face. Somewhere, some time, Jervis had sent ill-prepared “childer” out of his hands to fight - and die - and the wounds were with him still. His own anger began to fade.

“Well, that's what you were headin' straight for, boy, an' I just plain didn't know how t' keep it from happening. You made me so damned mad, an' then your old man just gave me too much leash. Told me I had a free hand with you. An' I - lost it. I went an' took the whole mess out of your hide.”

He shook his head, staring at the floor, and his hands trembled a little where he was clutching the empty mug. “I lost my damned temper, boy. I'm not proud of that. I'm not proud of myself. Should have known better, but every time you whined, it just made me madder. An' I was wrong, dead wrong, in what I was trying t' force into you; I knew it, an' that made me mad too. Then you pulled that last little stunt - that was it. You ever thought about what you did?”

“I never stopped thinking about it,” Vanyel replied, after first swallowing nearly half the contents of his own mug. The wine could not numb the memories, recollections that were more acid on the back of his tongue than the cheap red wine.

He looked fiercely into Jervis's eyes. “I hated you,” he admitted angrily. “If I'd had a real knife in my hands that day, I think I'd have gone for your throat.” All the bitterness he'd felt, then and after, rose in his gullet, tasting of bile. He struggled against his closing throat to ask the question that had never been answered and had plagued him for more than a decade. “Why, Jervis, why?” he got past his clenched jaw. “If you knew what I was doing, why did you lie and tell Father I was cheating?”

Silence; Jervis stared at him with anger mixed with shame, but it was the shame that won out. “Because I couldn't admit I was wrong,” Jervis replied, subdued and flushing a dark red. “Because I couldn't admit it to myself or anybody else. Couldn't believe a kid had come up with the answer I couldn't find. So I told Withen you'd cheated. Half believed it myself; couldn't see how you'd've touched me, otherwise. But I - I've had a lot of time t' think about it. Years, since you left. An' you turnin' out the way you did, a Herald an' all - shit, anybody turned out like that wouldn't cheat. Came to me after a while I never caught you in a lie, neither. Came to me that the only lies bein' told were the ones I was tellin'. Then when I started t' tell myself the truth, began t' figure out how close I came t' breakin' more'n your arm.”

He hung his head, and he wouldn't look at Vanyel. And Vanyel found his anger and bitterness flowing away from him like water from melting ice.

“Boy, I was wrong, and I am sorry for it,” he said quietly. “I told Withen the truth a while back, when they sent you out on the Karsite Border; told him everything I just told you. He didn't know what they was sendin' you to, but I did. Damn, I - if anythin' had happened, an' I hadn't told him -”

He shuddered. “I told him more things, best I could. Told him that he's got a damned fine son, an' that there have been plenty of shieldmated fighters I'd'a been glad t' have at m'back, an' I'd “ye trusted with m' last coin and firstborn kid - an' just as many lads whose tastes ran t' wench-in' that I'd've just as soon set up against a tree an' shot. Told him if he let that stand between him an' you, he was a bigger fool than me. Did m' best for you, boy.

Gonna keep on with it, too. Figure if I tell him enough, he might start believin' me. An' Van - I'm damned sorry it took me so long t' figure out how wrong I was.”

There was profound silence then, while Vanyel waited for his thoughts and emotions to settle into coherency. Jervis was as silent as a man of rock, eyes fixed on the floor. The cricket in the salle broke off its singing, and Vanyel could hear the thud of hooves and sharp commands, faint and muffled, as Tarn took one of the young stallions around on the lunge just outside.

Finally, everything within him crystallized into a new pattern -

Vanyel took Jervis' mug from limp fingers and refilled it. But instead of giving it back, he offered the armsmaster his own outstretched hand.

The former mercenary looked up at him in surprise, one of the first times Vanyel had ever seen the man register surprise, and began to smile; tentatively at first, then with real feeling.

He took Vanyel's hand in both of his, and swallowed hard. “Thank you, boy,” he said hoarsely. “I wasn't sure you'd - you're a better man than - oh, hell -”

Vanyel shrugged, and handed him his refilled mug. “Let's call it truce. I was a brat. And if you hadn't done what you did, I wouldn't be a Herald.” And I wouldn't have had 'Lendel.

“Listen,” Jervis said, after first clearing his throat. “About Medren - that boy has no future here, a blind man could see that. What with all the right-born boys - an' I couldn't see that one bein' happy as anybody's dogsbody squire, you know? Figured the only chance for him was the way I came up; mere armsman. Lord Kernos knows he's got all the brains t' make officer right quick. So that's what I was tryin' to work him to.”

“There was music.”

“Yeah, his other shot was maybe music. I'd heard him, boy sounded all right, but what the hell do I know about music? Not a damn thing. But I figured, I figured I could make a damned fine armsman out of him, what with his reactions an' his brains an' speed an' all, if I could just figure out what they'd taught you over to Haven. Been

tryin' - damn if I haven't been tryin'. Could not seem t'get it worked out, an' - shit, Van, hate t' use th' boy like a set of pells, but it seemed like th' only way t' work it out was to work it out usin' him. But,” Jervis held up a knotted finger, “just on th' chance th' boy was good at the plunkin' I been damned careful of his hands. Damned careful.”

Vanyel's arm began to ache, and he put his mug down to rub it. “I never did get all the feeling back,” he said, still resentful, still feeling the last burn of the anger he'd nursed all these years. “If things hadn't turned out the way they did - even being careful you could have hurt him, and ruined his chance at music.”

Jervis visibly stifled an angry retort, but in the face of Vanyel's own anger, winced and looked away. “Can't undo what I did, boy,'' he said, after an uncomfortable silence. “Nobody can. But the least I can do is keep from makin' the same mistake twice. An' I was tryin'. I swear it.”

Vanyel sat on his anger.

Jervis gulped his wine. “Truth now, between you an' me. Were you any good? Did I -”

“No,” Vanyel said honestly. “I didn't have the Gift. And it's taken a while, but I learned how to make up for the lost feeling. You didn't take anything away from me, not really.”

Jervis' shoulders sagged a little. “How about the bastard? Medren, I mean.”

“I'm sponsoring him into the Bardic Collegium. He's better than I was at fifteen, and he's got the Bardic Gift.” Vanyel nodded at Jervis' swift intake of breath. “Exactly; he'll make a full Bard.”

