Mercedes Lackey
Last Herald Mage Trilogy 01

Magic's Pawn

One
 
 
 "Your grandfather," said Vanyel's brawny, fifteen-year-old cousin Radevel, "was 
crazy."

He has a point, Vanyel thought, hoping they weren't about to take an 
uncontrolled dive down the last of the stairs.

Radevel's remark had probably been prompted by this very back staircase, one 
that started at one end of the third-floor servants' hall and emerged at the rear of 
a linen closet on the ground floor. The stair treads were so narrow and so slick 
that not even the servants used it.

The manor-keep of Lord Withen Ashkevron of Forst Reach was a strange and 
patchworked structure. In Vanyel's great-great-grandfather's day it had been a 
more conventional defensive keep, but by the time Vanyel's grandfather had held 
the lands, the border had been pushed far past Forst Reach. The old reprobate 
had decided when he'd reached late middle age that defense was going to be 
secondary to comfort. His comfort, primarily.

Not that Vanyel entirely disagreed with Grandfather; he would have been one of 
the first to vote to fill in the moat and for fireplaces in all the rooms. But the old 
man had gotten some pretty peculiar notions about what he wanted where - 
along with a tendency to change his mind in mid-alteration.

There were good points - windows everywhere, and all of them glazed and 
shuttered. Skylights lighting all the upper rooms and the staircases. Fireplaces in 
nearly every room. Heated privies, part and parcel of the bathhouse.

Every inside wall lathed and plastered against cold and damp. The stables, 
mews, kennel, and chickenyard banished to new outbuildings.

But there were bad points - if you didn't know your way, you could really get lost; 
and there were an awful lot of places you couldn't get into unless you knew 
exactly how to get there. Some of those places were important - like the 
bathhouse and privies. The old goat hadn't much considered the next generation 
in his alterations, either; he'd cut up the nursery into servant's quarters, which 
meant that until Lord Withen's boys went into bachelor's hall and the girls to the 
bower, they were cramped two and three to a series of very tiny attic-level rooms.

"He was your grandfather, too," Vanyel felt impelled to point out. The Ashkevron 
cousins had a tendency to act as if they had no common ancestors with Vanyel 
and his sibs whenever the subject of Grandfather Joserlin and his alterations 
came up.

"Huh." Radevel considered for a moment, then shrugged. "He was still crazy." He 
hefted his own load of armor and padding a little higher on his shoulder.

Vanyel held his peace and trotted down the last couple of stone stairs to hold the 
door open for his cousin. Radevel was doing him a favor, even though Vanyel 
was certain that cousin Radevel shared everyone else's low opinion of him. 
Radevel was by far and away the best-natured of the cousins, and the easiest to 
talk round - and the bribe of Vanyel's new hawking gauntlet had proved too much 
for him to resist. Still, it wouldn't do to get him angry by arguing with him; he 
might decide he had better things to do than help Vanyel out, gauntlet or no 
gauntlet.

Oh, gods - let this work, Vanyel thought as they emerged into the gloomy back 
hall. Did I practice enough with Lissa? Is this going to have a chance against a 
standard attack? Or am I crazy for even trying?

The hallway was as cold as the staircase had been, and dark to boot. Radevel 
took the lead, feet slapping on the stone floor as he whistled contentedly - and 
tunelessly. Vanyel tried not to wince at the mutilation of one of his favorite 
melodies and drifted silently in his wake, his thoughts as dark as the hallway.

In three days Lissa will be gone - and if I can't manage to get sent along, I'll be all 
alone. Without Lissa . . .

If I can just prove that I need her kind of training, then maybe Father will let me 
go with her - 

That had been the half-formed notion that prompted him to work out the moves of 
a different style of fighting than what he was supposed to be learning, practicing 
them in secret with his older sister Lissa: that was what had ultimately led to this 
little expedition.

That, and the urgent need to show Lord Withen that his eldest son wasn't the 
coward the armsmaster claimed he was - and that he could succeed on martial 
ground of his own choosing.

Vanyel wondered why he was the only boy to realize that there were other styles 
of fighting than armsmaster Jervis taught; he'd read of them, and knew that they 
had to be just as valid, else why send Lissa off to foster and study with Trevor 
Corey and his seven would-be sword-ladies? The way Vanyel had it figured, 
there was no way short of a miracle that he would ever succeed at the brute 
hack-and-bash system Jervis used - and no way Lord Withen would ever believe 
that another style was just as good while Jervis had his ear.

Unless Vanyel could show him. Then Father would have to believe his own eyes.

And if I can't prove it to him - 
 - oh, gods. I can't take much more of this.

With Lissa gone to Brenden Keep, his last real ally in the household would be 
gone, too; his only friend, and the only person who cared for him.

This was the final trial of the plot he'd worked out with Liss; Radevel would try to 
take him using Jervis' teachings. Vanyel would try to hold his own, wearing 
nothing but the padded jerkin and helm, carrying the lightest of target-shields, 
and trusting to speed and agility to keep him out of trouble.

Radevel kicked open the unlatched door to the practice ground, leaving Vanyel to 
get it closed before somebody yelled about the draft. The early spring sunlight 
was painful after the darkness of the hallway; Vanyel squinted as he hurried to 
catch up with his cousin.

"All right, peacock," Radevel said good-naturedly, dumping his gear at the edge 
of the practice ground, and snagging his own gambeson from the pile. "Get 
yourself ready, and we'll see if this nonsense of yours has any merit."

It took Vanyel a lot less time than his cousin to shrug into his "armor"; he offered 
tentatively to help Radevel with his, but the older boy just snorted.

"Botch mine the way you botch yours? No thanks," he said, and went on 
methodically buckling and adjusting.

Vanyel flushed, and stood uncertainly at the side of the sunken practice ground, 
contemplating the thick, dead grass at his feet.

I never botch anything except when Jervis is watching, he thought bleakly, 
shivering a little as a bit of cold breeze cut through the gambeson. And then I 
can't do anything right.

He could almost feel the windows in the keep wall behind him like eyes staring at 
his back. Waiting for him to fail - again.

What's wrong with me, anyway? Why can't I ever please Father? Why is 
everything I do wrong?

He sighed, scuffed the ground with his toe, and wished he could be out riding 
instead of trying something doomed to failure. He was the best rider in Forst 
Reach - he and Star had no equals on the most breakneck of hunts, and he 
could, if he chose, master anything else in the stables.

And just because I won't bother with those ironmouthed brutes Father prefers, he 
won't even grant me the accolade there-

 Gods. This time I have to win.

"Wake up, dreamer," Radevel rumbled, his voice muffled inside the helm. "You 
wanted to have at - let's get to it."

Vanyel walked to the center of the practice field with nervous deliberation, waiting 
until the last minute to get his helm on. He hated the thing; he hated the feeling of 
being closed in, and most of all hated having his vision narrowed to a little slit. He 
waited for Radevel to come up to him, feeling the sweat already starting under 
his arms and down the line of his back.

