But Jervis astonished him by simply walking up to his side of the line, giving a curt salute that Vanyel returned, and waiting in a deceptively lazy guard position.
Dust tickled Vanyel's nose, and somewhere in the building a cricket was chirping. Well do something, damn you! he thought in frustration, as the moments continued to pass and Jervis did nothing but stand in the guard position. Finally the waiting was too much for his nerves. He rushed Jervis, but he pulled up short at the last second, so that the armsmaster was tricked into overextending. There was a brief flurry of blows, and with a neat twist of his wrists, Vanyel bound Jervis's blade and sent it flying out of his hands to land with a noisy clatter on the floor to Vanyel's left.
Now it comes. Vanyel braced himself for an explosion of temper.
But it didn't. No growl of rage, no snatching off of helm and spitting of curses. Jervis just stood, shield balanced easily on left arm, glaring. Vanyel could feel his eyes scorching him from within the dark slit of his helm for several heartbeats, while Vanyel's uneasiness grew and his blood pounded in his ears with the effort of holding himself in check. Finally the armsmaster moved only to fetch the blade, return to his former position, and wait for Vanyel to make another attack.
Vanyel circled to Jervis' right, bouncing a little on his toes, waiting for a moment when he could get past that shield, or around it. Sweat began running down his back and sides, and only the scarf around his head under his helm kept it out of his eyes. He licked his lips, and tasted salt. His concentration narrowed until all he was aware of was the sound of his own breathing, and the opponent in front of him.
Jervis returned his feints, his blows, sometimes successfully, sometimes not. Vanyel scored on him far more often than vice versa. But every time he made a successful pass, Jervis would back out of reach for a moment. It was maddening and inexplicable; he'd just fall completely out of fighting stance, shuffle and glare, and mutter to himself, before returning to the line and mixing in again.
This little series of performances began to wear on Vanyel's nerves. It was far too like the stalking he used to get when Jervis wanted to beat him to a pulp and didn't quite dare - and at the same time, it was totally unlike anything in the old man's usual pattern.
What's he doing? What's he waiting for? Those aren't any love-taps he's been giving me, but it isn't what I know he's capable of, either.
Finally, when he was completely unnerved, Jervis made the move he'd been expecting all along - an all-out rush, at full-strength and full-force, the kind that had bowled him over time after time as a youngster - the kind that had ended with his broken arm.
Blade a blur beside Jervis' shield and the shield itself coming at him with the speed of a charging bull, the horrible crack as his shield split - the pain as the arm beneath it snapped like a green branch.
But he wasn't an adolescent, he was a battle - seasoned veteran.
His boot-soles scuffed on the sanded wood as he bounced himself out of range and back in again; he engaged and used the speed of Jervis' second rush to spin himself out of the way, and delivered a good hard stab to Jervis' side with the main - gauche as the man passed him -
- or meant to deliver it. For all his bulk, Jervis could move as quickly as a striking snake. He somehow got his shield around in time to deflect the blow and then continued into a strike with the shield-edge at Vanyel's face.
Vanyel spun out of the way, and let the movement carry him out of sword range. But now his temper was gone, completely shattered.
“Damn you, you bullying bastard! Preach about honor and then turn a shield - bash on me, will you!” His voice cracked with nerves. “Come on! Try again! Try and take me! I'm not a child, armsmaster Jervis. I'm not as easy to knock down and beat up anymore! You can't make a fool and a target of me the way you do with Medren! I know what I'm doing, damn you, and my style is a match for yours on any damned field!”
Jervis pulled off his battered helm with his shield hand, and sweat - darkened tendrils of gray - blond hair fell into his eyes. “That's enough,” he said. “I've seen what I wanted t' see. Seems those songs got a grain of truth in 'em.”
Vanyel choked his temper down. “I trust you won't require any more sparring sessions, armsmaster?''
Jervis gave him another long, measuring look. “I didn't say that. I'll be wantin' t' practice with you again, master Vanyel.”
And he turned on his heel and left Vanyel standing in the middle of the salle, entirely uncertain of who had won what.
Have we got a truce ? Have we ? Or is this another kind of war?