The memory suddenly sprang up, unprompted, of Medren and his succession of bruises - just bruises. Nasty ones, some of them, but not broken bones, not even sprains. No worse than Vanyel had seen his brothers and cousins sport, back in the long ago. And Vanyel began to look a little closer at those memories, while Jervis stared at him askance. Finally he began to smile.

“It just occurred to me - Medren. With a full Gift. He has been manipulating me, the little demon, using that Gift of his. Doing it just fine, too, and with no Bardic

training. Given that, I'd say he's going to be outstanding, and I think I'd better have a little word with him on the subject of ethics!”

Jervis chuckled. “I don't think it's a - purpose; at least, I don't think he knows he shouldn't. He's another one that's good at bottom. An' let me tell you, even without havin' a decent style, he's no slouch with a blade!”

Vanyel cut them both more bread and cheese, and reached for the wine to refill both mugs. He leaned back against the wall, with a feeling that something that had been festering for a long time had begun to heal. He didn't like Jervis, quite. Not yet, anyway. But he was beginning to see why Jervis had done what he'd done, and beginning to respect the courage that made the armsmaster admit - if belatedly - that he was wrong.

“You know,” Vanyel said slowly, “he'll be taught blade right along with music; Bards end up finding themselves in some fairly unpleasant places from time to time. They’re in Valdemar's service no less than Heralds are, so being handy with a sword surely can't hurt. Hellfire, you should have seen Bard Chadran in his prime; he'd have been a match for both of us together!”

Jervis looked up with interest. “Chadran - that the one that was s'pposed t' have got picked up by bandits, got 'em t' trust 'im, then fought himself an' a handful of prisoners loose?”

“That's the one, only he went in on Elspeth's request.”

When he finished that story, Jervis managed to coax the Shadow Stalker tale out of him, after half the bottle was gone. Most people never heard the real story. It took half a bottle before he was ready to face those memories. Before that tale was over and the bottle was empty, Vanyel had decided he had an ally he could count on. He was certain of it after Jervis' final words when Vanyel got up to leave.

“Never understood Heralds before,” the armsmaster admitted. “Never could figure out what all the fuss and feathers was about. Didn't really have any notion of what you people did, until them stories about you started up. Never paid much attention t' who the hero was before, then I started noticin' that in the Valdemar songs most of the heroes turn out t' be Heralds. Somethin' else I started noticin' - most of the Heralds ended up comin' down with a serious case of dead in them stories. You come pretty close to it, a time or two, eh?”

Vanyel nodded ruefully, stretching sore muscles. “Stupidity, mostly.”

Jervis snorted. “My ass. Wasn't stupidity so much's puttin' yourself in harm's way. Right, so tell me this - a mere like me, he puts himself on the line for money. Knows what he bought himself into, knows what he'll get out of it if he lives. An' he only gives so much; what he was paid for, but not past it. But – you - you Heralds? What's in it for you? I mean, look at you right now - you've about wore yourself down to a thread, somethin' no mere would do. And you showed up here in th' same state. What for?”

Vanyel shook his head. “It's hard to tell you; it's a feeling, more than anything. Something like a priestly vocation, I would guess.” He looked inside himself for the answer, an answer he hadn't really looked for since he first realized what it was that had made Tylendel need to be a Herald. “I do it because I have to. Because I'm needed. There isn't anybody - I'm not boasting, Jervis, you can ask Savil - there isn't anybody else in the whole Kingdom that can do what I can do. I can't give up, I can't just shrug things off and tell myself somebody else will take up the slack, because there isn't anybody else. There are too many people out there who need my protection; because I'm this powerful, I have an obligation to use that power. I'm the lone Guard at the Gate - I daren't give up, because there's nobody behind me to take up what I lay down.”

Jervis' face went absolutely still. Vanyel wished he knew what the old man was thinking. “Nobody?” he asked.

Vanyel shook his hair out of his eyes. “Nobody,” he echoed, staring into space. “I have no choice; it's that, or know my inaction dooms others. Sometimes lots of others. Too many times, others I know and care for.”

Jervis's eyes grew deep and thoughtful, and Vanyel could feel them on his back as he left, headed for the bathhouse.

There was a light tap at Vanyel's door that woke him from the nap he was trying to take - in part to make up for the sleep he had been losing to Melenna. It hadn't been a very successful attempt. He was still too on edge; his mind was too active. He yawned, and then grinned, identifying Medren by a stray thought-wisp. So we've recovered from the measles, hmm? And about to have a little moment of truth with Uncle Vanyel. Or rather, though he doesn't know it, Herald Vanyel.

“Come,” he said, sitting up and stretching, then swinging his legs off the bed.

“Vanyel?” Medren plodded into the room and sagged down into the window seat. “Can I hide up here? I just found out from young Meke that old Jervis is gonna have some 'special demonstration' this afternoon, and you know what that means.” The boy shuddered. “Good old Medren for pells.”

“Actually, no, not this time,” Vanyel grinned. “It means 'good old Radevel for pells.' I've been teaching Rad my style, and the pells plan on giving Jervis as good as he gets. Then you and Radevel will have at each other while I coach so Jervis can watch. He says he wants to know my style 'because sooner or later he's going to get another puny 'un.' And some time this week, my young friend, you will have another sparring partner; once I recover, you and I are going to pair off. And I'll run you around the field for a while. And meanwhile we'll find out what Tashir is good for.”

The boy's mouth dropped open, and Vanyel continued mercilessly.

“This is for your benefit. Bardic Collegium includes bladework for Bards right along with the music lessons, and I wanted you to have as much of a head start as possible. A Bard's duty has been known to carry him into some dangerous places, and the Bardic Circle can't spare Guards to tag along behind you to keep you out of trouble.”

The boy's mouth worked, but for a long moment, no sound emerged.

“Oh -” he said weakly. “I – ah -”

“Medren, I have a very serious question to ask you.” Vanyel let the smile drop from his mouth and eyes, and moved to stand over the boy. “When you were fishing for my sympathy, what else were you doing? And don't tell me that you weren't doing anything. We both know better than that.”