Radevel swung - but instead of meeting the blow with his shield as Jervis would 
have done, Vanyel just moved out of the way of the blow, and on his way past 
Radevel, made a stab of his own. Jervis never cared much for point-work, but 
Vanyel had discovered it could be really effective if you timed things right. 
Radevel made a startled sound and got up his own shield, but only just in time, 
and left himself open to a cut.

Vanyel felt his spirits rising as he saw this second opening in as many breaths, 
and chanced another attack of his own. This one actually managed to connect, 
though it was too light to call a disabling hit.

"Light!" Vanyel shouted as he danced away, before his cousin had a chance to 
disqualify the blow.

"Almost enough, peacock," Radevel replied, reluctant admiration in his voice. 
"You land another like that with your weight behind it and I'll be out. Try this for 
size - "

He charged, his practice blade a blur beside his shield.

Vanyel just stepped aside at the last moment, while Radevel staggered halfway 
to the boundary under his own momentum.

It was working! Radevel couldn't get near him - and Vanyel was pecking away at 
him whenever he got an opportunity. He wasn't hitting even close to killing 
strength - but that was mostly from lack of practice. If - 

' 'Hold, damn your eyes!''

Long habit froze them both in position, and the armsmaster of Forst Reach 
stalked onto the field, fire in his bloodshot glare.

Jervis looked the two of them up and down while Vanyel sweated from more than 
exertion. The blond, crag-faced mercenary frowned, and Vanyel's mouth went 
dry. Jervis looked angry - and when Jervis was angry, it was generally Vanyel 
who suffered.

"Well - " the man croaked after long enough for Vanyel's dread of him to build up 
to full force, " - learning a new discipline, are we? And whose idea was this?"

"Mine, sir," Vanyel whispered.

"Might have guessed sneak-and-run would be more suited to you than an honest 
fight," the armsmaster sneered. "Well, and how did you do, my bright young 
lord?"

"He did all right, Jervis." To Vanyel's complete amazement Radevel spoke up for 
him. "I couldn't get a blow on 'im. An' if he'd put his weight behind it, he'd have 
laid me out a time or two."

"So you're a real hero against a half-grown boy. I'll just bet you feel like another 
Veth Krethen, don't you?" Jervis spat. Vanyel held his temper, counting to ten, 
and did not protest that Radevel was nearly double his size and certainly no 
"half-grown boy." Jervis glared at him, waiting for a retort that never came - and 
strangely, that seemed to anger Jervis even more.

"All right, hero," he snarled, taking Radevel's blade away and jamming the boy's 
helm down over his own head. "Let's see just how good you really are - "

Jervis charged without any warning, and Vanyel had to scramble to get out of the 
way of the whirling blade. He realized then that Jervis was coming for him all-out 
- as if Vanyel was wearing full armor.

Which he wasn't.

He pivoted desperately as Jervis came at him again; ducked, wove, and spun - 
and saw an opening. This time desperation gave him the strength he hadn't used 
against Radevel - and he scored a chest-stab that actually rocked Jervis back for 
a moment, and followed it with a good solid blow to the head.

He waited, heart in mouth, while the armsmaster staggered backward two or 
three steps, then shook his head to clear it. There was an awful silence - 

Then Jervis yanked off the helm, and there was nothing but rage on his face.

"Radevel, get the boys, then bring me Lordling Vanyel's arms and armor," the 
armsmaster said, in a voice that was deadly calm.

Radevel backed off the field, then turned and ran for the keep. Jervis paced 
slowly to within a few feet of Vanyel, and Vanyel nearly died of fear on the spot.

"So you like striking from behind, hmm?" he said in that same, deadly quiet 
voice. "I think maybe I've been a bit lax in teaching you about honor, young 
milord." A thin smile briefly sliced across his face. "But I think we can remedy that 
quickly enough."
Radevel approached with feet dragging, his arms loaded with the rest of Vanyel's 
equipment.

"Arm up," Jervis ordered, and Vanyel did not dare to disobey.

Exactly what Jervis said, then - other than dressing Vanyel down in front of the 
whole lot of them, calling him a coward and a cheat, an assassin who wouldn't 
stand still to face his opponent's blade with honor - Vanyel could never afterward 
remember. Only a haze of mingled fear and anger that made the words 
meaningless.

But then Jervis took Vanyel on. His way, his style.

It was a hopeless fight from the beginning, even if Vanyel had been good at this 
particular mode of combat. In moments Vanyel found himself flat on his back, 
trying to see around spots in front of his eyes, with his ears still ringing from a 
blow he hadn't even seen coming.

"Get up," Jervis said-

Five more times Vanyel got up, each time more slowly. Each time, he tried to 
yield. By the fourth time he was wit-wandering, dazed and groveling. And Jervis 
refused to accept his surrender even when he could barely gasp out the words.

Radevel had gotten a really bad feeling in his stomach from the moment he saw 
Jervis' face when Van scored on him. He'd never seen the old bastard that angry 
in all the time he'd been fostered here.

But he'd figured that Vanyel was just going to get a bit of a thrashing. He'd never 
figured on being an unwilling witness to a deliberate - 

 - massacre. That was all he could think it. Van was no match for Jervis, and 
Jervis was coming at him all out - like he was a trained, adult fighter. Even 
Radevel could see that.

He heaved a sigh of relief when Vanyel was knocked flat on his back, and 
mumbled out his surrender as soon as he could speak. The worst the poor little 
snot had gotten was a few bruises.

But when Jervis had refused to accept that surrender - when he beat at Van with 
the flat of his blade until the boy had to pick up sword and shield just to get the 
beating to stop - Radevel got that bad feeling again.

And it got worse. Five times more Jervis knocked him flat, and each time with 
what looked like an even more vicious strike.

But the sixth time Vanyel was laid out, he couldn't get up.

Jervis let fly with a blow that broke the wood and copper shield right in the middle 
- and to Radevel's horror, he saw when the boy fell back that Vanyel's shield arm 
had been broken in half; the lower arm was bent in the middle, and that could 
only mean that both bones had snapped. It was pure miracle that they hadn't 
gone through muscle and skin - 

And Jervis' eyes were still not what Radevel would call sane.

Radevel added up all the factors and came up with one answer: get Lissa. She 
was adult-rank, she was Van's protector, and no matter what the armsmaster 
said in justification for beating the crud out of Van, if Jervis laid one finger in 
anger on Lissa, he'd get thrown out of the Keep with both his arms broken. If 
Withen didn't do it, there were others who liked Liss a lot who would.

Radevel backed off the field and took to his heels as soon as he was out of sight.

Vanyel lay flat on his back again, breath knocked out of him, in a kind of shock in 
which he couldn't feel much of anything except - except that something was 
wrong, somewhere. Then he tried to get up - and pain shooting along his left arm 
sent him screaming into darkness.

When he came to, Lissa was bending over him, her horsey face tight with worry. 
She was pale, and the nostrils of that prominent Ashkevron nose flared like a 
frightened filly's.

