He guided the youngster through the door to his quarters, thanking whatever deities happened to be watching that no one seemed to have noticed their exit from the Audience Chamber together, and that there was no one in the halls that would have noticed the two of them on the way there. The last thing I need is for this poor boy to end up with his reputation ruined, he thought wryly, pushing Stefen down into the couch near the door, and putting his instrument and music case on the floor next to him.
The youngster blinked at him dazedly, confirming Vanyel’s guess that he’d put himself in a trance-state. It’s just as well; once he starts to feel those fingers—
Well, that was why Vanyel had brought the boy here; there was a cure for the injury. Two, actually, one of them residing in his traveling kit. Vanyel had become perforce something of an herbalist over the years—all too often he, or someone he was with, had been hurt with no Healer in reach. He had a touch of Healing Gift, but not reliable, and not enough to Heal anything serious. So he’d learned other ways of keeping himself and those around him alive. He kept a full medical kit with him at all times, even now, though here at the Palace he was unlikely to have to use it.
He found it, after a moment of rummaging, under the bed. He knew the shape of the jar he wanted, and fished it out without having to empty the entire kit out on his bed. A roll of soft bandage followed, and Vanyel returned to the boy’s side with both in his hands.
A distinctive, sharp-spicy scent rose from the jar as soon as he opened it. “Cinnamon and marigold,” he told the boy, and took the most maltreated hand in his to spread the salve on the ridged and swollen fingertips, feeling the heat of inflammation as he began his doctoring. “Numbs and heals, and it’s good for the muscle cramps you’d be having if you hadn’t played your fingers past that point. I’m surprised you have any skin left.”
The boy smiled shyly but didn’t say anything. Vanyel massaged the salve into the undamaged areas of the boy’s hands and spread it gently on the blistered fingertips. With the care the raw skin merited, he wrapped each finger in a cushion of bandage, then closed his eyes and invoked the tiny spark of Healing talent he had along with his Empathy. He couldn’t do much, but at least he could reduce the inflammation and numb some of the pain that the salve wouldn’t touch.
But when he opened his eyes again, he was dismayed by the expression on the boy’s face. Pure adoration. Unadulterated hero-worship. As plain as the condition of the boy’s fingers, and just as disturbing.
It was bad enough when he saw it in the eyes of pages and Herald-trainees, or even younger Heralds. It made him uncomfortable to see it in the pages, and sick to see it from the Heralds.
He couldn’t avoid it, so he’d learned to cope with it. He could distance himself from it when it was someone he didn’t know, and wouldn’t have to spend any amount of time with.
I can’t leave it like this, he decided, feeling his guts knot a little. I’ll be working with him constantly, seeing him in Court—I can’t allow him to go on thinking I’m some kind of godling.
“So,” he said lightly, as he put the boy’s hand down. “According to my nephew, you’re the best thing to come out of Bardic in an age.” He raised an eyebrow and half-smiled. “Though if you don’t show a little more sense, you’ll play the ends of your fingers off next time, and then where will you be?”
“I suppose I could—uh—learn to play with my feet,” the boy ventured. “Then I could always get a job at Fair-time, in the freak tent.”
Van laughed, as much from surprise that the boy had managed a retort as at the joke. There’s more to this lad than I thought! “Well, that’s true enough—but I’d rather you just learned to pace yourself a bit better. I’ll wager you haven’t eaten yet, either.”
Stefen looked guilty enough to convince him even before the boy shook his head.
Vanyel snorted. “Gods. Why is it that anyone under twenty seems convinced he can live on air and sunshine?”
“Maybe because anyone under fifteen is convinced he has to eat his weight twice a day,” Stefen retorted, his eyes starting to sparkle. “So once you hit sixteen you realize you’ve stored up enough to live on your fat until you’re thirty.”
“Fat?” Vanyel widened his eyes in mock dismay. “You’d fade away to nothing overnight! Well, rank does have its privileges, and I’m going to invoke one of mine—” He reached for the bell-rope to summon a servant, then stopped with his hand around it. “—unless you’d rather go back to Bardic and get a meal there?”
