He led them down the ill-lit staircase, hearing them stumbling blindly behind him in the darkness and thankful that he was the one carrying his lute and that there was nothing breakable in the packs. They emerged at the end of the hall nearest the kitchen; Vanyel decided to continue to force the issue by going out the servants’ door to the stables. It was closer—but that wasn’t why he chose it; he chose it to make the point that he knew his father’s thoughts about him.
The two servitors, laden as they were with the heavy packs, had to stretch to keep up with him; already they were panting with effort. As Vanyel’s boots crunched in the gravel spread across the yard between the keep and the stables, he could hear them puffing along far behind him.
The sun was barely over the horizon, and mist was rising from the meadows where the horses were turned loose during the day. It would likely be hot today, one of the first days of true high summer. Vanyel could see, as he came around the side of the stable, that the doors were standing wide open, and that there were several people moving about inside.
Couldn’t wait to be rid of me, could you, Father dear? Meant to hustle me off as fast as you could throw me into my clothes and my belongings into packs. I think in this I will oblige you. It should keep you sufficiently confused.
Now that he had this set of barriers, for the first time in more than a year he was able to think clearly and calmly. He was able to make plans without being locked in an emotional morass, and carry them out without losing his head to frustration. Gods, it was so simple—just don’t give a damn. Don’t care what they do to you, and they do nothing.
If I were staying, I’d never have dared to say those things. But I’m not, and by the time Father figures out how to react, I’ll be far beyond his ability to punish me. Even if he reports all this to Aunt Unsavory, it’s going to sound really stupid—and what’s more, it’ll make him look a fool.
He paused in the open doors, feet slightly apart, hands on his hips. After a few moments, those inside noticed him and the buzz of conversation ceased altogether as they turned to gape at him in dumbfounded surprise.
“Why isn’t my mare saddled?” he asked quietly, coldly. The only two horses bearing riding saddles were two rough cobs obviously meant for the two armsmen beside them, men who had been examining their girths and who had suddenly straightened to attention at the sound of his voice. There was another beast with a riding saddle on it, but it wasn’t a horse—it was an aging, fat pony, one every boy on the holding had long since outgrown, and a mount that was now given to Treesa’s most elderly women to ride.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord Vanyel,” said one of the grooms, hesitantly, “but yer father—”
“I really could not care less what my father ordered,” Vanyel interrupted, rudely and angrily. “He isn’t going to have to ride halfway to the end of the world on that hobbyhorse. I am the one being sent on this little exile, and I am not going to ride that. I refuse to enter the capital on a beast that is going to make me look like a clown. Besides, Star is mine, not his. The Lady Treesa gave her to me, and I intend to take her with me. Saddle her.”
The groom continued to hesitate.
“If you won’t,” Vanyel said, his eyes narrowing, his voice edged with the coldest steel, “I will. Either way you’ll have trouble. And if I have to do it, and my lady mother finds out, you’ll have trouble from her as well as my father.”
The groom shrugged, and went after Star and her tack, leaving his fellow to strip the pony and turn it into the pasture.
Lovely. Put me on a mount only a tyro would have to ride, and make it look as if I was too much a coward to handle a real horse. Make me look a fool, riding into Haven on a pony. And deprive me of something I treasured. Not this time, Father.
In fact, Vanyel was already firmly in Star’s saddle by the time Lord Withen made a somewhat belated appearance in the stableyard. The grooms were fastening the last of the packs on the backs of three mules, and the armsmen were waiting, also mounted, out in the yard.
Vanyel patted the proudly arched neck of his Star, a delicately-boned black palfrey with a perfect white star on her forehead, a star that had one long point that trailed down her nose. He ignored his father for a long moment, giving him a chance to absorb the sight of his son on his spirited little blood-mare instead of the homely old pony. Then he nudged Star toward the edge of the yard where Lord Withen stood—by his stunned expression, once again taken by surprise. She picked her way daintily across the gravel, making very little sound, like a remnant of night-shadow in the early morning light. Vanyel had had all her tack dyed the same black as his riding leathers, and was quite well aware of how striking they looked together.
So was she; she curved her neck and carried her tail like a banner as he directed her toward his father.
Lord Withen’s expression changed as they approached; first discomfited, then resigned. Vanyel kept his the same as it had been all this morning; nonexistent. He kept his gaze fixed on a point slightly above his father’s head.
Behind him, Vanyel could hear the mules being led out to have the lead rein of the first fastened to the cantle of one of the armsmen’s saddles. He halted Star about then, a few paces from the edge of the yard. He looked down at his father, keeping his face completely still, completely closed.
They stared at each other for a long moment; Vanyel could see Withen groping for something appropriate to say. And each time he began to speak, the words died unspoken beneath Vanyel’s cold and dispassionate gaze.
I’m not going to make this easy for you, Father. Not after what you’ve done to me; not after what you tried to do to me just now. I’m going to follow my sire’s example. I’m going to be just as nasty as you are—but I’m going to do it with more style.