“I...” the boy gulped, and dropped his eyes. “I was trying to make you feel sorry for me. That's why I was kind of ... playing while I was talking to you; singing but not singing, you know? Putting music behind what I was doing. I ... it feels sort of like when I really get taken up by a song. Like I'm pushing something. Only with the inside of my head.”

“Did you ever think about whether that was a good idea?” Vanyel asked, with no inflection in his voice.

“No. Not really.” A long pause, then Medren hung his head. “It isn't, is it?” he asked, in a very small, and very subdued voice. “I was doing something I shouldn't have. I ... I guess it's something like being a bully because you're bigger than somebody, isn't it?”

Vanyel nodded, relief relaxing his shoulders. Good. He knows, now. He saw it for himself. He'll be all right. But he spoke sternly. “It is. And if you do it at Bardic, they'll have the Heralds block your Gift, and they'll turn you out. That is your Gift; this ability to make people feel what you want them to feel through music. And there are only three times it's permissible for you to use that Gift: when you're performing, when you're helping someone who needs help, and at the King's orders.”

“Yessir,” Medren whispered, head sunk between his shoulders, where he'd pulled it when Vanyel spoke of having his Gift blocked and being turned out of the Collegium. “Nossir. I'll remember.”

“You'd better. On this, you get one chance. Now, come on, lad,” Vanyel said with a renewal of cheerfulness, urging Medren up out of his chair and propelling him out the door with a hand behind his shoulders. “Time for you to show those plowhorse cousins of yours how a real fighter does things.”

Nine

They returned to his room after practice; Vanyel had thought to give Medren another music lesson, but even though he hadn't done any fighting, he realized as he directed Medren's movements that he was drained - and that was long before the practice was over.

Medren was no fool; he could see how exhausted Vanyel was. He suggested that the lesson be put off; he even offered to have servants bring Vanyel's dinner to his room.

Vanyel accepted both offers; he bolted the food as soon as the servant brought it, and threw himself facedown on his bed again with a groan. The bed had somehow been made up in his absence, despite all the hurly-burly in Treesa's bower. Baby Heralds wrecking rooms, adult Heralds making magic Gates and then falling through them half-dead, a possible war on the Border, and still somehow the beds get made. What a world.

He tried to think of what he would have done if Tashir hadn't run berserk, and realized he hadn't yet spoken with Yfandes. She probably knew what was going on, of course; since the moment he had first accepted the notion of becoming a Herald she had made a habit - which he encouraged - of eavesdropping on just about everything as a kind of silent observer in the back of his mind. He didn't in the least mind her using his eyes and ears; it saved a lot of explaining, and if there was something he didn't want her “present” for, he'd tell her. But it was very rude of him not to have said something, at least in greeting, before this. He rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.

:'Fandes?: he called, tentatively. :I'm sorry - I got tangled - and then I fell on my nose for a while - and then I had a visit to make - and then I had a visitor myself.:

She chuckled. :So I saw. You’re forgiven.:

:Have you got anything for me? I'm sorry I made you run all the way home instead of taking the shortcut.:

:You're forgiven. And oddly enough,: she replied promptly, :I have got something for you. Brightest gods, let me tell you, it hasn't been the easiest information to obtain. And I am not sorry I was apart from you for a bit; I am very glad you were far away by the time you completed the Gate. I felt your pain quite enough as it was.: The love in her mind - voice softened her words. :The Young One - I have taken to calling him “Ghost,” for he has been haunting this place like the veriest spirit, never coming near enough to touch and only rarely to be seen, and frightening the farmers no end. He is quite closely locked into his Chosen's mind. I can speak with him, but only distantly; most of his attention and his concentration are with Tashir. But I can Mindtouch with him as you cannot his Chosen; Mindtouch does not frighten him. And so, because of the close bond between him and the youngling, I can sometimes pick up things as if I was in Mindtouch with Tashir.: Overtones of deep uneasiness. :The youngling is something less than steady; his mind is fragile and unbalanced. There are terrible things which haunt him, and which he fears to tell, and which he even blocks from his thoughts. Still. Ghost may yet balance him, if he can regain balance; the stallion is something of a MindHealer. :

Vanyel sat bolt upright. :A MindHealer? A Companion? But -:

:It happens from time to time,: she interrupted, the overtones of her mind-voice telling him clearly that she was very reluctant to speak of it. :It happens when it is needed... Listen, I was in Mindtouch when the boy was making such a ruin of Treesa's bower, and I remained in touch. I saw what you only glimpsed. Here.:

It was a feeling she Sent, as well as an image. A feeling of profound trust, and the image of an older man, much like Jervis, in practice armor.

:Looks like Jervis may be our key,: Vanyel mused, lying back down again, and putting his hands behind his head. :Could that man have been Deveran's armsmaster?:

:I cannot tell you; that is all I could obtain,: she replied. :Tashir is much too traumatized for any questioning, I would say. He -: she slipped out of the link for a moment, then slipped back in again. :- he is better, steadier, and Jervis is with him again. They are taking supper in the Great Hall, though with the servants, not the family. But I would not disturb him.:

He winced at the thought. :Even if I wanted to, I'm not up to dealing with him, beloved,: he confessed, feeling every joint in his body ache. :I'm not entirely certain I could contain him again. I am about down to my last dregs. This is getting to be a habit I'd rather not have.:

:Then rest. This won't be solved in a day.:

He grimaced silently. :I know. I told Savil that I have more questions than answers. Like - why are Highjorune and that palace built where they are? I can't believe that it's accident. Why are the people of Lineas so against magic - and yet have no laws forbidding its use? Where did Deveran want to send Tashir, and why did the prospect frighten him enough to defy his father in public? And why is the boy so afraid of women that a bowerful could send him skirting the edges of hysteria?: He made a mental shrug. :I know some of those questions seem trivial, yet it all ties together, somehow, but how  -:

:Rest,: Yfandes repeated. Then, mischievously, :There is at least one thing you will not need to beware of.:

:Which is?:

:Visitors in your bed. I do believe you have frightened Melenna enough that she is thinking about things you might choose to do with her. :

:Such as?:

:Flying her out the window in the nude.:

He laughed aloud, and decided to stay in his room. Right now what he wanted was some quiet and solitude...

