Vanyel's mouth sagged open. She's - my gods! She's standing up to him! I don't believe this!
"It signifies the willingness to endure a little discomfort in order to learn," Withen replied angrily. "Thanks to you and your fosterlings, all Vanyel's ever learned was how to select a tunic that matches his eyes, and how to warble a love song! He's too damned handsome for his own good - and you've spoiled him, Treesa; you've let him trade on that pretty face, get away with nonsense and arrogance you'd never have permitted in Mekeal. And now he has no sense of responsibility whatsoever, he avoids even a hint of obligation."
"You'd prefer him to be like Mekeal, I suppose," she replied acidly. "You'd like him to hang on your every word and never question you, never challenge you - "
"Damned right!" Withen roared in frustration. "The boy doesn't know his damned place! Filling his head with book-learned nonsense - "
"He doesn't know his place? Because he can think for himself? Just because he can read and write more than his bare name? Unlike certain grown men I could name - gods, Withen, that priest of yours has you parroting every little nuance, doesn't he? And you're sending Van away because he doesn't measure up to his standards of propriety, aren't you? Because Vanyel has the intelligence to question what he's told, and Leren doesn't like questions!" Her voice reached new heights of shrillness. "That priest has you so neatly tied around his ankle that you wouldn't breathe unless he declared breathing was orthodox enough!"
- ah, Vanyel thought, a part of his mind still working, while the rest sat in stunned contemplation of the idea of being "sent away." Now Treesa's support had a rational explanation. Lady Treesa did not care for Father Leren. Vanyel was just a convenient reason to try to drive a wedge between Withen and his crony.
Although Vanyel could have told her that this was exactly the wrong way to go about doing so.
"I expected you'd say something like that," Withen rumbled. "You have no choice, Treesa, the boy is going, whether you like it or not. I'm sending him to Savil at the High Court. She'II brook no nonsense, and once he's in surroundings where he's not the only pretty face in the place he might learn to do something besides lisp a ballad and moon at himself in the mirror."
"Savil? That old harridan?" His mother's voice rose with each word until she was shrieking. Vanyel wanted to shriek, too.
He remembered his first - and last - encounter with his Aunt Savil only too well.
Vanyel had bowed low to the silver-haired stranger, a woman clad in impeccable Heraldic Whites, contriving his best imitation of courtly manner. Herald Savil - who had packed herself up at the age of fourteen and hied herself off to Haven without word to anyone, and then been Chosen the moment she passed the city gates - was Lissa's idol. Lissa had pestered Grandmother Ashkevron for every tale about Savil that the old woman knew. Vanyel couldn't understand why - but if Lissa admired this woman so much, surely there must be more to her than appeared on the surface.
It was a pity that Liss was visiting cousins the one week her idol chose to make an appearance at the familial holding.
But then again - maybe that was exactly as Withen had planned.
"So this is Vanyel," the woman had said, dryly. "A pretty boy, Treesa. I trust he's something more than ornamental."
Vanyel went rigid at her words, then rose from his bow and fixed her with what he hoped was a cool, appraising stare. Gods, she looked like his father in the right light; like Lissa, she had that Ashkevron nose, a nose that both she and Withen thrust forward like a sharp blade to cleave all before them.
"Oh, don't glare at me, child," the woman said with amusement. "I've had better men than you try to freeze me with a look and fail."
He flushed. She turned away from him as if he was of no interest, turning back to Vanyel's mother, who was clutching a handkerchief at her throat. "So, Treesa, has the boy shown any sign of Gift or Talent?"
"He sings beautifully," Treesa fluttered. "Really, he's as good as any minstrel we've ever had."
The woman turned and stared at him - stared through him. "Potential, but nothing active," Savil said slowly. "A pity; I'd hoped at least one of your offspring would share my Gifts. You can certainly afford to spare one to the Queen's service. But the girls don't even have potential Gifts, your four other boys are worse than this one, and this one doesn't appear to be much more than a clotheshorse for all his potential."
She waved a dismissing hand at him, and Vanyel's face had burned.
"I've seen what I came to see, Treesa," she said, leading Vanyel's mother off by the elbow. "I won't stress your hospitality anymore."
From all Vanyel had heard, Savil was, in many ways, not terribly unlike her brother; hard, cold, and unforgiving, preoccupied with what she perceived as her duty. She had never wedded; Vanyel was hardly surprised. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to bed Savil's chill arrogance. He couldn't imagine why warm, loving Lissa wanted to be like her.
Now his mother was weeping hysterically; his father was making no effort to calm her. By that, Vanyel knew there was no escaping the disastrous plan. Incoherent hysterics were his mother's court of last resort; if they were failing, there was no hope for him.
"Give it up, Treesa," Withen said, unmoved, his voice rock-steady. "The boy goes. Tomorrow."
"You - unfeeling monster - " That was all that was understandable through Treesa's weeping. Vanyel heard the staccato beat of her slippers on the floor as she ran out the library door, then the slower, heavier sound of his father's boots.
Then the sound of the door closing -
- as leaden and final as the door on a tomb.