“Me?” Stefen shook his head the awe-struck look back on his face. “Havens, no! But why would you want to—I mean, I’m just—”
“You’re the first person I’ve had to talk music with in an age,” Vanyel replied, stretching the truth just a trifle. “And for one thing, I’d like to know where you got that odd fingering for the D-minor diminished chord—”
He rang the bell as he spoke; a page answered so quickly Vanyel was startled. He sent the child off after provisions as Stefen attempted to demonstrate with his bandaged hand.
When the page returned a few moments later, laden with food and wine, they were deep in a discussion of whether or not the tradition was true that the “Tandere Cycle” had been created by the same Bard as “Blood Bound.” Once into the heated argument (Vanyel arguing “for,” based on some eccentricities in the lyrics, Stefen just as vehemently “against” because of the patterns of the melodies) the boy settled and began treating him as he would anyone else. Vanyel relaxed, and began to enjoy himself. Stefen was certainly good company—in some ways, very much older than his chronological age, and certainly able to hold his own in an argument. This was the first chance he’d had in weeks to simply sit back and talk with someone about something that had nothing whatsoever to do with politics, Randale, or a crisis.
The page had brought two bottles of wine with the meal; it was only when Vanyel was pouring the last of the second bottle into both their glasses that he realized how late it was—
And how strong that wine had been.
He blinked, and the candle flames blurred and wavered, and not from a draft.
I think maybe I’ve had a little too much—Vanyel forced his eyes to focus, and licked his lips. Stefen had curled up in the corner of the overstuffed couch with his legs tucked under him; his eyes had the soft, slightly dazed stare of someone who is drunk, knows it, and is trying very hard to keep everyone else from noticing.
Vanyel glanced up at the time-candle; well past midnight, and both of them probably too drunk to stand, much less walk.
Certainly Stefen couldn’t. Even as Vanyel looked back at him, he set his goblet down with exaggerated care—on the thin air beside the table.
In no way is he going to be able to walk back to his room, Vanyel thought, nobly choking down the laugh that threatened to burst from his throat, and fumbling for a handful of napkins, as Stefen swore in language that was quite enough to take the varnish off the table, and snatched at the fallen goblet. Even if he got as far as the Collegium building, he’d probably fall down the stairs and break his neck.
He mopped at the wine before it could soak into the wood of the floor, Stefen on his knees beside him, alternately swearing and begging Van’s pardon.
Seriously, if I send him back to his room, he’ll get hurt on the way, I just know it. Maybe all he’d get would be a bruising, but he really could break his neck.
Stefen sat back on his heels, hands full of wet, stained napkins, and looked about helplessly for someplace to put them—some place where they wouldn’t ruin anything else.
Vanyel solved his dilemma by taking the cloths away from him and pitching them into a hamper beside the wardrobe. He took no little pride in the fact that although he was just as drunk as Stefen, he managed to get the wadded cloths into the basket.
Aside from the fact that I like this youngster, there’s the fact that he’s proven him
self valuable—after his performance this afternoon, I’d say that he’s far too valuable to risk. Van sat back on his own heels and thought for a moment. He allowed his shields to soften a little, and did a quick “look” through the Palace. None of the servants are awake. There’s nobody I’d trust to see the lad safely over to his quarters except myself. And right now, I wouldn’t trust me! I can still think, but I know damn well I can’t walk without weaving.
He became aware, painfully aware, that Stefen was looking at him with an intense and unmistakable hunger.
He flushed, and tried not to look in the boy’s eyes. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. If I let him stay—it is not fair, dammit! He’s too young. He can’t possibly know what he wants. He thinks he wants me, and maybe he does, right now. But in the morning? That’s another thing altogether.
He Felt Stefen’s gaze, like hot sunshine against his skin, Felt the youngster willing him to look up.
And stubbornly resisted. The boy was too young; less than half his age.
And the boy was infernally attractive. . . .
Damn it all, it’s not fair. . . .