“My Shadow-Lover, bear me into light,'' Vanyel sang softly, as the odd, minor chords blended one into another, each leaving a ghost of itself hanging in the air for the next to build from. This new gittern did things to this particular song that carried it beyond the poignant into the unearthly. He paused a moment, brushed the last chording in a slow arpeggio, and finally opened his eyes.
Medren sat on the edge of the bed, his mouth open in a soundless “O.”
Vanyel shook off the melancholy of the song with an effort. “How long have you been there?” he asked, racking the gittern on its stand, and uncoiling from his window seat.
“Most of the song,” Medren shivered. “That's the weirdest love song I ever heard! How come I never heard it before?”
“Because Treesa doesn't like it,” Vanyel replied wryly, stretching his fingers carefully. “It reminds her that she's mortal.” He saw the incomprehension on Medren's face, and elaborated. “The lover in the song is Death, Medren.”
“Death? As -” the boy gulped, “- a lover?”
The stricken look on the boy's face recalled him to the present, and he chuckled. “Oh, don't look that way, lad. I'm in no danger of throwing myself off a cliff. I have too much to do to go courting the Shadow-Lover.”
The boy's face aged thirty years for a moment. “But if He came courting you-”
I'd take His kiss of peace only too readily, Vanyel thought. Sometimes I'm so damned tired. He thought that - but smiled and said, “He courts me every day I'm a Herald, nephew, but He hasn't won me yet. What brings you here?”
“Oh,” Medren looked down at his hands. “Jervis. Some of the other kids - they told me he's got something special going today. For me.”
Vanyel thought of the “sparring session” and went cold. And a seed of an idea finally sprouted and flowered. He stood, and walked slowly to the bed, to put his hand lightly on Medren's shoulder. “Medren, would you rather deal with Jervis, or be sick?”
“What?” The boy looked up at him with the same incomprehension in his eyes he'd shown when Vanyel had spoken of the Shadow-Lover.
“I have just enough of the Healing-Gift that I can make you sick.” That wasn't exactly what he would do, but it was close enough. “Then I can keep you sick; too sick to go to practice, anyway.” There was measles in the nursery; that would keep the boy down for a good long time.
“Will I lose my voice?” The boy looked up at him with the same complete trust Jisa had, and that shook him.
He grinned, to cover it. “No, you'll just come out in spots, like Brendan. In fact, I want you to sneak into the nursery and spend a candlemark with Brendan when I 'm done with you.” As much as I'm going to depress his body, if he isn't fevered by nightfall I'll eat my lute. “Make sure nobody sees you, and go straight to your mother after and tell her you have a headache.”
“As long as I won't lose my voice,” Medren said, grinning, “I think I can take spots and itching.”
“It won't be fun.”
“It's better than being beat on.”
“All right.” Vanyel put his hand on Medren's shoulders, and focused down and out -
“Funny about Medren,” Radevel said, “coming down with spots so sudden-like. I would've sworn he had 'em once already.''
Vanyel just shrugged. He was in Radevel's room following another “sparring session” - this time one in which he sparred with Rad under Jervis' eye. It had bee
n easier to deal with than the last one, but Jervis was still acting out of character. We have a truce of sorts. I don't know why, but I won't take the chance that it will extend to cover Medren. I daren't.
Radevel had invited him here afterward in a burst of hearty comradeship, and Vanyel had decided to take him up on it. Over the past hour he'd come to discover he liked this good - natured cousin more than he'd ever dreamed.
“‘Mother funny thing I can't figure,” Radevel continued, feet propped up on a battered old table, mug of watered wine in hand. “Old Leren. Saw him watching you an' Jervis an' me at practice this afternoon, an' if looks were arrows, you'd be a damned pincushion. What in hell did you ever do to him?''
Vanyel shrugged, took a long drink of the cool wine, and turned his attention back to repairing his torn leather gambeson with needle and fine, waxed thread in a neat, precise row of carefully placed stitches. The past four years had seen him out more often than not beyond the reach of the Havenbred comforts and the servants that saw to the needs of Heralds. He'd gotten into the habit of repairing things himself, and around Radevel, that habit (which Radevel shared) made itself evident at the smallest excuse. “Don't know,” he said shortly. “Never did. I would almost be willing to pledge to you that he's hated me from the moment he came here. Mother swears it's because I asked too many questions, but I thought priests were supposed to encourage questions. Our old priest did. I may have been only four when he died, but I remember that.''
