The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 48

  But then, when he’d been the bower pet, he’d only been a handsome fifteen-year-old, with a bit of talent at playing and singing. Now he was Herald-Mage Vanyel, the hero of songs.

  :And all too likely to have his foot stepped on if he comes near me with a swelled head,: said Yfandes.

  He bent his head over the lute and pretended to tune it until he could keep his face straight, then turned back to his mother.

  “I know better songs than those, and far more suited to a lovely lady than tales of war and darkness.”

  There was disappointment in some faces, but Treesa’s eyes glowed. “Would you play a love song, Van?” she asked coquettishly. “Would you play ‘My Lady’s Eyes’ for me?”

  Probably the most inane piece of drivel ever written, he thought. But it has a lovely tune. Why not?

  He bowed his head slightly. “My lady’s wish is ever my decree,” he replied, and began the intricate introduction at once.

  He couldn’t help noticing Melenna sitting just behind a knot of three adolescents, her hands still, her eyes as dreamy as theirs. She was actually prettier now than she had been as a girl.

  Poor Melenna. She never gives up. Almost fourteen years, and she’s still yearning after me. Gods. What a mess she’s made out of her life. He wondered somewhere at the back of his mind what had become of the bastard child she’d had by Mekeal, when pique at his refusing her had led her to Meke’s bed. Was it a boy or girl? Was it one of the girls pressed closely around him now? Or had she lost it? Loose ends like that worried him. Loose ends had a habit of tripping you up when you least expected it, particularly when the loose ends were human.

  He got the answer to his question a lot sooner than he’d guessed he would.

  “Oh, Van, that was lovely,” Treesa sighed, then dimpled again. “You know, we haven’t been entirely without Art and Music while you’ve been gone. I’ve managed to find myself another handsome little minstrel, haven’t I, ’Lenna?”

  Melenna glowed nearly the same faded-rose as her gown—one of Treesa’s, remade; Vanyel definitely recollected it. “He’s hardly as good as Vanyel was, milady,” she replied softly.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Treesa retorted, with just a hint of maliciousness. “Medren, why don’t you come out and let Vanyel judge for himself?”

  A tall boy of about twelve with an old, battered lute of his own rose slowly from where he’d been sitting, hidden by Melenna, and came hesitantly to the center of the group. There was no doubt who his father was—he had Meke’s lankiness, hair, and square chin, though he was smaller than Mekeal had been at that age, and his shoulders weren’t as broad. There was no doubt either who his mother was—Melenna’s wide hazel eyes stared at Vanyel from two faces.

  The boy bobbed at Treesa. “I can’t come close to those fingerings, milord, milady,” he said, with an honesty that felt painful to Vanyel.

  “Some of that’s the fact that I’ve had near twenty years of practice, Medren,” Vanyel replied, acutely aware that both Treesa and Melenna were eyeing him peculiarly. He was not entirely certain what was going on. “But there’s some of it that’s the instrument. This one has a very easy action—why don’t you borrow it?”

  They exchanged instruments; the boy’s hands trembled as he took Vanyel’s finely crafted lute. He touched the strings lightly, and swallowed hard. “What—” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “What would you like to hear, milord?”

  Vanyel thought quickly; it had to be something that wouldn’t be so easy as to be an insult, but certainly wouldn’t involve the intricate fingerings he’d used on “My Lady’s Eyes.”

  “Do you know ‘Windrider Unchained’?” he asked, finally.

  The boy nodded, made one false start, then got the instrumental introduction through, and began singing the verse.

  And Vanyel nearly dropped the boy’s lute as the sheer power of Medren’s singing washed over him.

  His voice wasn’t quite true on one or two notes; that didn’t matter. Time, maturity, and practice would take care of those little faults. His fingerings were sometimes uncertain; that didn’t matter either. What mattered was that, while Medren sang, Vanyel lived the song.