Two
Vanyel stumbled over to his old chair and collapsed into its comfortable embrace.
He couldn't think. Everything had gone numb. He stared blankly at the tiny rectangle of blue sky framed by the window; just sat, and stared. He wasn't even aware of the passing of time until the sun began shining directly into his eyes.
He winced away from the light; that broke his bewildered trance, and he realized dully that the afternoon was gone - that someone would start looking for him to call him for supper soon, and he'd better be back in his room.
He slouched dispiritedly over to the window, and peered out of it, making the automatic check to see if there was anyone below who could spot him. But even as he did so it occurred to him that it hardly mattered if they found his hideaway, considering what he'd just overheard.
There was no one on the practice field now; just the empty square of turf, a chicken on the loose pecking at something in the grass. From this vantage the keep might well have been deserted.
Vanyel turned around and reached over his head, grabbing the rough stone edging the window all around the exterior, and levered himself up and out onto the sill. Once balanced there in a half crouch, he stepped down onto the ledge that ran around the edge of the roof, then reached around the gable and got a good handhold on the slates of the roof itself, and began inching over to his bedroom window.
Halfway between the two windows, he paused for a moment to look down.
It isn't all that far - if I fell just right, the worst I'd do is break a leg - then they couldn’t send me off, could they? It might be worth it. It just might be worth it.
He thought about that - and thought about the way his broken arm had hurt -
Not a good idea; with my luck, Father would send me off as soon as I was patched up; just load me up in a wagon like a sack of grain. "Deliver to Herald Savil, no special handling. " Or worse, I'd break my arm again, or both arms. I've got a chance to make that hand work again - maybe - but if I break it this time there isn’t a Healer around to make sure it's set right.
Vanyel swung his legs into the room, balanced for a moment on the sill, then dropped onto his bed. Once there, he just lacked the spirit to even move. He slumped against the wall and stared at the sloping, whitewashed ceiling.
He tried to think if there was anything he could do to get himself out of this mess.
He co
uldn't come up with a single idea that seemed at all viable. It was too late to "mend his ways" even if he wanted to.
No - no. I can't, absolutely can’t face that sadistic bastard Jervis. Though I'm truly not sure which is the worst peril at this point in the long run, Aunt Ice-And-Iron or Jervis. I know what he'II do to me. I haven't a clue to her.
He sagged, and bit his lip, trying to stay in control, trying to think logically. All he knew was that Savil would have the worst possible report on him; and at Haven - the irony of the name! - he would have no allies, no hiding places. That was the worst of it; going off into completely foreign territory knowing that everybody there had been told how awful he was. That they would just be waiting for him to make a slip. All the time. But there was no getting out of it. For all that Treesa petted and cosseted him, Vanyel knew better than to rely on her for anything, or expect her to ever defy Withen. That brief flair during their argument had been the exception; Treesa's real efforts always lay in keeping her own life comfortable and amusing. She'd cry for Vanyel, but she'd never defend him. Not like Lissa might well have –
If Lissa had been here.
When the page came around to call everyone to dinner, he managed to stir up enough energy to dust himself off and obey the summons, but he had no appetite at all.
The highborn of Forst Reach ate late, a candlemark after the servants, hirelings and the armsmen had eaten, since the Great Hall was far too small to hold everyone at once. The torches and lanterns had already been lit along the worn stone-floored corridors; they did nothing to dispel the darkness of Vanyel's heart. He trudged along the dim corridors and down the stone stairs, ignoring the servants trotting by him on errands of their own. Since his room was at the servants' end of the keep, he had a long way to go to get to the Great Hall.
Once there, he waited in the sheltering darkness of the doorway to assess the situation in the room beyond.
As usual he was nearly the last one to table; as far as he could tell, only his Aunt Serina was missing, and she might well have eaten earlier, with the children. Carefully watching for the best opportunity to do so undetected, he slipped into his seat beside his brother Mekeal at the low table during a moment when Lord Withen was laughing at some joke of Father Leren's. The usually austere cleric seemed in a very good mood tonight, and Vanyel's heart sank. If Leren was pleased, it probably didn't bode Vanyel any good.
"Where were you this afternoon?" Mekeal asked, as he wiggled over to give Vanyel a place on the bench, interrupting his noisy inhalation of soup.
Vanyel shrugged. "Does it matter?" he asked, trying to sound indifferent. "It's no secret how I feel about that nonsense, and it's no secret how Jervis feels about me. So does it really matter where I was?"
Mekeal chuckled into his bowl. "Probably not. You know Jervis'll just be harder on you when you do get caught. And you're going to get caught one of these days. You're looking for another broken arm, if you're lucky. If that's the way you want it, on your head be it."
So Father hasn't said anything yet - Vanyel thought with surprise, his spoon poised above the soup. He glanced over at the head table. Lady Treesa was in her accustomed place beside her lord. And she didn't look any more upset than she usually did; she certainly showed no signs of the hysterics Vanyel had overheard this afternoon.
Could she actually have stood up for me, just this once? Could she have gotten him to back down? Oh, gods, if only!