Three days of unconsciousness seems to make for insomnia, he thought, after trying to fall asleep for what seemed like half the night. He gave up, finally, and moved to the window seat. He lit the candle beside it the ordinary way - from the coals in the fireplace - and found a book. It was a volume of history he would have found perfectly fascinating under normal circumstances, but he found himself rereading pages two and three times and still not getting the sense of them.

He abandoned it in favor of the new gittern, letting his fingers wander across the strings as he tried to relax. It was earlier than he'd thought. This evening was very much like the one three nights ago; cool and crisp, with a light breeze. The moon was waning now into her last quarter, so there was less light, but the same kind of clouds raced across her face.

Gods, how life can change in one night.

This afternoon had been hard. Hard on emotions. Dealing with Jervis - purging that old hate. And before that, Tashir. Seeing Tashir in daylight, looking so much like Tylendel, only a younger, more vulnerable Tylendel, had reawakened all the old hurt and loss. He was trying to deal with the young man as himself, but it was not easy, not with his insides in knots every time Tashir turned those eloquent eyes on him... all he wanted to do was take the young man in his arms and... never mind.

And is that because he looks like 'Lendel? Or is it because of me? He picked out the refrain of “Shadow-Lover,” as he tried to sort himself out. I don't know what I am anymore. Shavri and Randi, they’re more to me than friends. And Shavri more than Randi. A lot more. I don't know what that means. I just don't. Now Tashir - hellfire. But the reason - is it because he's attractive, or because he reminds me of 'Lendel? He tried to think if he'd ever been the least bit attracted to any other women but Shavri, and couldn't think of any. But how much of that is because they kept throwing themselves at me ? Gods, I hate being pursued. I especially hate being pursued in public. And the idea of going to bed with somebody I don't care for - His stomach knotted. Gods, gods, where does friendship end and love start? How much of my being shaych was being shaych, and how much was just because of 'Lendel?

His unhappy thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door, and he started. He'd already dealt with Medren. Melenna was not likely to show up, according to Yfandes. He wasn't expecting anyone; not even Savil.

He turned away from the window with the gittern cradled against his chest, and racked the instrument carefully. He walked soundlessly across the room and answered the door just as the would-be visitor made a second, more tentative knock.

It was Tashir; pale as bleached linen, with the eyes of a lost soul. As Vanyel stood there stupidly, the young man slipped inside and closed the door behind him, putting his back to it, and facing Vanyel with a fear-filled and haunted expression, a strange expression Vanyel could not interpret.

And in the dim light the young man looked even more like Tylendel. Vanyel's heart seemed to be squeezed up into an area just below his throat, and his chest hurt. “I heard you playing,” the youngster said, hoarsely. “I wouldn't have troubled you if you hadn't been awake. Can I - bother you?”

“Please, sit,” Vanyel managed, finding it very hard to get his breath. “Certainly, you're welcome here, and it isn't 'bothering me.' How can I help you?”

The young man walked hesitantly toward the table, and paused, with his hands on the back of one of the chairs. He looked back over his shoulder at Vanyel. His face - thank the gods! - was in shadow. Vanyel succeeded in getting two full breaths in a row.

“Jervis says you're ... shaych,” Tashir whispered. “Are you?”

Vanyel moved over to the other chair and motioned him to sit; he did so, but on the very edge of the chair. Vanyel had a flash of image, a young stag at the edge of a bright meadow in the midst of hunting season. Which was also mating season. Wanting, needing, looking for something, not knowing what he needed, and full of fear and less definable emotions. “It's no secret,” Vanyel replied cautiously, unable to predict what was coming. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Would you be my lover?” Tashir blurted desperately.

Vanyel found he needed to sit down. He did, just before his legs refused to hold him. He stared at Tashir, quite unable to speak for a moment.

Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me, lad? No, you can't. Poor boy. Poor, confused child -

He gathered his emotions and put a tight rein on them. The youngster did not have the feel of shay'a'chern, not in any way. This was the last question Vanyel would ever have expected from him. And his initial reaction was to tell him “no.”

And yet - and yet - he looked so like Tylendel. And I've enough experience I could be certain he'd enjoy it - was the unbidden thought. I could convince him he was. It would be so easy. And I'm so lonely. Oh, gods. Oh, gods. The temptation -

Instead of answering, he stood slowly and moved to stand before the boy, gently reaching out and placing the fingers of his right hand just beneath the line of Tashir's jaw. Ostensibly, this was to make the youngster look up into his eyes-but Vanyel wanted to know something of what was going on in the young man's mind, and if he could not Mindtouch, well, physical contact made his Empathy much sharper. As the dark eyes met his silver, he could feel the youngster's pulse racing beneath the tip of his middle finger. And the feel he received was of fear and unhappiness, not attraction. Not in the slightest. That was both relief and disappointment.

“Why?” Vanyel asked, much more calmly than he felt, striving with all his might for impartiality. “Why do you want me as a lover?”

Tashir flushed, and his fear deepened. And there was something new: shame. “It - this afternoon -” he stammered. “Lady Treesa - I was so – I - I – she - Vanyel, she -” his voice dropped to a humiliated whisper. “She scares me, ladies scare me - I - ”

“Oh.” Vanyel made the one word speak volumes, not of contempt, but understanding and compassion. ''Now I think I see what the problem is; and why you're here.

My mother frightened you, and women in general frighten you, so you think you must be shay'a'chern, right?”

Tashir nodded a little, and paled again.

Vanyel sternly told his insides to leave him alone. They didn't listen. They ached. He ignored them, grateful that training had made it possible for him to control his voice and his face, if not his emotions. “Well, let's really analyze this before we go making assumptions, shall we? Do you know my aunt, Herald Savil? Have you met her formally yet?”

“The o - the lady who was with you?” Now Vanyel picked up only respect, mixed with the good-natured contempt of the young for the old.

“Does she frighten you?” He half-smiled, stiffly. “She should, you know, she's a terrible tyrant!”

Tashir shook his head.

“How about Kylla? She's the baby who's always getting out of the nursery, usually without a stitch on. I expect she's done it at least once while I was sleeping. Does she bother you?”

Bewilderment. “She's kind of cute. Why should I be afraid of her?”

Vanyel worked his way up and down the age scale of all the women at Forst Reach that he thought the youngster might have seen. Only when he neared women between twenty and Treesa's age did he get any negative responses, and when he mentioned a particularly pretty fourteen-year-old niece, there was definite interest - and real attraction.