"Don't move - Van, no - both the bones of your arm are broken." She was 
kneeling next to him, he realized, with one knee gently but firmly holding his left 
arm down so that he couldn't move it.

"Lady, get away from him - " Jervis' voice dripped boredom and disgust. "It's just 
his shield arm, nothing important. We'll just strap it to a board and put some 
liniment on it and he'll be fine - "

She didn't move her knees, but swung around to face Jervis so fast that her braid 
came loose and whipped past Vanyel's nose like a lash. "You have done quite 
enough for one day, Master Jervis," she snarled. "I think you forget your place."

Vanyel wished vacantly that he could see Jervis' face at that moment. It must 
surely be a sight.

But his arm began to hurt - and that was more than enough to keep his attention.



There wasn't usually a Healer at Forst Reach, but Vanyel's Aunt Serina was 
staying here with her sister during her pregnancy. She'd had three miscarriages 
already, and was taking no chances; she was attended by her very own Healer. 
And Lissa had seen to it that the Healer, not Jervis, was the one that dealt with 
Vanyel's arm.

"Oh, Van - " Lissa folded herself inelegantly on the edge of Vanyel's bed and 
sighed. "How did you manage to get into this mess?''

That beaky Ashkevron nose and her determined chin combined with her anxiety 
to make her look like a stubborn, mulish mare. Most people were put off by her 
appearance, but Vanyel knew her well enough to read the heartsick worry in her 
eyes. After all, she'd all but raised him.

Vanyel wasn't certain how clear he'd be, but he tried to explain. Lissa tucked up 
her legs, and rested her chin on her knees, an unladylike pose that would have 
evoked considerable distress from Lady Treesa. When he finished, she sighed 
again.

"I think you attract bad luck, that's all I can say. You don't do anything wrong, but 
somehow things seem to happen to you."
 
Vanyel licked his dry lips and blinked at her. "Liss - Jervis was really angry this 
time, and what you told him didn't help. He's going to go right to Father, if he isn't 
there already."

She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? Van, all I was thinking 
about was getting him away from you."

"I - I know Liss, I'm not blaming you, but - "

"But I made him mad. Well, I'll see if I can get to Father before Jervis does, but 
even if I do he probably won't listen to me. I'm just a female, after all."

"I know." He closed his eyes as the room began to swing. "Just - try, Liss - 
please."

"I will." She slipped off the bed, then bent over and kissed his forehead. "Try and 
sleep, like the Healer told you, all right?"

He nodded.

Tough-minded and independent, like the grandmother who had raised her, Lissa 
was about the only one in the keep willing to stand up to Lord Withen now that 
Grandmother Ashkevron had passed on. Not surprising, that, given 
Grandmother. The Ashkevrons seemed to produce about one strong-willed 
female in every generation, much to the bemusement of the Ashkevron males, 
and the more compliant Ashkevron females.

Lady Treesa (anything but independent) had been far too busy with pregnancy 
and all the vapors she indulged in when pregnant to have anything to do with the 
resulting offspring. They went to the hands of others until they were old enough 
to be usefully added to her entourage. Lissa went to Grandmother.

But Vanyel went to Liss. And they loved each other from the moment she'd taken 
him out of the nursery. She'd stand up to a raging lion for his sake.

So Lissa went in search of their father. Unfortunately that left him alone. And 
unfortunately Lissa didn't return when she couldn't immediately find Lord Withen. 
And that, of course, left him vulnerable when his father chose to descend on him 
like the god of thunders.

Vanyel was dizzy with pain as well as with the medicines the Healer had made 
him drink when Lord Withen stormed into his tiny, white-plastered room. He was 
lying flat on his back in his bed, trying not to move, and still the room seemed to 
be reeling around him. The pain was making him nauseous, and all he wanted 
was to be left in peace. The very last thing he wanted to see was his lord father.
And Withen barely gave him enough time to register that his father was there 
before laying into him.

"What's all this about your cheating?" Withen roared, making Vanyel wince and 
wish he dared to cover his ears. "By the gods, you whelp, I ought to break your 
other arm for you!"
"I wasn't cheating!" Vanyel protested, stung, his voice breaking at just the wrong 
moment. He tried to sit upright - which only made the room spin the more. He fell 
back, supporting himself on his good elbow, grinding his teeth against the pain of 
his throbbing arm.
"I was," he gasped through clenched teeth, "I was just doing what Seldasen said 
to do!"
"And just who might this 'Seldasen' be?" his father growled savagely, his dark 
brows knitting together. "What manner of coward says to run about and strike 
behind a man's back, eh?"
Oh, gods - now what have I done? Though his head was spinning, Vanyel tried to 
remember if Herald Seldasen's treatise on warfare and tactics had been one of 
the books he'd "borrowed" without leave, or one of the ones he was supposed to 
be studying.
"Well?" When Lord Withen scowled, his dark hair and beard made him look 
positively demonic. The drugs seemed to be giving him an aura of angry red 
light, too.
Father, why can't you ever believe I might be in the right?
The book was on the "approved" list, Vanyel remembered with relief, as he 
recalled his tutor Istal assigning certain chapters to be memorized. "It's Herald 
Seldasen, Father," he said defiantly, finding strength in rebellion. "It's from a book 
Istal assigned me, about tactics." The words he remembered strengthened him 
still more, and he threw them into his father's face. "He said: 'Let every man that 
must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to any one school. Let 
the agile man use his speed, let his armoring be light, and let him skirmish, but 
not close with the enemy. Let the heavy man stand shoulder to shoulder with his 
comrades in the shield wall, that the enemy may not break through. Let the small 
man of good eye make good use of the bow, aye, and let the Herald fight with his 
mind and not his body, let the Herald-Mage combat with magic and not the 
sword. And let no man be called coward for refusing the place for which he is not 
fit.' And I didn't once hit anybody from behind! If Jervis says I did - well - I didn't!"
Lord Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one 
moment Vanyel actually thought he'd gotten through to his father, who was more 
accustomed to hearing him quote poetry than military history.

"Parrot some damned book at me, will you?" Lord Withen snarled, dashing 
Vanyel's hopes. "And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about 
fighting? You listen to me, boy - you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned 
well better learn what Jervis has to teach you if you want to sit in my place when 
I'm gone! If he says you were cheating, then by damn you were cheating!"

"But I wasn't cheating and I don't want your place - " Vanyel protested, the drugs 
destroying his self-control and making him say things he'd sooner have kept 
behind his teeth.

That stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he'd gone mad, 
grown a second head, or spoken in Karsite.

"Great good gods, boy," he managed to splutter after several icy eternities during 
which Vanyel waited for the roof to cave in. "What do you want?"

"I - " Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to 
be a Bard - 

"You ungrateful whelp - you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order 
you to do! You're my heir and you'll do your duty to me and to this holding if I 
have to see you half dead to get you to do it!"

And with that, he stormed out, leaving Vanyel limp with pain and anger and utter 
dejection, his eyes clamped tight against the tears he could feel behind them.