The renewal of hope did not bring a corresponding renewal of appetite; the tension only made his stomach knot up the more. The room seemed far too hot; he loosened the laces of his tunic, but that didn't help. The flames of the lamps on the wall behind him made the shadows dance on the table, until he had to close his eyes and take several deep breaths to get his equilibrium back. He felt flushed and feverish, and after only a few mouthfuls of the thick, swiftly cooling soup that seemed utterly tasteless, he signaled to a servant to take it away.
He squirmed uncomfortably on the wooden bench, and pushed the rest of his meal around on his plate with one eye always on the high table and his father.
The high table was high; raised on a dais a good hand above the rest of the room, and set at the head of the low table like the upper bar of a "t." That meant that it overlooked and overshadowed the low table. Vanyel could feel the presence of those sitting there looming over him even at those few times when he wasn't watching them. With each course his stomach seemed to acquire another lump, a colder and harder one, until he finally gave up all pretense of eating.
Then, just at the dessert course, when he thought he might be saved, his father rose to his feet.
Lord Withen towered over the table as he towered over Vanyel and everything belonging to Forst Reach. He prided himself on being a "plain man," close enough in outlook to any of his men that they could feel easy with him. His sturdy brown leather tunic and linen shirt were hardly distinguishable from the garb of any of the hireling armsmen; the tunic was decorated with polished silver studs instead of copper, but that was the only token of his rank. The tunic strained across his broad shoulders - and across the barest hint of a paunch. His long, dark hair was confined in a tail at the nape of his neck by a silver band; his beard trimmed close to his square jawline.
Vanyel's changeling appearance, especially when contrasted with Mekeal's, may have been one reason why Withen seemed to be irritated whenever he looked at his eldest son. Vanyel was lean, and not particularly tall; Mekeal was tall and muscular, already taller than Vanyel although he was two years younger. Vanyel's hair was so black it had blue highlights, and his eyes were a startling silver-gray, exactly like his mother's - and he had no facial hair to speak of. Mekeal's eyes were a chestnut brown, he already had to shave, and his hair matched his father's so closely that it would not have been possible to tell which of them a particular plucked hair came from.
Mekeal made friends as easily as breathing -
I never had anyone but Lissa.
Mekeal was tone-deaf; Vanyel lived for music. Mekeal suffered through his scholastic lessons; Vanyel so far exceeded his brother that there was no comparison.
In short, Mekeal was completely his father's son; Vanyel was utterly Withen's opposite.
Perhaps that was all in Withen's mind as he rose and spared a glance for his first-and-second-born sons, before fixing his gaze on nothing in particular. The lanterns behind Withen danced, and his shadow reached halfway down the low table. As that stark shadow darkened the table, it blackened Vanyel's rising hope.
"After due consideration," Withen rumbled, "I have decided that it is time for Vanyel to acquire education of a kind - more involved than we can give him here. So tonight will be the last night he is among us. Tomorrow he will begin a journey to my sister, Herald-Mage Savil at the High Court of Valdemar, who will take official guardianship of him until he is of age."
Withen sat down heavily.
Treesa burst into a tearful wail, and shoved herself away from the table; as she stood, her chair went over with a clatter that sounded, in the unnatural silence that now filled the Great Hall, as loud as if the entire table were collapsing. She ran from the room, sobbing into her sleeve, as Withen maintained a stony silence. Her fosterlings and ladies followed her, and only Melenna cast an unreadable glance over her shoulder at Vanyel before trailing off in the wake of the others.
Everyone in the silent room seemed to have been frozen by an evil spell.
Finally Withen reached forward and took a walnut from the bowl before him; he nestled it in his palm and cracked it in his bare hands. Vanyel jumped at the sound, and he wasn't the only one.
"Very good nuts last year, don't you think?" Withen said to Father Leren.
That seemed to be the signal for the entire room to break out in frantic babbling. On Vanyel's right, three of his cousins began laying noisy bets on the outcome of a race between Radevel and Kerle on the morrow. On his right, Radevel whispered to Mekeal, while across the table from him his youngest brother Heforth exchange
d punches and pokes with cousin Larence.
Vanyel was pointedly ignored. He might just as well have been invisible, except for the sly, sidelong looks he was getting. And not just from the youngsters, either. When he looked up at the high table once, he caught Father Leren staring at him and smiling slyly. When their eyes met, the priest nodded very slightly, gave Vanyel a look brimming with self-satisfaction, and only then turned his attention back toward Withen. During that silent exchange - which nobody else seemed to have noticed - Vanyel had felt himself grow pale and cold.
As the dessert course was cleared away, the elders left the hall on affairs of their own, and a few of the girls-more of Vanyel's cousins - returned; a sign that Lady Treesa had retired for the night.
The boys and young men remaining now rose from their seats; the young usually reigned over the hall undisturbed after dinner. With the girls that had returned they formed three whispering, giggling groups; two sets of four and one of eleven - all three groups blatantly closing Vanyel out. Even the girls seemed to have joined in the conspiracy to leave him utterly alone.
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