Magic's Pawn Page 2

  “But I made him mad. Well, I’ll see if I can get to Father before Jervis does, but even if I do he probably won’t listen to me. I’m just a female, after all.”

  “I know.” He closed his eyes as the room began to swing. “Just - try, Liss - please.”

  “I will.” She slipped off the bed, then bent over and kissed his forehead. “Try and sleep, like the Healer told you, all right?”

  He nodded.

  Tough-minded and independent, like the grandmother who had raised her, Lissa was about the only one in the keep willing to stand up to Lord Withen now that Grandmother Ashkevron had passed on. Not surprising, that, given Grandmother. The Ashkevrons seemed to produce about one strong-willed female in every generation, much to the bemusement of the Ashkevron males, and the more compliant Ashkevron females.

  Lady Treesa (anything but independent) had been far too busy with pregnancy and all the vapors she indulged in when pregnant to have anything to do with the resulting offspring. They went to the hands of others until they were old enough to be usefully added to her entourage. Lissa went to Grandmother.

  But Vanyel went to Liss. And they loved each other from the moment she’d taken him out of the nursery. She’d stand up to a raging lion for his sake.

  So Lissa went in search of their father. Unfortunately that left him alone. And unfortunately Lissa didn’t return when she couldn’t immediately find Lord Withen. And that, of course, left him vulnerable when his father chose to descend on him like the god of thunders.

  Vanyel was dizzy with pain as well as with the medicines the Healer had made him drink when Lord Withen stormed into his tiny, white-plastered room. He was lying flat on his back in his bed, trying not to move, and still the room seemed to be reeling around him. The pain was making him nauseous, and all he wanted was to be left in peace. The very last thing he wanted to see was his lord father.

  And Withen barely gave him enough time to register that his father was there before laying into him.

  “What’s all this about your cheating?” Withen roared, making Vanyel wince and wish he dared to cover his ears. “By the gods, you whelp, I ought to break your other arm for you!”

  “I wasn’t cheating!” Vanyel protested, stung, his voice breaking at just the wrong moment. He tried to sit upright - which only made the room spin the more. He fell back, supporting himself on his good elbow, grinding his teeth against the pain of his throbbing arm.

  “I was,” he gasped through clenched teeth, “I was just doing what Seldasen said to do!”

  “And just who might this ‘Seldasen’ be?” his father growled savagely, his dark brows knitting together. “What manner of coward says to run about and strike behind a man’s back, eh?”

  Oh, gods - now what have I done? Though his head was spinning, Vanyel tried to remember if Herald Seldasen’s treatise on warfare and tactics had been one of the books he’d “borrowed” without leave, or one of the ones he was supposed to be studying.

  “Well?” When Lord Withen scowled, his dark hair and beard made him look positively demonic. The drugs seemed to be giving him an aura of angry red light, too.

  Father, why can’t you ever believe I might be in the right?

  The book was on the “approved” list, Vanyel remembered with relief, as he recalled his tutor Istal assigning certain chapters to be memorized. “It’s Herald Seldasen, Father,” he said defiantly, finding strength in rebellion. “It’s from a book Istal assigned me, about tactics.” The words he remembered strengthened him still more, and he threw them into his father’s face. “He said: ‘Let every man that must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to any one school. Let the agile man use his speed, let his armoring be light, and let him skirmish, but not close with the enemy. Let the heavy man stand shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in the shield wall, that the enemy may not break through. Let the small man of good eye make good use of the bow, aye, and let the Herald fight with his mind and not his body, let the Herald-Mage combat with magic and not the sword. And let no man be called coward for refusing the place for which he is not fit.’ And I didn’t once hit anybody from behind! If Jervis says I did - well - I didn’t!”

  Lord Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one moment Vanyel actually thought he’d gotten through to his father, who was more accustomed to hearing him quote poetry than military history.