Oh, gods, what does he expect of me? Why can't I ever please him ? What do I 
have to do to convince him that I can't be what he wants me to be ? Die ?

And now - now my hand, oh, gods, it hurts - how much damage did they do to it ? 
Am I ever going to be able to play anything right again ?

"Heyla, Van - "
He opened his eyes, startled by the sound of a voice.

His door was cracked partway open; Radevel peered around the edge of it, and 
Vanyel could hear scuffling and whispers behind him.

"You all right?"

"No," Vanyel replied, suspiciously.

What the hell does he want?

Radevel's bushy eyebrows jumped like a pair of excited caterpillars. "Guess not. 
Bet it hurts."

"It hurts," Vanyel said, feeling a sick and sullen anger burning in the pit of his 
stomach.

You watched it happen. And you didn't do anything to stop it, cousin. And you 
didn't bother to defend me to Father, either. None of you did.

Radevel, instead of being put off, inched a little farther into the room. "Hey," he 
said, brightening, "you should have seen it! I mean, whack, an' that whole shield 
just split - an' you fell down an' that arm - "

''Will you go to hell?" Vanyel snarled, just about ready to kill him. "And you can 
take all those ghouls lurking out there with you!"

Radevel jumped, looked shocked, then looked faintly offended.

Vanyel didn't care. All that mattered was that Radevel - and whoever else was 
out there - took themselves away.

Left finally alone, Vanyel drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with fragmented 
bits of unhappy dreams. When he woke again, his mother was supervising the 
removal of his younger brother Mekeal and all Mekeal's belongings from the 
room.

Well, that was a change. Lady Treesa usually didn't interest herself in any of her 
offspring unless she had something to gain from it. On the other hand, Vanyel 
had been a part of her little court since the day he'd evidenced real talent at 
music about five years ago. She wouldn't want to lose her own private minstrel - 
which meant she'd best make certain he healed up all right.

"I won't have you racketing about," she was whispering to Mekeal with 
unconcealed annoyance on her plump, pretty face. "I won't have you keeping him 
awake when he should be sleeping, and I won't have you getting in the Healer's 
way."

Thirteen-year-old Mekeal, a slightly shrunken copy of his father, shrugged 
indifferently. " 'Bout time we went to bachelor's hall anyway, milady," he replied, 
as Lady Treesa turned to keep an eye on him. "Can't say as I'II miss the 
caterwauling an' the plunking."

Although Vanyel could only see his mother's back, he couldn't miss the frown in 
her voice. "It wouldn't hurt you to acquire a bit of Vanyel's polish, Mekeal," Lady 
Treesa replied.

Mekeal shrugged again, quite cheerfully. "Can't make silk out 'o wool, Lady 
Mother." He peered through dancing candlelight at Vanyel's side of the room. 

"Seems m'brother's awake. Heyla, peacock, they're movin' me down t' quarters; 
seems you get up here to yourself."

"Out!" Treesa ordered; and Mekeal took himself off with a heartless chuckle.

Vanyel spent the next candlemark with Treesa fussing and weeping over him; 
indulging herself in the histrionics she seemed to adore. In a way it was as hard 
to deal with as Withen's rage. He'd never been on the receiving end of her 
vapors before.

Oh, gods, he kept thinking confusedly, please make her go away. Anywhere, I 
don't care.

He had to keep assuring her that he was going to be all right when he was not at 
all certain of that himself, and Treesa's shrill, borderline hysteria set his nerves 
completely on edge. It was a decided relief when the Healer arrived again and 
gently chased her out to give him some peace.

The next few weeks were nothing but a blur of pain and potions - a blur endured 
with one or another of his mother's ladies constantly at his side. And they all 
flustered at him until he was ready to scream, including his mother's maid, 
Melenna, who should have known better. It was like being nursemaided by a 
covey of agitated doves. When they weren't worrying at him, they were preening 
at him. Especially Melenna.

"Would you like me to get you a pillow?" Melenna cooed.

"No," Vanyel replied, counting to ten. Twice.

"Can I get you something to drink?" She edged a little closer, and leaned 
forward, batting her eyelashes at him.

"No," he said, closing his eyes. "Thank you."

"Shall I - "

"No!" he growled, not sure which was worse at this moment, the pounding of his 
head, or Melenna's questions. At least the pounding didn't have to be 
accompanied by Melenna's questions.

Sniff.

He cracked an eyelid open, just enough to see her. She sniffed again, and a fat 
tear rolled down one cheek.

She was a rather pretty little thing, and the only one of his mother's ladies or 
maidservants who had managed to pick up Treesa's knack of crying without 
going red and blotchy. Vanyel knew that both Mekeal and Radevel had tried to 
get into her bed more than once. He also knew that she had her heart set on him.
And the thought of bedding her left him completely cold.

She sniffed a little harder. A week ago he would have sighed, and apologized to 
her, and allowed her to do something for him. Anything, just to keep her happy.

That was a week ago. Now - It's just a game for her, a game she learned from 
Mother. I'm tired of playing it. I'm sick to death of all their games.

He ignored her, shutting his eyes and praying for the potions to work. And finally 
they did, which at least gave him a rest from her company for a little while.

"Van?"

That voice would bring him out of a sound sleep, let alone the restless drug-daze 
he was in now. He struggled up out of the grip of fever-dreams to force his eyes 
open. 

Lissa was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in riding leathers.

"Liss - ?" he began, then realized what riding leathers meant. " - oh, gods - "

"Van, I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave you, but Father said it was now ot never." 

She was crying, not prettily like Lady Treesa, but with blotched cheeks and 
bloodshot eyes. "Van, please say you don't mind too much!"

"It's ... all right, Liss," he managed, fighting the words out around the cold lump in 
his throat and the colder one in his gut. "I ... know. You've got to do this. Gods, 
Liss, one of us has to get away!"

"Van - I - I'll find some way to help you, I promise. I'm almost eighteen; I'm almost 
free. Father knows the Guard is the only place for me; he hasn't had a marriage 
offer for me for two years. He doesn't dare ruin my chances for a post, or he'll be 
stuck with me. The gods know you're safe enough now - if anybody dared do 
anything before the Healer says you're fit, he'd make a protest to Haven. Maybe 
by the time you get the splints off, I'll be able to find a way to have you with me. 
..."

She looked so hopeful that Vanyel didn't have the heart to say anything to 
contradict her. "Do that, Liss. I - I'll be all right."

She hugged him, and kissed him, and then left him.

And then he turned to the wall and cried. Lissa was the only support he had had. 
The only person who loved him without reservations. And now she was gone.

After that, he stopped even pretending to care about anything. They didn't care 
enough about him to let Liss stay until he was well - so why should he care about 
anything or anyone, even enough to be polite?

"Armor does more than protect; it conceals. Helms hide faces - and your 
opponent becomes a mystery, an enigma.

Seldasen had that right. Just like those two down there.