The silence lengthened almost unbearably; even the armsmen began picking up the tension, and shifted uneasily in their saddles. Their cobs fidgeted and snorted restlessly.
Vanyel and Star could have been a statue of onyx and silver.
Finally Vanyel decided he had prolonged the agony enough. He nodded, once, almost imperceptibly. Then, without a word, he wheeled Star and nudged her lightly with his heels. She tossed her head and shot down the road to the village at a fast trot, leaving the armsmen cursing and kicking at their beasts behind him, trying to catch up.
• • •
He reined Star in once they were past the Forst Reach village, not wanting her to tire herself so early in the journey, and not wanting to give the armsmen an excuse to order him to ride between them.
Father’s probably told them that they’re to watch for me trying to bolt, he thought cynically, as Star fought the rein for a moment, then settled into a more-or-less sedate walk. And indeed, that surmise was confirmed when he saw them exchange surreptitious glances and not-too-well concealed sighs of relief. Huh. Little do they know.
For once they got beyond the Forst Reach lands that lay under the plow, they entered the completely untamed woodlands that lay between Forst Reach and the nearest eastward holding of Prytheree Ford. This forest land had been left purposely wild; there weren’t enough people to farm it at either Holding, and it supplied all of the wood products and a good half of the meat eaten in a year to the people of both Holdings.
It took skilled foresters to make their way about in a wood like this. And Vanyel knew very well that he had no more idea of how to survive in wilderland than he did of how to sprout fins and breathe water.
The road itself was hardly more than a rutted track of hard-packed dirt meandering through a tunnel of tree branches. The branches themselves were so thick overhead that they rode in a kind of green twilight. Although the sun was dispersing the mist outside the wood, there were still tendrils of it wisping between the trees and lying across the road. And only an occasional sunbeam was able to make its way down through the canopy of leaves to strike the roadway. To either side, the track was e
dged with thick bushes; a hint here and there of red among the green leaves told Vanyel that those bushes were blackberry hedges, probably planted to keep bears and other predators off the road itself. Even if he’d been thinking of escape, he was not fool enough to dare their brambly embrace. Even less did he wish to damage Star’s tender hide with the unkind touch of their thorns.
Beyond the bushes, so far as he could see, the forest floor was a tangle of vegetation in which he would be lost in heartbeats.
No, he was not in the least tempted to bolt and run, but there were other reasons not to run besides the logical ones.
There were—or seemed to be—things tracking them under the shelter of the underbrush. Shadow-shapes that made no sound.
He didn’t much like those shadows behind the bushes or ghosting along with the fog. He didn’t at all care for the way they moved, sometimes following the riders on the track for furlongs before giving up and melting into deeper forest. Those shadows called to mind far too many stories and tales—and the Border, with all its uncanny creatures, wasn’t all that far from here.
The forest itself was too quiet for Vanyel’s taste, even had those shadows not been slinking beneath the trees. Only occasionally could he hear a bird call above the dull clopping of the horses’ hooves, and that was faint and far off. No breeze stirred the leaves above them; no squirrels ran along the branches to scold them. Of course it was entirely possible that they were frightening all the nearby wildlife into silence simply with their presence; these woods were hunted regularly. That was the obvious explanation of the silence beneath the trees.
But Vanyel’s too-active imagination kept painting other, grimmer pictures of what might be lurking unseen out there.
Even though it became very warm and a halt would have been welcome, he really found himself hoping they wouldn’t make one. The armor that had so far been proof against pressure from without cracked just a little from the pressure within of his own vivid imagination. He was uneasy when they paused to feed and water the horses and themselves at noon, and was not truly comfortable until they saddled up and moved off again. The only way he could keep his nerves in line was to concentrate on how well he had handled Lord Withen. Recalling that stupefied look he’d last seen on Withen’s face gave him no end of satisfaction. Withen hadn’t seen Vanyel the boy—he’d seen a man, in some sort of control over his situation. And he plainly hadn’t enjoyed the experience.
• • •
It was with very real relief that Vanyel saw the trees break up, then open out into a huge clearing ahead of them just as the woods began to darken with the dying of the day. He was more than pleased when he saw there was an inn there, and realized that his guardians had been undoubtedly intending to stay there overnight.
They rode up the flinty dirt road to the facade of the inn, then through the entryway into the inn yard. That was where his two guardians halted, looking about for a stableboy. Vanyel dismounted, feeling very stiff, and a lot sorer than he had thought he’d be.
When a groom came to take Star’s reins, he gave them over without a murmur, then paced up and down the length of the dusty stableyard, trying to walk some feeling back into his legs. While he walked, one of the armsmen vanished into the inn itself and the other removed the packs from the mules before turning them and their cobs over to more grooms.
It was at that point that Vanyel realized that he didn’t even know his captors’ names.
That bothered him; he was going to be spending a lot of time in their company, yet they hadn’t even introduced themselves during the long ride. He was confused, and uncomfortable. Yet—
The less I feel, the better off I’ll be.
He closed his eyes and summoned his snow-field; could almost feel it chilling him, numbing him.