  The boy was Bardic Gifted, with a Gift of unusual power. And he was singing to a bowerful of empty-headed sweetly-scented marriage-bait, wasting a Gift that Vanyel, at fifteen, would willingly have sacrificed a leg to gain. Both legs. And counted the cost a small one.

  It was several moments after the boy finished before Vanyel could bring himself to speak—and he really only managed to do so because he could see the hope in Medren’s eyes slowly fading to disappointment.

  In fact, the boy had handed him back his instrument and started to turn away before he got control of himself. “Medren—Medren!” he said insistently enough to make the boy turn back. “You are better than I was, even at fifteen. In a few years you are going to be better than I could ever hope to be if I practiced every hour of my life. You have the Bardic-Gift, lad, and that’s something no amount of training will give.”

  He would have said more—he wanted to say more—but Treesa interrupted with a demand that he sing again, and by the time he untangled himself from the concentration the song required, the boy was gone.

  • • •

  The boy was on his mind all through dinner. He finally asked Roshya about him, and Roshya, delighted at having actually gotten a question out of him, burbled on until the last course was removed. And the more Vanyel heard, the more he worried.

  The boy was being given—at Treesa’s insistence—the same education as the legitimate offspring. Which meant, in essence, that he was being educated for exactly nothing. Except—perhaps—one day becoming the squire of one of his legitimate cousins. Meanwhile his real talent was being neglected.

  The problem gnawed at the back of Vanyel’s thoughts all through dinner, and accompanied him back to his room. He lit a candle and placed it on the small writing desk, still pondering. It might have kept him sleepless all night, except that soon after he flung himself down in a chair, still feeling somewhat stunned by the boy and his Gift, there came a knock on his door.

  “Come—” he said absently, assuming it was a servant.

  The door opened. “Milord Herald?” said a tentative voice out of the darkness beyond his candle. “Could—you spare a little time?”

  Vanyel sat bolt upright. “Medren? Is that you?”

  The boy shuffled into the candlelight, shutting the door behind him. He had the neck of his lute clutched in both hands. “I—” His voice cracked again. “Milord, you said I was good. I taught myself, milord. They—when they opened up the back of the library, they found where you used to hide things. Nobody wanted the music and instruments but me. I’d been watching minstrels, and I figured out how to play them. Then Lady Treesa heard me, she got me this lute. . . .”

  The boy shuffled forward a few more steps, then stood uncertainly beside the table. Vanyel was trying to get his mind and mouth to work. That the boy was this good was amazing, but that he was entirely self-taught was miraculous. “Medren,” he said at last, “to say that you astonish me would be an understatement. What can I do for you? If it’s in my power, it’s yours.”

  Medren flushed, but looked directly into Vanyel’s eyes. “Milord Herald—”

  “Medren,” Vanyel interrupted gently, “I am not ‘Milord Herald,’ not to you. You’re my nephew; call me by my given name.”

  Medren colored even more. “I—V-Vanyel, if you could—if you would—teach me? Please? I’ll—” He coughed, and lowered his eyes, now turning a red so bright it was painful to look at. “I’ll do anything you like. Just teach me.”

  Vanyel had no doubt whatsoever what the boy thought he was offering in return for music lessons. The painful—and very potently sexual—embarrassment was all too plain to his Empathy. Gods, the poor child—Medren wasn’t even a te
mptation. I may be shaych, but—not children. The thought’s revolting.

  “Medren,” he said very softly, “they warned you to stay away from me, didn’t they? And they told you why.”

  The boy shrugged. “They said you were shaych. Made all kinds of noises. But hell, you’re a Herald, Heralds don’t hurt people.”

  “I’m shaych, yes,” Vanyel replied steadily. “But you—you aren’t.”

  “No,” the boy said. “But hell, like I said, I wasn’t worried. What you could teach me—that’s worth anything. And I haven’t got much else to repay you with.” He finally looked back up into Vanyel’s eyes. “Besides, there isn’t anything you could do to me that’d be worse than Jervis beating on me once a day. And they all seem to think that’s all right.”