The cruel, blank stares of the helm-slits gave no clues to the minds within. The 
two opponents drew their blades, flashed identical salutes, and retreated exactly 
twenty paces each to end at the opposite corners of the field. The sun was 
straight overhead, their shadows little more than pools at their feet. Twelve 
restive armored figures fidgeted together on one side of the square. The harsh 
sunshine bleached the short, dead grass to the color of light straw, and lit 
everything about the pair in pitiless detail.

Hmm. Not such enigmas once they move.

One fighter was tall, dangerously graceful, and obviously well-muscled beneath 
the protection of his worn padding and shabby armor. Every motion he made was 
precise, perilous - and professional.

The other was a head shorter. His equipment was new, the padding unfrayed, 
the metal lovingly burnished. But his movements were awkward, uncertain, 
perhaps fearful.

Still, if he feared, he didn't lack for courage. Without waiting for his man to make 
a move, he shouted a tremulous defiant battle cry and charged across the sun-
burnt grass toward the tall fighter. As his boots thudded on the hard, dry ground, 
he brought his sword around in a low-line attack.

The taller fighter didn't even bother to move out of his way; he simply swung his 
scarred shield to the side. The sword crunched into the shield, then slid oif, metal 
screeching on metal. The tall fighter swept his shield back into guard position, 
and answered the blow with a return that rang true on the shield of his opponent, 
then rebounded, while he turned the momentum of the rebound into a cut at the 
smaller fighter's head.

The pale stone of the keep echoed the sound of the exchange, a racket like a 
madman loose in a smithy. The smaller fighter was driven back with every blow, 
giving ground steadily under the hammerlike onslaught - until he finally lost his 
footing and fell over backward, his sword flying out of his hand.

There was a dull thud as he hit his head on the flinty, unforgiving ground.
He lay flat on his back for a moment, probably seeing stars, and scarcely moving, 
arms flung out on either side of him as if he meant to embrace the sun. Then he 
shook his head dazedly and tried to get up - 

Only to find the point of his opponent's sword at his throat.

"Yield, Boy," rumbled a harsh voice from the shadowed mouth-slit of the helmet. 
"Yield, or I run you through."

The smaller fighter pulled off his own helm to reveal that he was Vanyel's cousin 
Radevel. "If you run me through, Jervis, who's going to polish your mail?"

The point of the sword did not waver.

"Oh, all right," the boy said, with a rueful grin. "I yield."

The sword, a pot-metal practice blade, went back into its plain leather sheath. 
Jervis pulled off his own battered helm with his shield hand, as easily as if the 
weight of wood and bronze wasn't there. He shook out his sweat-dampened, 
blond hair and offered the boy his right, pulling him to his feet with the same 
studied, precise movements as he'd used when fighting.

"Next time, you yield immediately, Boy," the armsmaster rumbled, frowning. "If 
your opponent's in a hurry, he'll take banter for refusal, and you'll be a cold 
corpse."

Jervis did not even wait to hear Radevel's abashed assent. "You - on the end - 
Mekeal." He waved to Vanyel's brother at the side of the practice field. "Helm up."
Vanyel snorted as Jervis jammed his own helm back on his head, and stalked 
back to his former position, dead center of the practice ground. "The rest of you 
laggards," he growled, "let's see some life there. Pair up and have at."

Jervis doesn't have pupils, he has living targets, thought Vanyel, as he watched 
from the window. There isn't anyone except Father who could even give him a 
workout, yet he goes straight for the throat every damned time; he gets nastier 
every day. About all he does give them is that he only hits half force. Which is still 
enough to set Radev on his rump. Bullying bastard.

Vanyel leaned back on his dusty cushions, and forced his aching hand to run 
through the fingering exercise yet again. Half the lute strings plunked dully 
instead of ringing; both strength and agility had been lost in that hand.

I am never going to get this right again. How can I, when half the time I can't feel 
what I'm doing?

He bit his lip, and looked down again, blinking at the sunlight winking off Mekeal's 
helm four stories below. Every one of them will be moaning and plastering horse 
liniment on his bruises tonight, and boasting in the next breath about how long he 
lasted against Jervis this time. Thank you, no. Not I. One broken arm was 
enough. I prefer to see my sixteenth birthday with the rest of my bones intact.

This tiny tower room where Vanyel always hid himself when summoned to 
weapons practice was another legacy of Grandfather Joserlin's crazy building 
spree. It was Vanyel's favorite hiding place, and thus far, the most secure; a 
storage room just off the library. The only conventional access was through a tiny 
half-height door at the back of the library - but the room had a window - a window 
on the same side of the keep as the window of Vanyel's own attic-level room. 

Any time he wanted, Vanyel could climb easily out of his bedroom, edge along 
the slanting roof, and climb into that narrow window, even in the worst weather or 
the blackest night. The hard part was doing it unseen.

An odd wedge-shaped nook, this room was all that was left of the last landing of 
the staircase to the top floor - an obvious change in design, since the rest of the 
staircase had been turned into a chimney and the hole where the roof trapdoor 
had been now led to the chimney pot. But that meant that although there was no 
fireplace in the storeroom itself, the room stayed comfortably warm in the worst 
weather because of the chimney wall.

Not once in all the time Vanyel had taken to hiding here had anything new been 
added to the clutter or anything been sought for. Like many another of the old 
lord's eccentricities, its inaccessibility made it easy to ignore.

Which was fine, so far as Vanyel was concerned. He had his instruments up here 
- two of which he wasn't even supposed to own, the harp and the gittern - and 
any time he liked he could slip into the library to purloin a book.

At the point of the room he had an old chair to sprawl in, a collection of candle 
ends on a chest beside it so that he could read when the light was bad. His 
instruments were all safe from the rough hands and pranks of his brothers, and 
he could practice without anyone disturbing him.

He had arranged a set of old cushions by the window so that he could watch his 
brothers and cousins getting trounced all over the moat while he played - or tried 
to play. It afforded a ghost of amusement, sometimes. The gods knew he had 
little enough to smile about.

It was lonely - but Vanyel was always lonely, since Lissa had gone. It was bloody 
awkward to get to - but he couldn't hide in his room.

Though he hadn't found out until he'd healed up, the rest of his siblings and 
cousins had gone down to bachelor's hall with Mekeal while he'd been recovering 
from that broken arm. He hadn't, even when the Healer had taken the splints off. 

His brothers slandered his lute playing when they'd gone, telling his father they 
were just as happy for Vanyel to have his own room if he wanted to stay up 
there. Probably Withen, recalling how near the hall was to his own quarters, had 
felt the same. Vanyel didn't care; it meant that the room was his, and his alone - 
one scant bit of comfort.

His other place of refuge, his mother's solar, was no longer the retreat it had 
been. It was too easy for him to be found there, and there were other 
disadvantages lately; his mother's ladies and fosterlings had taken to flirting with 
him. He enjoyed that, too, up to a point - but they kept wanting to take it beyond 
the range of the game of courtly love to the romantic, for which he still wasn't 
ready. And Lady Treesa kept encouraging them at it.