  “Parrot some damned book at me, will you?” Lord Withen snarled, dashing Vanyel’s hopes. “And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about fighting? You listen to me, boy - you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned well better learn what Jervis has to teach you if you want to sit in my place when I’m gone! If he says you were cheating, then by damn you were cheating!”

  “But I wasn’t cheating and I don’t want your place - “ Vanyel protested, the drugs destroying his self-control and making him say things he’d sooner have kept behind his teeth.

  That stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he’d gone mad, grown a second head, or spoken in Karsite.

  “Great good gods, boy,” he managed to splutter after several icy eternities during which Vanyel waited for the roof to cave in. “What do you want?”

  “I - “ Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to be a Bard -

  “You ungrateful whelp - you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order you to do! You’re my heir and you’ll do your duty to me and to this holding if I have to see you half dead to get you to do it!”

  And with that, he stormed out, leaving Vanyel limp with pain and anger and utter dejection, his eyes clamped tight against the tears he could feel behind them.

  Oh, gods, what does he expect of me? Why can’t I ever please him ? What do I have to do to convince him that I can’t be what he wants me to be ? Die ?

  And now - now my hand, oh, gods, it hurts - how much damage did they do to it ? Am I ever going to be able to play anything right again ?

  “Heyla, Van - “

  He opened his eyes, startled by the sound of a voice.

  His door was cracked partway open; Radevel peered around the edge of it, and Vanyel could hear scuffling and whispers behind him.

  “You all right?”

  “No,” Vanyel replied, suspiciously.

  What the hell does he want?

  Radevel’s bushy eyebrows jumped like a pair of excited caterpillars. “Guess not. Bet it hurts.”

  “It hurts,” Vanyel said, feeling a sick and sullen anger burning in the pit of his stomach.

  You watched it happen. And you didn’t do anything to stop it, cousin. And you didn’t bother to defend me to Father, either. None of you did.

  Radevel, instead of being put off, inched a little farther into the room. “Hey,” he said, brightening, “you should have seen it! I mean, whack, an’ that whole shield just split - an’ you fell down an’ that arm - “

  ‘‘Will you go to hell?” Vanyel snarled, just about ready to kill him. “And you can take all those ghouls lurking out there with you!”

  Radevel jumped, looked shocked, then looked faintly offended.

  Vanyel didn’t care. All that mattered was that Radevel - and whoever else was out there - took themselves away.

  Left finally alone, Vanyel drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with fragmented bits of unhappy dreams. When he woke again, his mother was supervising the removal of his younger brother Mekeal and all Mekeal’s belongings from the room.

  Well, that was a change. Lady Treesa usually didn’t interest herself in any of her offspring unless she had something to gain from it. On the other hand, Vanyel had been a part of her little court since the day he’d evidenced real talent at music about five years ago. She wouldn’t want to lose her own private minstrel - which meant she’d best make certain he healed up all right.

  “I won’t have you racketing about,” she was whispering to Mekeal with unconcealed annoyance on her plump, pretty face. “I won�
�t have you keeping him awake when he should be sleeping, and I won’t have you getting in the Healer’s way.”

  Thirteen-year-old Mekeal, a slightly shrunken copy of his father, shrugged indifferently. “ ‘Bout time we went to bachelor’s hall anyway, milady,” he replied, as Lady Treesa turned to keep an eye on him. “Can’t say as I’II miss the caterwauling an’ the plunking.”

  Although Vanyel could only see his mother’s back, he couldn’t miss the frown in her voice. “It wouldn’t hurt you to acquire a bit of Vanyel’s polish, Mekeal,” Lady Treesa replied.

  Mekeal shrugged again, quite cheerfully. “Can’t make silk out ‘o wool, Lady Mother.” He peered through dancing candlelight at Vanyel’s side of the room.

  “Seems m’brother’s awake. Heyla, peacock, they’re movin’ me down t’ quarters; seems you get up here to yourself.”

  “Out!” Treesa ordered; and Mekeal took himself off with a heartless chuckle.