From time to time Vanyel dropped in questions about his feelings toward men; not just himself, but Jervis, Medren, some of the servants the youngster had encountered. And at no time, even as he began to relax, did Tashir evidence any attraction to men in general or Vanyel in particular - except, perhaps as a protector. Certainly not as a potential lover. Whenever that topic came up, the fear came back.

Finally Vanyel sighed, and took his hand away. It ached, ached as badly as the injured left did when it rained. He rubbed it, wishing he could massage away the ache in his own heart. “Tashir - let me say that I'm very flattered, but - no. I will not oblige you. Because you've come to me for all the wrong reasons. You aren't here because you know you're shay'a'chern; you aren't even here because you're attracted to me. You're here because women of a certain age frighten you. That's not enough to base a relationship on, not the kind you're asking me for. You don't know what you want; you only know what you don't want. ''

“But -” the youngster said, his eyes all pupil, “but you - when you were younger than me - Jervis said - “

Vanyel had to look away; he couldn't bear that gaze any more. “When I was younger than you I knew what I was, and I knew what I wanted, and who I wanted it with. You're looking for - for someone to like you, for someone to be close to. You're just grasping at something that looks like a solution, and you're hoping I'll make up your mind for you. And I could do that, you know. Even without using magic, I could probably convince you that you were shay'a'chern, at least for a little while. I could ... do things, say things to you, that would make you very infatuated with me.” He paused, and forced a breath into his tight chest, looking back down at Tashir 's bewildered eyes. “But that wouldn't solve your problems, it would only let you postpone finding a solution for a while. And I truly don't think that would help you in the least. Any answers you find, Tashir, are going to have to be answers you decide on for yourself. Here - “ He offered the youngster his hand. Tashir looked at it in surprise, then tentatively put his own hand in Vanyel's.

He looked even more surprised when Vanyel hauled him to his feet, put his palm between his shoulderblades, and shoved him gently toward and out the door. “Go to bed, Tashir,” Vanyel said, trying to make his tones as kindly as he could. “You go have another chat with Jervis. Go riding with Nerya. Try making some friends around the Reach. We'll talk about this later.”

And he shut the door on him, softly, but firmly.

He began to shake, then, and clung to the doorframe to keep himself standing erect. He leaned his forehead against the doorpanel for a long time before he stopped

trembling. When he thought he could walk without stumbling, he turned and went back to his chair, and sat down in it heavily.

He hurt. Oh, gods, he hurt. He felt so empty - and twice as alone as before. He stared at the candleflame while it burned down at least half an inch, trying to thaw the adamantine lump of frozen misery in his stomach, and having a resounding lack of success.

:You did the right thing, Chosen.: The bright voice in his mind was shaded with sympathy and approval both.

:I know I did,: he replied, around the ache. :What else could I do? Just - tell me, beloved - why can't I feel happy about it? Why does doing the right thing have to hurt so damned much?:

She had no answer for him, but then, he hadn't really expected one.

If I were just a little less ethical - and how much of that is because he looks like 'Lendel? Gods. It isn't just my heart that hurts. And I'm so damned lonely.

Eventually he slept.

It took a week before he felt anything like normal. Challenging Jervis when he had been straight out of his bed had been pure bluff. He wouldn't have been able to stand against the armsmaster for more than a few breaths at most. He wondered if Jervis had guessed that.

Arms practice was interesting. He and Jervis circled around each other, equally careful with words and blows. There was so much between them that was only half-healed, at best, that it was taking all his skill at diplomacy to keep the wounds from reopening. And no little of that was because it sometimes seemed that Jervis might be regretting his little confession.

But they were civil to each other, and working with each other, which was a damn sight more comfortable than being at war with each other.

“That boy's got more'n a few problems, Van,” Jervis said, leaning on his sword, and watching Tashir work out with Medren. The young man was being painstakingly careful with the younger boy, and he was wearing the first untroubled expression Vanyel had seen on his face.

And for once, there was no fear in him. For once, he was just another young man; a little more considerate of the smaller, younger boy than most, but still just another young man.

“I know,” Vanyel replied, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. “And I know you aren't talking about fighting style.” He chewed his lip a little, and decided to ask the one question that would decide whether or not he was going to be able to carry out the plan he'd made in the sleepless hours of the last several nights. “Tell me, do you feel up to handling him by yourself for a bit? You'll have Savil in case he does anything magical again, though I don't think he will, but I don't think he'll open up to Savil the way he will to you.”

Jervis gave him a long look out of the corner of his eye. “And just where are you going to be?”

Vanyel looked straight ahead, but spoke in a low voice that was just loud enough for Jervis to hear him. The fewer who knew about this, the better. “Across the Border. All the answers to our questions are over there, including the biggest question of all - if Tashir didn't rip a castle full of people to palm-sized pieces, who did? And why?”

And away from him, maybe I can get my thinking straight.

Jervis considered his words, as the clack and thwack of wooden practice blades echoed up and down the salle. “How long do you think you'll be out over there? You're not going as yourself, I hope?”

“No.” He smiled wanly. A Herald was not going to be a popular person in Highjorune right now. “I've got a disguise that's been very useful in the past; Herald Vanyel is still going to be resting in the bosom of his family. The gentleman who's going to cross the Border is a rather scruffy minstrel named Valdir. Nobody notices a minstrel asking questions; they're supposed to. And since the only person who saw my face clearly is now on his way to Haven with a rock in his craw, I should be safe. I expect to take a fortnight at most.”

“Get that guard up, Medren! Huh. Sounds good to me. Gods know we aren't getting any answers out of the boy at the moment. What's Savil say?”

Vanyel winced as Medren got in a particularly good score on Tashir. “That she never could stand clandestine work, so she's not about to venture an opinion. Father's not to know. Savil is going to tell him I'm visiting with Liss. Yfandes is in favor, since she's going to be with me most of the time, and within reach when she's not actually with me.”

Jervis' shoulders relaxed a trifle. “That had me worried, a bit. But if you're taking the White Lady, I got no objections. If she can't get you out of a mess, nobody can. I got a lot of respect for that pretty little thing.”