• • •
Stefen could hardly believe it. He was in Herald Vanyel’s private quarters; the door was shut and they were quite alone together. He’d finally managed to redeem himself, at least in his own eyes, for looking like such an idiot. In fact, it looked like he’d impressed Vanyel once or twice in the discussion—at least, up until he’d spilled the wine.
And even then, he could tell that Vanyel was attracted; he sensed it in the way the Herald was carefully looking to one side or the other, but never directly at him, and in the way Vanyel was avoiding even an accidental touch.
Yet Vanyel wouldn’t do anything!
What’s the matter with him? Stefen asked himself, afroth with frustration. Or is it me? No, it can’t be me. Or is it? Maybe he’s not sure of me. Maybe he’s not sure of himself. . . .
The wine was going to Stefen’s head with a vengeance, making him bolder than he might otherwise have been. So when Vanyel reached blindly for his own goblet on the table beside them, Stefen reached for it, too, and their hands closed on the stem at the same time. Stefen’s hand was atop Vanyel’s—and as Vanyel’s startled gaze met his own, he tightened his hand on the Herald’s.
• • •
Vanyel’s ears grew hot, and his hands cold. He couldn’t look away from Stefen’s eyes, startled and tempted by the bold invitation he read there.
No, dammit. No. Boy, child, you don’t know what you’re asking for.
In all his life, Vanyel had never been so tempted to throw over everything he’d pledged to himself and just do what he wanted, so very badly, to do.
Not that there hadn’t been seduction attempts before this; his enemies frequently knew what his tastes were, and where his preferences lay. And all too often the vehicle of temptation had been someone like this—a young, seemingly innocent boy. Sometimes, in fact, it was an innocent. But in all cases, Vanyel had been able to detect the hidden trap and avoid the bait.
And there had been encounters that looked like seduction attempts. Young, impressionable children, overwhelmed by his reputation and perfectly willing to give him everything he wanted from them.
And that’s what’s going on here, he told himself fiercely, the back of his neck hot, his hand beneath Stefen’s icy. That’s all that’s going on. I swore by everything I consider holy that I was never going to take advantage of my rank and fame to seduce anyone, anyone at all, much less impressionable children who have no notion of what they’re getting into. No. It hasn’t happened before, and I’m not going to permit it to happen now.
He rose to his feet, perforce bringing Stefen up with him. Once on his feet he took advantage of Stefen’s momentary confusion to put the goblet down. The boy’s hand slid from his reluctantly, and Vanyel endured a flash of dizziness that had nothing at all to do with the wine they’d been drinking.
“Come on, lad,” he said cheerfully, casually. “You’re in no shape to walk back to your bed, and I’m in no shape to see that you get there in one piece. So you’ll have to make do with mine tonight.”
He reached for the boy’s shoulder before the young Bard could figure out what he was up to, and turned him about to face the bed. He gave the boy a gentle shove, and Stefen was so thoroughly intoxicated that he stumbled right to the enormous bedstead and only saved himself from falling by grabbing the footboard.
“Sorry,” Vanyel replied sincerely. “I guess I’m a bit further gone than I thought; I can usually judge my shoves better than that!”
Stefen started to strip off his tunic, and turned to stare as Vanyel walked slowly and carefully to the storage chest and removed his bedroll.
“What are you doing?” the youngster asked, bewildered.
“You’re my guest,” Vanyel said quietly, busying himself with untying the cords holding the bedroll together. “I can do without my bed for one night.”
The young Bard sat heavily down on the side of the bed, looking completely deflated. “But—where are you going to sleep?” he asked, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
“The floor, of course,” Vanyel replied, unrolling the parcel, and looking up to grin at the boy’s perplexed expression. “It won’t be the first time. In fact, I’ve slept in places a lot less comfortable than this floor.”
“But—”
“Good night, Stefen,” Vanyel interrupted, using his Gift to douse all the lights except the night-candle in the headboard of the bed because he didn’t trust his hands to snuff them without an accident. He stripped off his own tunic and his boots and socks, but decided against removing anything else. His virtuous resistance might not survive another onslaught of temptation, particularly if he wasn’t clothed. “Don’t bother to get up when I do—the hours I keep are positively unholy, and no one sane would put up with them.”