Jervis drove Mekeal back, step by step. Fools, Vanyel thought scornfully, forcing 
his fingers through the exercise in time with Jervis' blows. They must be mad, to 
let that sour old man make Idiots out of them, day after day - maybe break their 
skulls, just like he broke my arm! Anger tightened his mouth, and the memory of 
the shuttered satisfaction he'd seen in Jervis' eyes the first time Vanyel had 
encountered him after the "accident" roiled in his stomach. Damn that bastard, he 
meant to break my arm, I know he did; he's good enough to judge any blow he 
deals to within a hair.

At least he had a secure hiding place; secure because getting into it took nerve, 
and neither Jervis, nor his father, nor any of the rest of them would ever have put 
him and a climb across the roof together in the same thought-even if they 
remembered the room existed.

The ill-assorted lot below didn't look to be relatives; the Ashkevron cousins had 
all gone meaty when they hit adolescence; big-boned, muscled like plow horses - 

 - and about as dense - 

 - but Withen's sons were growing straight up as well as putting on bulk.
Vanyel was the only one of the lot taking after his mother.

Withen seemed to hold that to be his fault, too.

Vanyel snorted as Mekeal took a blow to the helm that sent him reeling 
backward. That one should shake up his brains! Serves him right, too, carrying 
on about what a great warrior he's going to be. Clod-headed beanpole. All he can 
think about is hacking people to bits for the sake of ' 'honor.''

Glorious war, hah. Fool can't see beyond the end of his nose. For all that prating, 
if he ever saw a battlefield he'd wet himself.

Not that Vanyel had ever seen a real battlefield, but he was the possessor of a 
far more vivid imagination than anyone else in his family. He had no trouble in 
visualizing what those practice blades would be doing if they were real. And he 
had no difficulty at all in imagining the "deadlie woundes" of the ballads being 
inflicted on his body.

Vanyel paid close attention to his lessons, if not to weapons work. He knew all of 
the history ballads and unlike the rest of his peers, he knew the parts about what 
happened after the great battles as well - the lists of the dead, the dying, the 
maimed. It hadn't escaped his notice that when you added up those lists, the 
totals were a lot higher than the number of heroes who survived.

Vanyel knew damned well which list he'd be on if ever came to armed conflict. 
He'd learned his lesson only too well: why even try?

Except that every time he turned around Lord Withen was delivering another 
lecture on his duty to the hold.

Gods. I'm just as much a brute beast of burden as any donkey in the stables! 
Duty. That's bloody all I hear, he thought, staring out the window, but no longer 
seeing what lay beyond the glass. Why me? Mekeal would be a thousand times 
better Lord Holder than me, and he'd just love it! Why couldn't I have gone with 
Lissa?

He sighed and put the lute aside, reaching inside his tunic for the scrap of 
parchment that Trevor Corey's page had delivered to him after he'd given Lissa's 
"official" letters into Treesa's hands.

He broke the seal on it, and smoothed out the palimpsest carefully; clever Lissa 
to have filched the scraped and stained piece that no one would notice was 
gone! She'd used a good, strong ink though; even though the letters were a bit 
blurred, he had no trouble reading them.

Dearest Vanyel; if only you were here! I can't tell you how much I miss you. The 
Corey girls are quite sweet, but not terribly bright. A lot like the cousins, really. I 
know I should have written you before this, but I didn't have much of a chance. 
Your arm should be better now. If only Father wasn't so blind! What I'm learning 
is exactly what we were working out together.

Vanyel took a deep breath against the surge of anger at Withen's unreasonable 
attitude.

But we both know how he is, so don't argue with him, love. Just do what you 're 
told. It won't be forever, really it won't. Just - hold on. I'll do what I can from this 
end. Lord Corey is a lot more reasonable than Father ever was and maybe I can 
get him talked into asking for you. Maybe that will work. Just be really good, and 
maybe Father will be happy enough with you to do that. Love, Liss.

He folded the letter and tucked it away. Oh, Liss. Not a chance. Father would 
never let me go there, not after the way I've been avoiding my practices. "It won't 
be forever, " hmm? I suppose that's right. I probably won't live past the next time 
Jervis manages to catch up with me. Gods. Why is it that nobody ever asks me 
what I want - or when they do ask, why can't they mean it and listen to me?

He blinked, and looked again at the little figures below, still pounding away on 
each other, like so many tent pegs determined to drive each other into the 
ground.

He turned restlessly away from the window, stood up, and replaced the lute in 
the makeshift stand he'd contrived for it beside his other two instruments.

And everywhere I turn I get the same advice. From Liss - ' 'don't fight, do what 
Father asks.'' From Mother-crying, vapors, and essentially the same thing. She's 
not exactly stupid; if she really cared about me, she could manage Father 
somehow. But she doesn't care - not when backing me against Father is likely to 
cost her something. And when I tried to tell Father Leren about what Jervis was 
really like - 

He shuddered. The lecture about filial duty was bad enough - but the one about 
"proper masculine behavior" - you'd have thought I'd been caught fornicating 
sheep! And all because I objected to having my bones broken. It's like I'm doing 
something wrong somewhere, but no one will tell me what it is and why it's 
wrong! I thought maybe Father Leren would understand since he's a priest, but 
gods, there's no help coming from that direction.

For a moment he felt trapped up here; the secure retreat turned prison. He didn't 
dare go out, or he'd be caught and forced into that despised armor - and Jervis 
would lay into him with a vengeful glee to make up for all the practices he'd 
managed to avoid. He looked wistfully beyond the practice field to the wooded 
land and meadows beyond. It was such a beautiful day; summer was just 
beginning, and the breeze blowing in his open window was heady with the aroma 
of the hayfields in the sun. He longed to be out walking or riding beneath those 
trees; he was as trapped by the things he didn't dare do as by the ones he had 
to.

Tomorrow I 'II have to go riding out with Father on his rounds, he gloomed, And 
no getting out of that. He'll have me as soon as I come down for breakfast.		

That was a new torment, added since he'd recovered. It was nearly as bad as 
being under Jervis' thumb. He shuddered, thinking of all those farmers, staring, 
staring - like they were trying to stare into his soul. This was not going to be a 
pleasure jaunt, for all that he loved to ride. No, he would spend the entire day 
listening to his father lecture him on the duties of the Lord Holder to the tenants 
who farmed for him and the peasant-farmers who held their lands under his 
protection and governance. But that was not the worst aspect of the ordeal.
It was the people themselves; the way they measured him with their eyes, 
opaque eyes full of murky thoughts that he could not read. Eyes that expected 
everything of him; that demanded things of him that he did not want to give, and 
didn't know how to give even if he had wanted to.