:Tell him thank you, Chosen.:

Vanyel grinned. Jervis, unlike Withen, had no problem remembering that Yfandes was not a horse. He'd always offered her respect; since he and Vanyel had made their uneasy peace, he'd offered her the same kind of treatment she'd have gotten from another Herald. Yfandes was a person to Jervis; a little oddly shaped, but a person. Jervis actually got along with her better than he did with Vanyel. “She says to tell you, 'thank you.' I think she likes you.”

“She's a lovely lady, and I like her right back.” Jervis grinned at him. “There's been a couple of times I've wished I could talk to her straight out; I kind of wanted her to know I'm real pleased that she's on my side these days. Tashir! The boy won't break! Put some back in that swing! He's supposed to learn how to get out of the way, dammit!” Jervis stalked onto the floor of the salle, and Vanyel took the opportunity to get back to his room and pack up.

There was one other person who needed to know where Vanyel was going to be: Medren. This was in part because Vanyel needed to borrow his old lute. Disreputable minstrel Valdir could never afford Herald Vanyel's lute or the twelve - stringed gittern. And going in clandestine like this, Vanyel knew he'd better have no discrepancies in his persona. Vanyel had a battered old instrument he'd picked up in a pawn shop that he carried as Valdir, but he'd left it at Haven, not thinking he'd need it.

But there was a further reason; Tashir was relaxed and open with the boy in a way he was not with either Jervis or Vanyel. Vanyel had come to the conclusion that his nephew was older than his years in a great many ways, and Vanyel had confidence in his inherent good sense.

And, last of all, the boy had the Bardic Gift. That could be very useful in dealing with an unbalanced youngster that no one dared to Mindtouch.

In a kind of bizarre coincidence, they'd given Medren Vanyel's old room, up and under the eaves and across from the library. Vanyel stared out the window, and wondered if he was still up to the climb across the face of the keep to get to that little casement that let into the library.

“How long do you reckon you'll be over there?” Medren asked, sitting on his bed and detuning his old instrument carefully.

“Not long; about a fortnight altogether. Anything I can't find out in that time is going to be too deep to learn as a vagabond minstrel, anyway.” Vanyel turned away from the window.

“You aren't planning on going into that palace, are you?”

“No. Why?”

Medren shook his head. “I dunno. I just got a bad feeling about it. Like, you shouldn't go in there alone. As long as I think of you going in with somebody, the bad feeling goes away. That sound dumb?”

“No, that sounds eminently sensible.” Vanyel sat down beside him on the bed. Medren picked up the patched and worn canvas lute case and slid the instrument into it. “I want you to keep an eye on Tashir for me; a Bardic eye, if you will.”

The boy contemplated that statement for a moment, whistling between his teeth a little. “You mean keep him calmed down? He's as jumpy as a deer hearing dogs. I been trying to do a little of that. I - ” He blushed. “I remembered what you told me, about misusing the Gift. I thought this might be what you meant about using it right. He likes music well enough, so I just - sort of make it soothing.”

Vanyel ruffled his hair approvingly, and Medren gave him an urchinlike grin. “Good lad, that is exactly what I meant about using it properly. When you aren't enhancing a performance, proper use is to the benefit of your audience, or to the King's orders. And poor Tashir could certainly benefit by a little soothing. So keep him soothed, hmm? There's one other thing, and this is a bit more delicate. He may tell you things, things about himself. I hesitate to ask you to betray confidences, but we just don't know anything about him.”

Medren thought that over. “Seems to me that the awfuller the thing he'd tell me, and the less he'd want it known, the more you'd want to know it.” He chewed his lip. “That's a hard one. That's awful close to telling secrets I've been asked to keep. And if I've been making him feel like he could trust me, it doesn't seem fair.”

“I know. But I remind you that he's been accused of murdering fifty or sixty people. What he tells you might be a clue to whether or not he actually did it.” Vanyel forestalled Medren's protests with an uplifted hand. “I know what you're going to say, and if he did it, I don't believe he did it on purpose. But if - say - you found out where it was that his father wanted to send him, and why it frightened him so, we could have mitigating circumstances. I doubt the Lineans would totally accept it, but we would, and he could make a very pleasant home here with the Valdemar Heralds, even if he could never return to Lineas. That's not exactly a handicap.”

Medren nodded so vigorously that his forelock fell into his eyes. “Makes sense. Fine, then if he tells me stuff, I'll tell it to you.”

The boy stuffed a handful of the little coils of spare lute strings into a pocket on the back of the case and handed the whole to Vanyel. Vanyel stood, and pulled the carry strap over his shoulder. “Do I look the proper scruffy minstrel?” he asked, grinning.

Medren snorted. “You're never going to look scruffy, Van. You do look underfed, which is good. And if you didn't shave for a couple of days, that would be better.

Then, again - ” He contemplated Vanyel with his head tilted to one side. “If you didn't shave you'd look like a bandit, and people don't tell things to bandits. Better just stick to looking clean, starving, and pathetic. That way women'll feed you and tell you everything while they're feeding you. Hey, don't worry about that lute - if you gotta leave it, leave it. If you feel bad about leaving it, replace it.”

Vanyel placed his right hand over his heart and bowed slightly. “I defer to your judgment. Clean and starving it is, and if speed requires I leave the instrument, I shall. And I shall replace it. It's a good thing to have one old instrument that you needn't worry about, you never know when you'll want to take one - oh, on a picnic or something. Thank you, Medren. For everything.” He glanced out the window. “I want to get to Highjorune by nightfall, so we'd better get on it. Remember, I'm supposed to be on a side trip to see Liss. I sent her a message by one of Savil's birds, so Liss knows to cover for me.”

Medren nodded. “Right. And I'll keep a tight eye on Tashir for you, best I can.”

“That's all I can ask of anyone.”

Sunset was a thing of subdued colors, muted under a pall of gray clouds. Vanyel slipped off Yfandes' back, and uncinched the strap holding the folded blanket he'd used as a makeshift riding pad. Bareback for most of a day would not have been comfortable for either of them, but he had no place to hide her harness. No problem; they'd solved this little quandary the first time he became minstrel Valdir. She wore no halter at all, and only the blanket that he would use if he had to sleep in stables or on the floor of some inn. Nothing to hide, and nothing to explain. Yfandes would keep herself fed by filching from farms and free-grazing. If she got too hungry, he'd buy or steal some grain and toss it out over the wall to her at night.