  Vanyel started. “Jervis? What—what do you mean, Jervis beating on you? Sit, Medren, please.”

  “What I said,” the boy replied, gingerly pulling a straight-backed chair to him and taking a seat. “I get treated just like the rest of them. Same lessons. Only there’s this little problem; I’m not true-born.” His tone became bitter. “With eight true-born heirs and more on the way, where does that leave me? Nowhere, that’s where. And there’s no use in currying favor with me, or being a little easy on me, ’cause I don’t have a thing to offer anybody. So when time comes for an example, who gets picked? Medren. When we want a live set of pells to prove a point, who gets beat on? Medren. And what the hell do I have to expect at the end of it, when I’m of age? Squire to one of the true-born boys if I’m lucky, the door if I’m not. Unless I can somehow get good enough to be a minstrel.”

  Vanyel’s insides hurt as badly as if Medren had punched him there. Gods—His thoughts roiled with incoherent emotions. Gods, he’s like I was—he’s just like I was—only he doesn’t have those thin little protections of rank and birth that I had. He doesn’t have a Lissa watching out for him. And he has the Gift, the precious Gift. My gods—

  “’Course, my mother figures there’s another way out,” Medren continued, cynically. “Lady Treesa, she figures you’ve turned down so many girls, she figures she’s got about one chance left to cure you. So she told my mother you were all hers, she could do whatever it took to get you. And if my mother could get you so far as to marry her, Lady Treesa swore she’d get Lord Withen to allow it. So my mother figures on getting into your breeches, then getting you to marry her—then to adopt me. She says she figures the last part is the easiest, ’cause she watched you watching me, and she knows how you feel about music and Bards and all. So she wanted me to help.”

  Poor Melenna. She just can’t seem to realize what she’s laying herself open for. “So why are you telling me this?” Vanyel found his own voice sounding incredibly calm considering the pain of past memories, and the ache for this unchildlike child.

  “I don’t like traps,” Medren said defiantly. “I don’t like seeing them being laid, I don’t like seeing things in them, and I don’t much like being part of the bait. And besides all that, you’re—special. I don’t want anything out of you that you’ve been tricked into giving.”

  Vanyel rose, and held out his hand. Medren looked at it for a moment, and went a little pale despite his brave words. He looked up at Vanyel with his eyes wide. “You—you want to see my side of the bargain?” he asked tremulously.

  Vanyel smiled. “No, little nephew,” he replied. “I’m going to take you to my father, and we’re going to discuss your future.”

  • • •

  Withen had a room he called his “study,” though it was bare of anything like a book; a small, stone-walled room, windowless, furnished with comfortable, worn-out old chairs Treesa wouldn’t allow in the rest of the keep. It was where he brought old cronies to sit beside the fire, drink, and trade tall tales; it was where he went after dinner to stare at the flames and nurse a last mug of ale. That’s where Vanyel had expected to find him, and when Vanyel ushered Medren into the stuffy little room, he could tell by his father’s stricken expression that Withen was assuming the absolute worst.

  “Father,” he said, before Withen could even open his mouth, “do you know who this boy is?”

  Candlelight flickered in his father’s eyes as Withen looked at him as if he’d gone insane, but he answered the question. “That’s—uh—Medren. Melenna’s boy.”

  “Melenna and Mekeal’s, Father,” Vanyel said forcibly. “He’s Ashkevron blood, and by that blood, we owe him. Now just how are we paying him? What future does he have?” Withen started to answer, but Vanyel cut him off. “I’ll tell you, Father. None. There are how many wedlock-born heirs here? And how much property? Forst Reach is big, but it isn’t that big! Where does that leave the little tagalong bastard when there may not be enough places for the legitimate offspring? What’s he going to do? Eke out the rest of his life as somebody’s squire? What if he falls in love and wants to marry? What if he doesn’t want to be somebody’s squire all his life? You’ve given him the same education and the same wants as the rest of the boys, Father. The same expectations, the same needs. How do you plan on making him content to take a servant’s place after being raised like one of the heirs?”