  Vanyel spent the next candlemark with Treesa fussing and weeping over him; indulging herself in the histrionics she seemed to adore. In a way it was as hard to deal with as Withen’s rage. He’d never been on the receiving end of her vapors before.

  Oh, gods, he kept thinking confusedly, please make her go away. Anywhere, I don’t care.

  He had to keep assuring her that he was going to be all right when he was not at all certain of that himself, and Treesa’s shrill, borderline hysteria set his nerves completely on edge. It was a decided relief when the Healer arrived again and gently chased her out to give him some peace.

  The next few weeks were nothing but a blur of pain and potions - a blur endured with one or another of his mother’s ladies constantly at his side. And they all flustered at him until he was ready to scream, including his mother’s maid, Melenna, who should have known better. It was like being nursemaided by a covey of agitated doves. When they weren’t worrying at him, they were preening at him. Especially Melenna.

  “Would you like me to get you a pillow?” Melenna cooed.

  “No,” Vanyel replied, counting to ten. Twice.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” She edged a little closer, and leaned forward, batting her eyelashes at him.

  “No,” he said, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”

  “Shall I - “

  “No!” he growled, not sure which was worse at this moment, the pounding of his head, or Melenna’s questions. At least the pounding didn’t have to be accompanied by Melenna’s questions.

  Sniff.

  He cracked an eyelid open, just enough to see her. She sniffed again, and a fat tear rolled down one cheek.

  She was a rather pretty little thing, and the only one of his mother’s ladies or maidservants who had managed to pick up Treesa’s knack of crying without going red and blotchy. Vanyel knew that both Mekeal and Radevel had tried to get into her bed more than once. He also knew that she had her heart set on him.

  And the thought of bedding her left him completely cold.

  She sniffed a little harder. A week ago he would have sighed, and apologized to her, and allowed her to do something for him. Anything, just to keep her happy.

  That was a week ago. Now - It’s just a game for her, a game she learned from Mother. I’m tired of playing it. I’m sick to death of all their games.

  He ignored her, shutting his eyes and praying for the potions to work. And finally they did, which at least gave him a rest from her company for a little while.

  “Van?”

  That voice would bring him out of a sound sleep, let alone the restless drug-daze he was in now. He struggled up out of the grip of fever-dreams to force his eyes open.

  Lissa was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in riding leathers.

  “Liss - ?” he began, then realized what riding leathers meant. “ - oh, gods - “

  “Van, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to leave you, but Father said it was now ot never.”

  She was crying, not prettily like Lady Treesa, but with blotched cheeks and bloodshot eyes. “Van, please say you don’t mind too much!”

  “It’s ... all right, Liss,” he managed, fighting the words out around the cold lump in his throat and the colder one in his gut. “I ... know. You’ve got to do this. Gods, Liss, one of us has to get away!”

  “Van - I - I’ll find some way to help you, I promise. I’m almost eighteen; I’m almost free. Father knows the Guard is the only place for me; he hasn’t had a marriage offer for me for two years. He doesn’t dare ruin my chances for a post, or he’ll be stuck with me. The gods know you’re safe enough now - if anybody dared do anything before the Healer says you’re fit, he’d make a protest to Haven. Maybe by the time you get the splints off, I’ll be able to find a way to have you with me. ...”

  She looked so hopeful that Vanyel didn’t have the heart to say anything to contradict her. “Do that, Liss. I - I’ll be all right.”

  She hugged him, and kissed him, and then left him.

  And then he turned to the wall and cried. Lissa was the only support he had had. The only person who loved him without reservations. And now she was gone.

  After that, he stopped even pretending to care about anything. They didn’t care enough about him to let Liss stay until he was well - so why should he care about anything or anyone, even enough to be polite?

  “Armor does more than protect; it conceals. Helms hide faces - and your opponent becomes a mystery, an enigma.

  Seldasen had that right. Just like those two down there.