:Be careful,: she said, nuzzling his cheek. :I love you. I'll be staying with you as much as I can, but this is awfully settled land. I may have to pull off quite a ways to keep from getting caught.:

:I have all that current-energy to pull on if I have to call you,: he reminded her. :It's not the node, but it wouldn't surprise me to find out I could boost most of the way back to Forst Reach with it. I'm planning on recharging while I'm here, anyway.:

:If Vedric is still here, that could be dangerous.:

:Only if he detects it.: He cupped his hand under her chin and gazed into those bottomless blue eyes. :I'll be careful, I promise. This isn't Karse, but I'm going to behave as if it was. Enemy territory, and full drill.:

:Then I'm satisfied.: She tossed her head, flicking her forelock out of her eyes. :Call me if you need me.:

:I will.: He watched her fade into the underbrush of the woodlot beside him with a feeling of wonderment. How something that big and that white could just-vanish like that - it never ceased to amaze him.

He rolled the cinch-belt, folded the blanket, and stuffed both into the straps of his pack. With a sigh for his poor feet, he hitched the lute strap a little higher on his shoulder, and headed toward the city gates of Highjorune.

The road was dusty, and before he reached the gates he looked as if he'd been afoot all day. He joined the slow, shuffling line of travelers and workers returning from the farms, warehouses, and some of the dirtier manufactories that lay outside the city walls. Farmworkers, mostly; most folk owning farms within easy walking distance of Highjorune lived within the city walls, as did their hirelings, a cautious holdover from the days when Mavelan attacks out of Baires penetrated as far as the throne city. The eyes of the guard at the gate flickered over him; noted the lute, the threadbare, starveling aspect, and the lack of weaponry, and dismissed him, all in a breath. Minstrel Valdir was not worth noting, which made minstrel Valdir very happy indeed.

Well, the first thing a hungry minstrel looks for is work, and Valdir was no exception to that rule. He found himself a sheltered corner out of the traffic, and began to assess his surroundings.

The good corners were all taken, by a couple of beggars, a juggler, and a man with a dancing dog. He shook his head, as if to himself. Nothing for him here, so close to the gates. He was going to need a native guide.

He loitered about the gate, waiting patiently for the guard to change. He put his hat out, got the lute in tune, and played a little, but he really didn't expect much patronage in this out-of-the-way nook. He actually drew a few loiterers, much to his own amazement. To his further amazement, some loiterers had money. By the time the relief-guard arrived with torches to install in the holders on either side of the gate, he'd actually collected enough coppers for a meager supper.

He had something more than a turnip and stale bread-crust on his mind, however. It was getting chilly; his nose was cold, and his patched cloak was doing very little to keep out the bite in the air. He chose one of the guards to follow, a man who looked as if he ate and drank well, and had money in his pocket; he slung the lute back over his shoulder, and sauntered along after him at a discreet distance.

It was possible, of course, that the man was married -  but he was unranked, and young, and that made it unlikely. There was an old saying to the effect that, while higher-ranked officers had to be married, anyone beneath the rank of sergeant was asking for trouble if he chose matrimonial bonds. “Privates can't marry, sergeants may marry, captains must marry.” Valdir had noticed that, no matter the place or the structure of the armed force, that old saying tended to hold true.

So, that being the case, an unranked man was likely to find himself a nice little inn or taphouse to haunt. And establishments of the sort he would frequent would tend to cater to his kind. They would have other entertainments as well - and they were frequently run by women. Valdir had traded off his looks to get himself a corner in more than one such establishment.

The man he was following turned a corner ahead of him, and when Valdir turned the same corner, he knew he'd come to the right street. Every third building seemed to be an alehouse of one sort or another; it was brightly lit, and women of problematical age and negotiable virtue had set up shop - as it were - beneath each and every one of the brightly burning torches and lanterns. Valdir grinned, and proceeded to see what he could do about giving those coppers in his purse some company.

The first inn he stuck his nose into was not what he was looking for. It was all too clearly a place that catered to appetites other than hunger and thirst. The second was perfect - but it had a musician of its own, an older man who glared at him over the neck of his gittern in such a way as left no doubt in Valdir' mind that he intended to keep his cozy little berth. The third had dancers, and plainly had no need of him, not given the abandon with which the young ladies were shedding the scarves that were their principle items of clothing. The fourth and fifth were run by men; Valdir approached them anyway, but the owner of the fourth was a minstrel himself, and the owner of the fifth preferred his customers with cash to spare to spend it in the dice and card games in the back room. The sixth was - regrettable. The smell drove him out faster than he'd gone in. But the seventh - the seventh had possibilities.

The Inn of the Green Man it was called; it was shabby, but relatively clean. The common stew in a pot over the fire smelled edible and as if it had more than a passing acquaintance with meat, though it was probably best not to ask what species. It was populated, but not overcrowded, and brightly lit with tallow dips and oil lamps, which would discourage pickpockets and cutpurses. The serving wenches - whose other properties were also, evidently, for sale - were also relatively clean. They weren't fabulous beauties, and most of them weren't in the first bloom of youth, but they were clean.

There was a good crowd, though the place wasn't exactly full. And Valdir spotted his guide here as well, which was a good omen.

Valdir stuck a little more than his nose in the door, and managed to get the attention of one of the serving wenches. “Might I have a word with the owner?” he asked, diffidently.

“Kitchen,” said the hard-faced girl, and gave him a second look. He contrived to appear starving and helpless, and she softened, just a little. “Back door,” she ordered. “Best warn you, Bel don't much like your kind. Last songbird we had, run off with her best girl.”

“Thank you, lady,” Valdir said humbly. She snorted, and went back to table-tending.

Valdir had to make his way halfway down the block before he could find an accessway to the alley. He caught a couple of young toughs eyeing him with speculation, but his threadbare state evidently convinced them that he didn't have much to steal -

That, and the insidious little voice in their heads that said Not worth bothering with. He doesn't have anything worth the scuffle.

The alley reeked, and not just of garbage, and he was just as glad that he hadn't eaten since morning. He risked a mage-light, so that he could avoid stepping in anything - and when it became evident that there were places he couldn't do that, he risked a little more magic to give him a clean spot or two to use as stepping stones.