Radevel nodded agreement. “Aye, I remember that, too. Jervis always said that Osen was a good man. Made you feel like taking things to him, somehow. 'The gods gave you a brain, boy,' he'd say. 'If you want to honor them, use it.' Never made you feel like you were beneath him.” He brooded over his mug, his plain face quiet with thought. “This Leren, now - huh. I dunno, Van. You know, I stopped going to holydays here a long time ago - hike down into the village with Jervis when we feel like we need a dose of priest-talk. Tell you something else - young Father Heward down in the village don't care much for Leren either. He did his best not to let on, but he was downright gleeful to see us come marching down to the village temple, an' I know he don't care much for fighters, being a peace-preacher. Figure that.”
“I can't,” Vanyel replied.
He “felt” Savil's distinct “presence” coming up to the door of Radevel's room, so he didn't jump when she spoke. “Is this a 'roosters only' discussion, or can an old hen join?''
Vanyel did not bother to turn around. Radevel grinned past Vanyel's shoulder at Savil, and reached - without needing to look - into the cupboard over his head for another mug. “I dunno,” he mused. “Old hens, welcome, but old bats-?”
“Give me that, you shameless reprobate,” she mock-snarled, snatching the clean mug out of his hand and pouring herself wine from the jug. She tasted it and made a face. “Gods! What's that made of, old socks?”
“Standard mere ration, milady Herald ma'am, an' watered down, too. Grows on you, though. Got into liking it 'cause of Jervis.”
“Huh. Grows on you like foot-rot.”
Vanyel stuck the needle under a line of stitches and moved over to make room for her. She sat down beside him, careful to avoid unbalancing the bench. She sipped again. “You're right. Second taste has merit - unless it's just that the first swallow ate the skin off my tongue. What was all this about Leren?”
“Radevel said he was watching me and Rad spar with Jervis this afternoon,” Vanyel supplied, frowning at his work. The leather was scraped thin here, and likely to tear again if he wasn't careful where he placed his stitches.
“To be precise, he was watching Herald Van, here. Like he was hoping me or Jervis would slip - up like and break his neck for him,” Radevel said. “I'll tell you again, I do not like that man, priest or no priest. Makes my skin fair crawl with some of those looks he gives.”
“I've noticed,” Savil said soberly. “I don't like him either, and damned if I know why.''
Radevel held up one hand in a gesture of helplessness. “I spent more time around him than either of you, and I just can't put a finger on it. Treesa doesn't like him either; only reason she goes to holyday services is 'cause she reckons herself right pious, and facing him's better'n not going. But if she had her druthers, he'd be away and gone. It's about the one thing I agree with that feather-head on. Pardon, Van.”
“Mother is a featherhead; I won't argue there. But - Savil, did you realize that she's very slightly sensitive? Not Thought-sensing, not Empathy, but like to it - something else, some kind of sensitivity we haven't identified yet. The gods only know what it is; I haven't got it nor have you. But it's a sensitivity she shares with Yfandes.”
“Treesa? Sensitive like a Companion?” Savil gave him a look of complete incredulity. “Be damned! I never thought to test her.”
He nodded. “The channel's in 'Fandes, wide open. The same channel Treesa has, only hers is to 'Fandes the way a melting icicle is to a waterfall. I don't know what it is, but I'd say we shouldn't discount feelings of unease just because Treesa shares them. She could very truly be feeling something.”
“Huh,” Radevel said, after a moment. Then he grinned. “I got a homely plain man's notion. That mare of yours ever dropped a foal?”
“Why, yes, now that you mention it. Two, a colt and a filly-both before she Chose me. Dancer and Megwyn. Why?”
“Just that about every mother I ever saw, human to hound, knew damned well when somebody had bad feelings toward her children, no matter how much that somebody tried to make out like it wasn't true. Even Milady Treesa.” He grinned as Vanyel's jaw fell, and Savil's expression mirrored his. “Now Savil, you never had children, and it'd take a miracle from the Twain themselves to make Van a momma. So, no - what you call - channel. Make sense?''