  The cruel, blank stares of the helm-slits gave no clues to the minds within. The two opponents drew their blades, flashed identical salutes, and retreated exactly twenty paces each to end at the opposite corners of the field. The sun was straight overhead, their shadows little more than pools at their feet. Twelve restive armored figures fidgeted together on one side of the square. The harsh sunshine bleached the short, dead grass to the color of light straw, and lit everything about the pair in pitiless detail.

  Hmm. Not such enigmas once they move.

  One fighter was tall, dangerously graceful, and obviously well-muscled beneath the protection of his worn padding and shabby armor. Every motion he made was precise, perilous - and professional.

  The other was a head shorter. His equipment was new, the padding unfrayed, the metal lovingly burnished. But his movements were awkward, uncertain, perhaps fearful.

  Still, if he feared, he didn’t lack for courage. Without waiting for his man to make a move, he shouted a tremulous defiant battle cry and charged across the sun-burnt grass toward the tall fighter. As his boots thudded on the hard, dry ground, he brought his sword around in a low-line attack.

  The taller fighter didn’t even bother to move out of his way; he simply swung his scarred shield to the side. The sword crunched into the shield, then slid oif, metal screeching on metal. The tall fighter swept his shield back into guard position, and answered the blow with a return that rang true on the shield of his opponent, then rebounded, while he turned the momentum of the rebound into a cut at the smaller fighter’s head.

  The pale stone of the keep echoed the sound of the exchange, a racket like a madman loose in a smithy. The smaller fighter was driven back with every blow, giving ground steadily under the hammerlike onslaught - until he finally lost his footing and fell over backward, his sword flying out of his hand.

  There was a dull thud as he hit his head on the flinty, unforgiving ground.

  He lay flat on his back for a moment, probably seeing stars, and scarcely moving, arms flung out on either side of him as if he meant to embrace the sun. Then he shook his head dazedly and tried to get up -

  Only to find the point of his opponent’s sword at his throat.

  “Yield, Boy,” rumbled a harsh voice from the shadowed mouth-slit of the helmet.

  “Yield, or I run you through.”

  The smaller fighter pulled off his own helm to reveal that he was Vanyel’s cousin Radevel. “If you run me through, Jervis, who’s going to pol
ish your mail?”

  The point of the sword did not waver.

  “Oh, all right,” the boy said, with a rueful grin. “I yield.”

  The sword, a pot-metal practice blade, went back into its plain leather sheath. Jervis pulled off his own battered helm with his shield hand, as easily as if the weight of wood and bronze wasn’t there. He shook out his sweat-dampened, blond hair and offered the boy his right, pulling him to his feet with the same studied, precise movements as he’d used when fighting.

  “Next time, you yield immediately, Boy,” the armsmaster rumbled, frowning. “If your opponent’s in a hurry, he’ll take banter for refusal, and you’ll be a cold corpse.”

  Jervis did not even wait to hear Radevel’s abashed assent. “You - on the end - Mekeal.” He waved to Vanyel’s brother at the side of the practice field. “Helm up.”

  Vanyel snorted as Jervis jammed his own helm back on his head, and stalked back to his former position, dead center of the practice ground. “The rest of you laggards,” he growled, “let’s see some life there. Pair up and have at.”

  Jervis doesn’t have pupils, he has living targets, thought Vanyel, as he watched from the window. There isn’t anyone except Father who could even give him a workout, yet he goes straight for the throat every damned time; he gets nastier every day. About all he does give them is that he only hits half force. Which is still enough to set Radev on his rump. Bullying bastard.

  Vanyel leaned back on his dusty cushions, and forced his aching hand to run through the fingering exercise yet again. Half the lute strings plunked dully instead of ringing; both strength and agility had been lost in that hand.

  I am never going to get this right again. How can I, when half the time I can’t feel what I’m doing?

  He bit his lip, and looked down again, blinking at the sunlight winking off Mekeal’s helm four stories below. Every one of them will be moaning and plastering horse liniment on his bruises tonight, and boasting in the next breath about how long he lasted against Jervis this time. Thank you, no. Not I. One broken arm was enough. I prefer to see my sixteenth birthday with the rest of my bones intact.