I don't want them looking to me like that! I don't want to be responsible for their 
lives! He shuddered again. I wouldn't know what to do in a drought or an 
invasion, and what's more, I don't care! Gods, they make my skin crawl, all those 
- people, eating me alive with their eyes - 

He turned away from the window, and knelt beside his instruments; stretched out 
his hand, and touched the smooth wood, the taut strings. Oh, gods - if I weren't 
me - if I could just have a chance to be a Bard - 

In the days before his arm had been hurt he had often imagined himself a Court 
Bard, not in some out-of-the-way corner like Forst Reach, but one of the Great 
Courts; Gyrefalcon's Marches or Southron Keep. Or even the High Court of 
Valdemar at Haven. Imagined himself the center of a circle of admirers, languid 
ladies and jewel-bedecked lords, all of them hanging enraptured on every word 
of his song. He could let his imagination transport him to a different life, the life of 
his dreams. He could actually see himself surrounded, not by the girls of Treesa's 
bower, but by the entire High Court of Valdemar, from Queen Elspeth down, until 
the visualization was more real than his true surroundings. He could see, hear, 
feel, all of them waiting in impatient anticipation for him to sing - the bright 
candles, the perfume, the pregnant silence – 

Now even that was lost to him. Now practices were solitary, for there was no 
Lissa to listen to new tunes. Lissa had been a wonderful audience; she had a 
good ear, and knew enough about music to be trusted to tell him the truth. She 
had been the only person in the keep besides Treesa who didn't seem to think 
there was something faintly shameful about his obsession with music. And she 
was the only one who knew of his dream of becoming a Bard.

There were no performances before his mother's ladies, either, because he 
refused to let them hear him fumble.

And all because of the lying, bullying bastard his father had made armsmaster - 

"Withen - "

He froze; startled completely out of his brooding by the sound of his mother's 
breathless, slightly shrill voice just beyond the tiny door to the library. He knelt 
slowly and carefully, avoiding the slightest noise. The last thing he wanted was to 
have his safe hiding place discovered!

"Withen, what is it you've dragged me up here to tell me that you couldn't have 
said in my solar?" she asked. Vanyel could tell by the edge in her voice that she 
was ruffled and not at all pleased.

Vanyel held his breath, and heard the sound of the library door being closed, 
then his father's heavy footsteps crossing the library floor.

A long, ponderous silence. Then, "I'm sending Vanyel away," Withen said, 
brusquely.

"What?" Treesa shrilled. "You - how - where - why? In the gods' names, Withen, 
why?"

Vanyel felt as if someone had turned his heart into stone, and his body into clay.

"I can't do anything with the boy, Treesa, and neither can Jervis," Withen 
growled. "I'm sending him to someone who can make something of him."

"You can't do anything because the two of you seem to think to 'make something 
of him' you have to force him to be something he can never be!" Treesa's voice 
was muffled by the intervening wall, but the note of hysteria was plain all the 
same. "You put him out there with a man twice his weight and expect him to - "

"To behave like a man! He's a sniveler, a whiner, Treesa. He's more worried 
about damage to his pretty face and delicate little hands than damage to his 
honor, and you don't help matters by making him the pet of the bower. Treesa, 
the boy's become nothing more than a popinjay, a vain little peacock - and worse 
than that, he's a total coward."

"A coward! Gods, Withen - only you would say that!" Lady Treesa's voice was 
thick with scorn. "Just because he's too clever to let that precious armsmaster of 
yours beat him insensible once a day!"

"So what does he do instead? Run off and hide because once - just once - he got 
his poor little arm broken! Great good gods, I'd broken every bone in my body at 
least once by the time I was his age!"

"Is that supposed to signify virtue?" she scoffed. "Or stupidity?"

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 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!"

"Huh. You've got that right," Larence echoed, shifting his feet restlessly. "Dammit, 
we're all seconds, thirds - we all need a chance like that, or we'll be stuck doing 
nothing at the end of nowhere for the rest of our lives! We're never going to get 
anywhere, stuck off here in the back of beyond."

"And think of the ladies," added Kerle, rolling his eyes up and kissing his hand at 
the ceiling. "All the loveliest darlings in the kingdom."

He ducked, laughing, as Jyllian feinted a blow at his head, then shook her fist at 
him in mock-anger.

"Dammit, think a bit," Mekeal persisted. "What in Haven's name has he done to 
deserve getting rewarded like that? All he does around here is play he's a 
minstrel, look down that long nose of his at the rest of us, and shirk every duty he 
can!" Mekeal glowered and pounded his fist into the palm of his other hand to 
emphasize his words. "He's Mother's little darling, but - there's no way she'd have 
talked Father into sending him off, you all saw how she acted! So why? Why him, 
when the rest of us would die to get a chance to go to the capital?"

Joserlin continued to stare off into the dark; he was still putting together what 
he'd been observing. Everyone looked expectantly at him when Mekeal subsided 
and he cleared his throat. They all knew at this point that he was not the bright 
intellectual light among his brothers and cousins that Vanyel was, but he had a 
knack of seeing to the heart of things, and they wanted to hear if he had an 
answer for them. He usually did, and as they had half expected, this time was no 
exception.

"What makes you all think it's a reward?" he asked quietly.

The astonishment in the faces turned to his, followed by the light of dawning 
understanding, made him nod as he saw them come to the same conclusion he 
had made.

"You see?" he said, just as quietly as before. "It isn't a reward for Vanyel - it's an 
exile."

Vanyel didn't have to control his trembling when he reached the safe, concealing 
shelter of the hallway, but he didn't dare pause there. Someone might take it into 
his or her head to follow him.

But what he could do - now that he was out of the range of prying, curious eyes 
and ears - was run.

So he did, though he ran as noiselessly as he could, fleeing silently behind his 
shadow through the dim, uncertain light of the hallways. His flight took him past 
the dark, closed doorways leading to the bower, to bachelor's hall, to the chapel. 
His shadow sprang up before him every time he passed a lantern or torch, 
splaying out thin and spidery on the floor. He kept his head down so that if 
anyone should happen to come out of one of those doorways, they wouldn't see 
how close he was to tears.

But no one appeared; he reached the safe shelter of the servants' wing without 
encountering a single soul. Once there he dashed heedlessly up the stone 
staircase. Someone had extinguished the lanterns on the staircase itself; Vanyel 
didn't care. He'd run up these stairs often enough when half blind from trying not 
to cry, and his feet knew the way of themselves.

He hit the top landing at a dead run, and made the last few feet to his own door 
in a few heartbeats. He was sobbing for breath as he fumbled out his key in the 
dark and unlocked it - and the tears were threatening to spill.

Spill they did as soon as he got the door open. He shut and locked it behind him, 
leaning his back against it, head thrown back and resting against the rough 
wood. He swallowed his sobs out of sheer, prideful refusal to let anyone know of 
his unhappiness, even a servant, but hot tears poured down his cheeks and 
soaked into the neck of his tunic, and he couldn't make them stop.

They hate me. They all hate me. I knew they didn't much like me, but I never 
knew how much they hated me.

Never had he felt so utterly alone and nakedly vulnerable. At that moment if he 
could have ensured his death he'd have thrown himself out of his window. But as 
he'd noted earlier, it wasn't that far to the ground; and pain was a worse prospect 
than loneliness.