“Damned good sense, cousin,” Vanyel managed to get out around his astonishment. “For somebody who has no magic of his own, you have an uncanny grasp of principles.”
Savil nodded. “You know, this enmity could also be partially that the man was pushed into the priesthood by his family and hates it. A priest with no vocation is worse than no priest at all.”
“Could be,” Radevel replied. “One thing for sure, it wasn't this bad 'fore Van came home. It's like something about Van brings out the worst in the old crow. Thought I'd say something.” He shrugged. “I don't like him, Jervis don't like him. Jervis's got a feel for things like enemies sneakin' up on your back. You might want to keep an eye on Leren.”
Oh, yes, cousin, Vanyel thought quietly. If you are seeing the hint of trouble, stolid as you are, I will surely keep an eye on him.
:Things in your bed again?: Yfandes asked sweetly.
Vanyel snarled, hung the lantern he was carrying on a hook, climbed up on the railings of the box, and hauled his bedroll down from the rafters above her stall. “This is not my idea of a good time,” he replied. “I didn't come home with the intention of sleeping in the stable!” The bedroll landed on the floor, and he jumped down off the top rail to land beside it. “Here I thought I'd get past her by getting dinner with the babies and sneaking up to my room at sunset, and there she is waiting for me, bold as a bad penny. Not nude this time, but in my bed. 'Fandes, this is the third night in a row! Has the woman no shame? And I locked the damned door!”
:Why didn't you just put her out the door?:
He glared at her, and heaved the bedding into the stall. “I do not,” he said between clenched teeth, “feel like engaging in a wrestling match with the woman. Dammit, there's going to be frost on the ground in the morning. It's getting chilly at night.”
:Poor abused baby. I know somebody who 'II gladly keep you warm.:
He glared at her again, poised halfway over the railings of the box - stall, one foot on either side. “ 'Fandes, you're pushing my patience.”
:Me.:
“Oh, 'Fandes. ...” His tone cooled a little, and he swung his leg over the top rail of the stall, and hopped down beside her to hug her neck. “I'm sorry.
I shouldn't take the fact that I'm ready to kill her out on you.”
She rubbed her cheek against his, her smooth coat softer than any satin, and nibbled at his hair. Her breath puffed warm against his ear, sweet, and hay-scented. Farther down in the stable, beyond the light of Vanyel's lantern, one of the horses whickered sleepily, and another stamped.
:I'm rather selfishly glad to have you with me,: she said, watching him heap up straw and spread his sleeping roll on it. :I like having you here with no danger to keep us wakeful, a quiet night, nothing to really disturb us.
Remember how you used to spend nights out in the Vale with me, watching the stars?:
“And waiting for Starwind to take a header out of his treehouse!” Vanyel laughed, with her rich chuckle bubbling in his mind. “You're right; that was a good time, even if I did spend the first few months of it in various states of hurting. Gods of Light, 'Fandes, I miss them. It's been far too long since I last saw them. Brightstar must be-what-nearly ten? I wish we had time to go back there.”
They don't shake me to my shoes the way Shavri and Randi do. Is it only because I don't see them too often, or -
Yfandes' interrupted his thought.
:'You 'd have to Gate, or else spend months on the road.: she replied sadly. :We daren't take the time, and I won't let you Gate yet, not unless it's an emergency. You’re still drained. :
Her tone cheered him a little. “Yes, little mother,” Vanyel chuckled, climbing into his crude bed, good humor fully restored. And to prove that he wasn't quite so drained as Yfandes seemed to think, he snuffed the lamp with a thought.
:Show-off,: she teased, settling down carefully next to him so that he could curl up beside her, for all the world like a strange sort of gangly foal. He wriggled himself and blankets in against her warm, silken side, and slipped one hand out to rest on her foreleg.
He yawned. With his anger gone, his energy seemed to be gone too. “ 'Night, dearheart,” he mumbled, suddenly unable to keep his eyes open.
Valdemar Books Page 151