Magic's Pawn v(lhm-1 Page 11

  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 bo
y'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 h
im 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.