He began looking over the inn, ignoring the other guard, and saw with mild surprise that it was huge; much bigger than it had looked from the road. Only the front face of it was really visible when he’d ridden up to it; now he could see the entire complex. It was easily five times the size of the little village inn at Forst Reach, and two-storied as well. Its outer walls were of stone up to the second floor, then timber; the roof was thickly thatched, and the birds Vanyel had missed in the forest all seemed to have made a happy home here, nestling into the thatch with a riot of calls and whistles as they settled in for the night. With the stables it formed two sides of a square around the stable yard, the fourth side being open on a grassy field, probably for the use of traders and their wagons. The stables were extensive, too; easily as large as Lord Withen’s, and he was a notable horsebreeder.
Blue shadows were creeping from the forest into the stableyard, although the sky above had not quite begun to darken very much. And it was getting quite chilly; something Vanyel hadn’t expected, given the heat of the day. He was just as glad when the second armsman finally put in an appearance, trailed by a couple of inn servants.
Vanyel pretended to continue to study the sky to the west, but strained his ears as hard as he could to hear what his guardians had to say to each other.
“Any problems, Garth?” asked the one who’d remained with Vanyel, as the first bent to retrieve a pack and motioned to the servants to take the ones Vanyel recognized as being his own.
“Nay,” the first chuckled. “This early in th’ summer they be right glad of custom wi’ good coin in hand, none o’ yer shifty peddlers, neither. Just like m’lord said, got us rooms on second story wi’ his Highness there on t’ inside. No way he gets out wi’out us noticin’. Besides we bein’ second floor, ’f’s needful we just move t’ bed across t’ door, an’ he won’t be goin’ nowhere.”
Vanyel froze, and the little corner of him that had been wondering if he could—perhaps—make allies of these two withdrew.
So that’s why they’re keeping their distance. He straightened his back, and let that cool, expressionless mask that had served so well with his father this morning drop over his features again. I might have guessed as much. I was a fool to think otherwise.
He turned to face his watchers. “I trust all is in order?” he asked, letting nothing show except, perhaps, boredom. “Then—shall we?” He nodded slightly toward the inn door, where a welcoming, golden light was shining.
Without waiting for a reply, he moved deliberately toward it himself, leaving them to follow.
• • •
Vanyel stared moodily at the candle at his bedside. There wasn’t anything much else to look at; his room had no windows. Other than that, it wasn’t that much unlike his old room back at Forst Reach; quite plain, a bit stuffy—not too bad, really. Except that it had no windows. Except for being a prison.
Inventory: one bed, one chair, one table. No fireplace, but that wasn’t a consideration given the general warmth of the building and the fact that it was summer. All four of his packs were piled over in the corner, the lute still in its case leaning up against them.
He’d asked for a bath, and they’d brought him a tub and bathwater rather than letting him go down to the bathhouse. The water was tepid, and the tub none too big—but he’d acted as if the notion had been his idea. At least his guardians hadn’t insisted on being in the same room watching him when he used it.
One of them had escorted him to the privy and back, though; he’d headed in that direction, and the one called Garth had immediately dropped whatever it was he’d been working on and attached himself to Vanyel’s invisible wake, following about a half dozen paces behind. That had been so humiliating that he hadn’t spoken a single word to the man, simply ignored his presence entirely.
And they hadn’t consulted him on dinner either; they’d had it brought up on a tray while he was bathing.
Not that he’d been particularly hungry. He managed the bread and butter and cheese—the bread was better than he got at home—and a bit of fresh fruit. But the rest, boiled chicken, a thick gravy, and dumplings
, and all of it swiftly cooling into a greasy, congealed mess on the plate, had stuck in his throat and he gave up trying to eat the tasteless stuff entirely.
But he really didn’t want to sit here staring at it, either.
So he picked up the tray, opened his door, and took it to the outer room, setting it down on a table already cluttered with oddments of traveling gear and the wherewithal to clean it.
Both men looked up at his entrance, eyes wide and startled in the candlelight. The only sound was the steady flapping of the curtains in the light breeze coming in the window, and the buzzing of a fly over one of the candles.
Vanyel straightened, licked his lips, and looked off at a point on the farther wall, between them and above their heads. “Every corridor in this building leads to the common room, so I can hardly escape you that way,” he said, in as bored and detached a tone as he could muster. “And besides, there’s grooms sleeping in the stables, and I’m certain you’ve already spoken with them. I’m scarcely going to climb out the window and run off on foot. You might as well go enjoy yourselves in the common room. You may be my jailors, but that doesn’t mean you have to endure the jail yourselves.”
With that, he turned abruptly and closed the door of his room behind him.
But he held his breath and waited right beside the door, his ear against it, the better to overhear what they were saying in the room beyond.
“Huh!” the one called Garth said, after an interval of startled silence. “Whatcha think of that?”
“That he ain’t half so scatterbrained as m’lord thinks,” the other replied thoughtfully. “He knows damn well what’s goin’ on. Not that he ain’t about as nose-in-th’-air as I’ve ever seen, but he ain’t addlepated, not a bit of it.”
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 7