“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 couldn’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 exchanged 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.
Vanyel pretended not to notice the muttering, the jealous glances. He rose from the bench a few moments after the rest had abandoned him, making it a point of honor to saunter over to stare into the fire in the great fireplace. He walked with head high, features schooled into a careful mask of bored indifference.
He could feel their eyes on the back of his neck, but he refused to turn, refused to show any emotion at all, much less how queasy their behavior was making him feel.
Finally, when he judged that he had made his point, he stretched, yawned, and turned. He surveyed the entire room through half-closed eyelids for a long moment, his own gaze barely brushing each of them, then paced lazily across the endless length of the Great Hall, pausing only to nod a cool good night to the group nearest the door before - finally! - achieving the sanctuary of the dark hallway beyond it.
“Ye gods, you’d think he was the Heir to the Throne!” Sandar exclaimed, rolling his eyes and throwing up his hands. “Queen Elspeth herself wouldn’t put on such airs!”
Eighteen-year-old Joserlin Corveau stared after the lad for a long moment, putting his thoughts together. He was the oldest of the fosterlings, and the latest-come. Really, he wasn’t properly a fosterling at all; nor a close cousin. A true cousin, childless after many years, had decided on Joserlin as his Heir and (as he himself was not in the best of health) requested he be fostered to Lord Withen to learn the ways of governance of one’s Holdings. He was broad and tall as any of the doors to the keep, and even Jervis respected the power of his young muscles. After a single practice session with young Jos, Jervis had decreed that he was old enough to train with Withen’s armsmen. After seeing the way Jervis “trained” the boys, Jos had been quite content to have it so.
Some of the younger boys had made the mistake of thinking that his slow speech and large build meant that he was stupid. They had quickly discovered their mistake when he’d gotten them with well-timed jokes.
He liked to say of himself that while he didn’t think quickly, he did think things through all the way. And there were aspects of this vaguely disturbing evening that were not adding together properly in his mind.
Meanwhile the rest of his group continued dissecting Withen’s least-beloved offspring.
“He
thinks he is the Heir to the Throne,” giggled Jyllian, swishing her skirts coquettishly. “Or at least, that the rest of us are that far below him. You should see him, lording it over us in the bower!’’ She struck her nose in the air and mimed looking down it while playing a make-believe lute. “But just try and get anything out of him besides a song! Brrr! Watch the snow fall! You’d think we were poison-vellis, the way he pulls away and goes cold!”
Mekeal snorted, tossing his head. “Thinks he’s too good for you, I s’ppose! Nothing high enough for him but a lady of the blood-royal, no doubt! Think girls like you aren’t lofty enough.”
“Or not pretty enough,” snickered Merthin. “Havens, give it a thought - none of you little lovelies are even a close match for His Majesty’s sweet face. Can’t have his lady less beautiful than he is, after all.”
“I don’t doubt.” Larence put in his bit, coming up behind Merthin. “Well, he’ll find he’s not the only pretty face when he gets to the High Court. He just might find himself standing in somebody’s shadow for a change! Take my word for it, dear little Vanyel is going to get a rude awakening when he gets to Haven.”
“Dammit, it’s not fair,” Mekeal grumbled, face clouding at this reminder of Vanyel’s destination. “I’d give my arm to go to Haven! I mean, think of it; the best fighters in the country are there - it’s the center of everything!” He flung his hands wide, nearly hitting Merthin, in a gesture of total frustration. “How’m I ever going to get a - an officer’s commission or any kind of position when nobody with any say at Court is ever going to see me? That’s why they sent m’sister off to be fostered right near there! You have a chance to get noticed at Court!
She’s going to be an officer, you can bet on it, an’ best I’ll ever get is maybe a Sector command, which means not one damn thing! I need to be at Court; I ain’t going to inherit! I’m the one that should be going, not Vanyel! It’s not fair!”
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