Kind of funny, he thought, stretching carefully over a puddle of stale urine. It was because I couldn't face situations like this that I never ran away to become a minstrel. And now, here I am - enacting one of my own nightmares. Funny.

He finally found the back door of The Green Man and pushed it open. The kitchen, also, was relatively clean, but he didn't get to see much of it, because a giantess blocked his view almost immediately.

If she was less than six feet tall, Valdir would have been surprised. The sleeves of her sweat-stained linen shirt were rolled up almost to the shoulder, leaving bare arms of corded muscle Jervis would have envied. She wore breeches rather than skirts, which may have been a practical consideration, since enough materials to make her a skirt would have made a considerable dent in a lean clothing budget. Her graying brown hair was cut shorter than Valdir's. And no one would ever notice her face - not when confronted with the scar that ran from left temple to right jawbone.

“An' what d'you want?” she asked, her voice a dangerous-sounding growl.

“The - the usual,” faltered Valdir. “A place, milady ... a place for a poor songster. ...”

“A place. Food and drink and a place to sleep in return for some share of whatever paltry coppers ye manage to garner,” the woman rumbled disgustedly. “Aye, and a chance t' run off with one o' me girls when me back's turned. Not likely, boy. And ye'd better find yerself somewhere else t' caterwaul; there ain't an inn on th' Row that needs a rhymester.”

Valdir made his eyes large and sad, and plucked at the woman's sleeve as she turned away. “My lady, please - ” he begged shamelessly. “I'm new-come, with scarce enough coppers to buy a crust. I pledge you, lady, I would treat your other ladies as sisters.”

She rounded on him. “Oh, ye would, would you? Gull someone else! If ye're new - come, then get ye new-gone!”

“Lady,” he whimpered, ducking her threatened blow. “Lady, I swear – lady - I'm-” he let his voice sink to a low, half-shamed whisper, “ - lady, your maids are safe with me! More than safe - I'm - shaych. There are few places open for such as I -”

She stared, she gaped, and then she grinned. “ Struth! Ye could be at that, that pretty face an' all! Shaych! I like that!” She propelled him into the kitchen with a hand like a slab of bacon. “All right, I give ye a chance! Two meals an' a place on th' floor for half yer takin's.”

He knew he had to put up at least the appearance of bargaining - but not much, or he'd cast doubt on his disguise. “Three meals,” he said, desperately, “and a quarter.''

She glared at him. “Ye try me,” she said warningly. “Ye try me temper, pretty boy. Three an' half.”

“Three and half,” he agreed, timidly.

“Done. An' don't think t' cheat me; me girls be checkin' ye right regular. Now - list. I got armsmen here, mostly. I want lively stuff; things as put 'em in mind that me girls serve more'n ale. None of yer long-winded ballads, nor sticky love songs, nor yet nothin' melancholy. Not less'n they asks for it. An' if it be melancholy, ye make 'em cry, ye hear? Make 'em cry so's me girls an' me drink can give 'em a bit 'o comfort. Got that?”

“Aye, lady,” he whispered.

“Don't ye go lookin' fer a bedmate 'mongst them lads, neither. They wants that, there's the Page, an' that's where they go. We got us agreements on the Row. I don' sell boys, an' I don' let in streetboys; the Page don' sell girls.”

“Aye, lady.”

“Ye start yer plunkin' at sundown when I open, an' ye finish when I close. Rest of th' time's yer own. Get yer meals in th' kitchen, sleep in th' common room after closin'.”

“Aye, lady.”

“Now - stick yer pack over in that corner, so's I know ye ain't gonna run off, an' get out there.”

He shed pack and cloak under her critical eye, and tucked both away in the chimney corner. He took with him only his lute and his hat, and hurried off into the common room, with her eyes burning holes in his back.

She was in a slightly better mood when she closed up near dawn. Certainly she was mollified by the nice stack of copper coins she'd earned from his efforts. That it was roughly twice the value of the meals she'd be feeding him probably contributed to that good humor. That no less than three of the prettiest of her “girls” had propositioned him and been turned down probably didn't hurt.

She was pleased enough that she had a thin straw pallet brought down out of the attic so that he wouldn't be sleeping on the floor. He would be sharing the common room with an ancient gaffer who served as the potboy, and the two utterly silent kitchen helpers of indeterminate age and sex. Her order to all four of them to strip and wash at the kitchen pump relieved him a bit; he wasn't looking for comfort, but he had hoped to avoid fleas and lice. When the washing was over, he was fairly certain that the kitchen helpers were girls, but their ages were still a mystery.

When Bel left, she took the light with her, leaving them to arrange themselves in the dark. Valdir curled up on his lumpy pallet, wrapped in his cloak and the blanket that still smelled faintly of Yfandes, and sighed.

:Beloved?: He sent his thought-tendril questing out into the gray light of early dawn after her.

:Here. Are you established?:

:Fairly well. Valdir's seen worse. At least I won't be poisoned by the food. What about you ?:

:I have shelter. :

:Good.: He yawned. :This is strictly an after-dark establishment; if I go roaming in the late morning and early afternoon, I should find out a few things.:

:I wish that I could help.: she replied wistfully.

:So do I. Good night, dearheart. I can't keep awake anymore.:

:Sleep well.:

One thing more, though, before he slept. A subtle, and very well camouflaged tap into the nearest current of mage-power. He needed it; the tiny trickle he would take would likely not be noticed by anyone unless they were checking the streams inch by inch. It wouldn't replenish his reserves immediately, but over a few days it would. It was a pity he could only do this while meditating or sleeping. It was an even greater pity that he couldn't just tap straight in as he had the night he'd rescued Tashir; he'd be at full power in moments if he could do that.

But that would tell Lord Vedric Mavelan that there was another mage here.

And if it comes to that, I'd rather surprise him.

He'd intended to try and think out some of his other problems, but it had been a full day since he'd last slept, and the walking he'd done had tired him out more than he realized. He started to try and pick over his automatic reactions to Bel's “girls”; had he led them on, without intending to? Had he been flirting with them, knowing deep down that he was going to turn them down and enjoying the hold his good looks gave over them? It was getting so that nothing was simple anymore.

But before he could do more than worry around the edges of things, his exhaustion caught up with him.

He slept.