The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 11

  “But not the Gift?” the second persisted.

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

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

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

  “If—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  • • •

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And nothing to distract him. Or was there?

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

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

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

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

  It worked to perfection; within moments he had a little circle of courtiers of his own flocking about him, eager to impress the newcomer with their friendliness. He basked in their attentions for nearly an hour before it began to pall.

  • • •

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

  “So he charged straight at them—”

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

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

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

  “It worked,” Liers sulked.

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

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

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

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

  Liers smiled in foolish satisfaction as Vanyel made more stupid remarks; eventually Vanyel extricated himself from that little knot of idlers an
d 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 Vanyel’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 an identical script.

  Vanyel was bored.

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

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

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

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

  “Not a chance, Tashi,” said Reva, who was flushed from a little too much wine. She giggled. “You haven’t a chance. He’s—what’s that word Savil uses?”

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

  “What’s it mean?” Vanyel asked.

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

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

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

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

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

  Was this why Withen—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  He ached inside; just ached.

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

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

  • • •

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

  “Vanyel?”

  He looked up, startled.

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

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

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

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

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

  When he finally stopped, he was alone on the empty plain, alone, and chilled to the marrow. He ached all over at first, but then the cold really set in, and he couldn’t feel much of anything. There was no sign of the chasm, or of Tylendel. And for one brief moment, loneliness made him ache worse than the cold.

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

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

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

  There was only the cold.

  CHAPTER 5

  TYLENDEL WAS SPRAWLED carelessly across the grass in the garden, reading. Vanyel watched him from behind the 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 f
avorite 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 further 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.”