  “I—uh—”

  “Now I’ll tell you something else,” Vanyel continued without giving him a chance to answer. “This young man is Bardic-Gifted. That Gift is as rare—and as valued in Valdemar—as the one that makes me a Herald. And we Ashkevrons are letting that rare and precious Gift rot here. Now what are we going to do about it?”

  Withen just stared at him. Vanyel waited for him to assimilate what he’d been told. The fire crackled and popped beside him as Withen blinked with surprise. “Bardic-Gifted? Rare? I knew the boy played around with music, but—are you telling me the boy can make a future out of that?”

  “I’ll tell you more than that, Father. Medren will be a first-class Bard if he gets the training, and gets it now. A Full Bard, Father. Royalty will pour treasure at his feet to get him to sing for them. He could earn a noble rank, higher than yours. But only if he gets what he needs now. And I mean right now.”

  “What?” Withen’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

  Vanyel could see that he was having a hard time connecting “music” with “earning a noble rank.”

  “You mean—send him to Haven? To Bardic Collegium?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Father,” Vanyel said, watching Medren out of the corner of his eye. The boy was in serious danger of losing his jaw, or popping his eyes right out of their sockets. “And I think we should send him as soon as we can spare him an escort—when the harvest is over at the very latest. I will be happy to write a letter of sponsorship to Bard Chadran; if Forst Reach won’t cover it, I’m sure my stipend will stretch enough to take care of his expenses.”

  That last was a wicked blow, shrewdly designed to awake his father’s sense of duty and shame.

  “That won’t be necessary, son,” Withen said hastily. “Great good gods, it’s the least we can do! If—if that’s what you want, Medren.”

  “What I want?” the boy replied, tears coming to his eyes. “Milord—I—oh, Milord—it’s—” He threw himself, kneeling, at Withen’s feet.

  “Never mind,” Withen said hastily, profoundly embarrassed. “I can see it is. Consider it a fact; we’ll send you off to Haven with the Harvest-Tax.” The boy made as if to grab Withen’s hand and kiss it. Withen waved him off. “No, now, go on with you, boy. Get up, get up! Don’t grovel like that, dammit, you’re Ashkevron! And don’t thank me, I’m just the old fool that was too blind to see what was going on under my nose. Save your thanks for Vanyel.”

  Medren got to his feet, clumsy in his adolescent awkwardness, made clumsier by dazed joy. Before the boy could repeat the gesture, Vanyel took him by the shoulders and steered him toward the door.

  “Why don’t you go tell your mother about your good news, Medren?” He winked at the boy, and manag
ed to get a tremulous grin out of him. “I’m certain she’ll be very surprised.”

  That sentence made the grin widen, and take on a certain conspiratorial gleam. Medren nodded, and Vanyel pushed him out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.

  He turned back to face Withen, and there was no humor in his face or his heart now.

  “Father—we have to talk.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “WHAT?” WITHEN ASKED, his brow wrinkling in perplexity.

  “I said, we have to talk. Now.” Vanyel walked slowly and carefully toward his father, exerting every bit of control he possessed to keep his face impassive. “About you. About me. And about some assumptions about me that you keep making.”

  He stood just out of arm’s length of Withen’s chair, struggling to maintain his composure. “When I brought Medren in here, I knew what you were thinking, just looking at your expression.”

  The fire flared up, lighting Withen’s face perfectly.

  And you’re still thinking it—

  Vanyel came as close as he ever had in his life to exploding, and kept his voice down only by dint of much self-control. It took several moments before he could speak.

  “Dammit, Father, I’m not like that! I don’t do things like that! I’m a Herald—and dammit, I’m a decent man—I don’t molest little boys! Gods, the idea makes me want to vomit, and that you automatically assumed I had—”