“But—”
“Good night, Stefen,” Vanyel said firmly, crawling in and turning his back on the room.
He kept his eyes tightly shut and all his shields up; after a while, he heard a long-suffering sigh, then the sound of boots hitting the floor, and cloth following. Then the faint sounds of someone settling into a strange bed, and the night-candle went out.
“Good night, Vanyel,” came from the darkness. “I appreciate this.”
You’ll appreciate me more in the morning, Vanyel thought ironically. And I hope you leave before there’re too many people in the corridor, or you’ll end up with people thinking you are shaych.
But—“Good night, Stefen,” he replied. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.” He smiled into the darkness. “In fact, you’re welcome any time. Consider yourself my adoptive nephew if you like.”
And chew on that for a while, lad, Vanyel thought as he turned over and stared at the embers of the dying fire. I have the feeling that in the morning, you’ll thank me for it.
CHAPTER 4
HARD SURFACE BENEATH him. Too even to be dirt, too warm to be stone. Where?
Van woke, as he always did, all at once, with no transition from sleep to full awareness. And since he was not where he expected to be, he held himself very still, waiting for memory to catch up with the rest of him.
A slight headache between his eyebrows gave him the clue he needed to sort himself out. Of course. I’m sleeping—virtuously—alone. On the floor. With a hangover. Because there’s a Bard who’s altogether too beautiful and too young in my bed. And I’ll bet he doesn’t wake up with a hangover.
He heard Yfandes laughing in the back of his mind. :Poor, suffering child. I shall certainly nominate you for sainthood.:
Van opened his eyes, and the first morning light stabbed through them and straight into his brain. :Shut up, horse.: He groaned and closed his eyes tightly.
:No you don’t,: Yfandes said sweetly. :You have an app
ointment. With Lissandra, Kilchas, Tran, and your aunt. Remember?:
He stifled another groan, and opened his eyes again. The sunlight was no dimmer. :Now that you’ve reminded me, yes. I have done stupider things in my life than get drunk the night before a major spellcasting, I’m sure, but right now I can’t recall any.:
:I can,: Yfandes replied too promptly.
He knew better than to reply. In the state he was in now, she’d be a constant step ahead of him. Some day, he vowed to himself, I’m going to find out how to make a Companion drunk, and when she wakes up, I’ll be waiting.
So there was nothing for it but to crawl out of his bedroll, aching in every limb from a night on the hard floor, to stare resentfully at the youngster who’d usurped his bed. Stefen lay sprawled across the entire width of the bed, a beatific half-smile on his face, deaf, dumb, and blind to the world. Dark red hair fanned across the pillow—Van’s pillow—not the least tangled with restless tossing, as Van’s was. No dark circles under Stefen’s eyes—oh, no. The young Bard slept like an innocent child.
Vanyel snarled silently, snatched up his towels and a clean uniform, and headed for the bathing room.
The room was very quiet this early in the morning, and every sound he made echoed from the white-tiled walls. He might well have been the only person alive in the Palace; he couldn’t hear anything at all but the noise he made. After plunging his head under cold water, then following that torture with a hot bath, he was much more inclined to face the world without biting something. In fact, he actually felt up to a breakfast, of sorts, perhaps a little bread and a great deal of herb tea.
Stefen was still blissfully asleep, no doubt, which made Van’s room off limits. Well, it was probably too early for any of the servants to be awake.
He dressed quickly, shivering a little as the chill morning air hit his wet skin, and headed down the deserted hallways to the kitchen, where he found two cooks hard at work. They were pulling hot loaves from the ovens, anonymous in their floured brown tunics and trousers, their hair caught up under caps. They gave him startled looks—it probably wasn’t too often that a Herald wandered into their purview—but they gave him a pot of tea and a bit of warm bread when he asked them for it, and he took both up to the library.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 78