Finally he stumbled to his bed, pulled his clothing off, and crawled under the 
blankets, shivering with the need to keep from crying out loud.
But despite his best efforts, the tears started again, and he muffled his sobs in 
his pillow.

Oh, Liss - oh, Liss - I don't know what to do! Nobody cares, nobody gives a damn 
about me, nobody would ever risk a hangnail for me but you - and they 've taken 
you out of reach. I'm afraid, and I'm alone, and Father's trying to break me, I 
know he is.

He turned over, and stared into the darkness above him, feeling his eyes burn. I 
wish I could die. Now.

He tried to will his heart to stop, but it obstinately ignored him.

Why can't they just leave me alone ? He closed his burning eyes, and bit his lip. 
Why?

He lay in his bed, feeling every lump in the mattress, every prickle in the sheets; 
every muscle was tensed until it ached, his head was throbbing, and his eyes still 
burning.

He lay there for at least an eternity, but the oblivion he hoped for didn't come. 
Finally he gave up on trying to sleep, fumbled for the candle at his bedside, and 
slid out into the stuffy darkness of the room. He grabbed up his robe from the foot 
of the bed and pulled it on over his trembling, naked body, and began crossing 
the floor to the door.

Though the room itself was warm - too warm - the tiled floor was shockingly cold 
under his feet. He felt his way to the door, and pressed his ear against the crack 
at the side, listening with all his might for any sounds from the corridor and stairs 
beyond.

Nothing.

He cautiously slipped the inside bolt; listened again. Still nothing. He cracked the 
door and peered around the edge into the corridor.

It was thankfully empty. But the nearest lantern was all the way down at the dead 
end.

He took a deep breath and drew himself up; standing as tall and resolutely erect 
as if he were Lord of the Keep himself. He walked calmly, surely, down the empty 
corridor, with just as much arrogance as if all his cousins' eyes were on him. 

Because there was no telling when one of the upper servants who had their 
rooms along this hall might take it into their heads to emerge - and servants 
talked. Frequently.

And they would talk if one of them got a glimpse of Vanyel in tears. It would be all 
over the keep in a candle-mark.

He lit his candle at the lantern, and made another stately progress back to his 
room. Only when he had securely bolted the door behind him did he let go of the 
harpstring-taut control he'd maintained outside. He began shaking so hard that 
the candle flame danced madly, and spilled drops of hot wax on his hands.
He lit the others in their sconces by the door and over the bed as quickly as he 
could, and placed the one he was clutching in the holder on his table before he 
could burn himself with it.

He sat down heavily on the rucked-up blankets, sucking the side of his thumb 
where hot wax had scorched him, and staring at his belongings, trying to decide 
what his father was likely to let him take with him.

He didn't even bother to consider his instruments. They were far safer where they 
were. Maybe someday - if he survived this - he could come back and get them. 
But there was no chance, none at all, that he could sneak them out in his 
belongings. And if his father found them packed up - 

He'd smash them. He'd smash them, and laugh, and wait for me to say or do 
something about it.

He finally got up and knelt on the chill stone beside the chest that held his 
clothing. He raised the heavy, carved lid, and stared down at the top layer for a 
long moment before lifting it out.

Tunics, shirts, breeches, hose - all in the deep, jewel-tones of sapphire and 
aquamarine and emerald that he knew looked so good on him, or his favorite 
black, silvery or smoky gray. All clothing he wore because it was one tiny way to 
defy his father - because his father could wear the same three outfits all year, all 
of them identical, and never notice, never care. Because his father didn't give a 
damn about what he or anyone else wore - and it angered him that Vanyel did.
Vanyel pondered the clothing, stroking the soft raime of a shirt without much 
thinking about what he was doing. He won't dare keep me from taking the 
clothes, though I bet he'd like to. I'll have to look presentable when I get there, or 
I'll shame him - and the stuff Mekeal and the rest scruff around in is not 
presentable.

He began rolling the clothing carefully, and stowing it into the traveling packs 
kept in the bottom of the chest. Though he didn't dare take an instrument, he 
managed to secrete some folded music, some of his favorite pieces, between the 
pages of the books he packed. Bards are thick as birds in a cherry grove at 
Haven, he thought with a lump in his throat. Maybe I can get one to trade an old 
gittern for a cloak-brooch or something. It won't be the same as my lovely 
Woodlark, but it'll be better than nothing. Provided I can keep Aunt Unsavory 
from taking it away from me.

It was all too quickly done. He found himself on the floor beside the filled packs 
with nothing more to do. He looked around his room; there was nothing left to 
pack that he would miss - except for those few things that he wanted to take but 
didn't dare.

Pretty fine life I've led, when all of it fits in four packs.

He got slowly to his feet, feeling utterly exhausted, yet almost too weary to sleep. 
He blew out all the candles except the one at his bedside, slipped out of his robe, 
tucked it into the top of the last pack, and climbed back into bed.

Somehow he couldn't bring himself to blow out the last candle. While there was 
light in the room he could keep the tears back. But darkness would set them free.
He lay rigid, staring silently at the candlelight wavering on the slanted ceiling, 
until his eyes burned.

All the brothers and fosterlings shared rooms; Mekeal had shared his with Vanyel 
until his older brother's broken arm had sent Mekeal down here a year early. And 
when Vanyel hadn't made the move down - Mekeal hadn't been particularly 
unhappy.

So for a while he had this one to himself, at which point he found that he really 
hadn't liked being alone after all. He liked company. Now, though - at least since 
late spring - he'd shared with Joserlin.

That had been fine with him. Jos was the next thing to an adult; Mekeal had been 
excited to have him move in, pleased with his company, and proud that Jos had 
treated him like an equal. And Jos talked to him; he didn't talk much, but when he 
did it was worth listening to. But he'd already said his say earlier tonight - so 
Mekeal had thought.

So he was kind of surprised when Jos' deep voice broke the silence right after 
they'd blown the candles out.

"Mekeal, why are you younglings so hard on your brother?"

Mekeal didn't have to ask which brother, it was pretty plain who Jos meant. But - 
"hard on him?" How could you be hard on somebody who didn't give a damn 
about anything but himself?

" 'Cause he's a - toad," Mekeal said indignantly. "He's got no more backbone 
than a mushroom! He's a baby, a coward - an' the only thing he cares about's 
his-self! He's just like Mama - she's gone and made him into a mama-pet, a 
shirker."

"Hmm? Really? What makes you so sure of that last?"

"Father says, and Jervis - "

"Because he won't let Jervis pound him like a set of pells." Joserlin snorted with 
absolute contempt. "Can't says as I much blame him, myself. If I was built like 
him, with Jervis on my back, reckon I'd find a hiding-hole, too. I sure's Haven 
wouldn't go givin' Jervis more chances t' hit on me."

Mekeal's mouth fell open in shock, and he squirmed around in his bed to face 
where Joserlin was, a dark bulk to his right. "But - but - Jervis - he's armsmaster!"

"He's a ham-handed lackwit," came the flat reply. "You forget, Meke, I was 
fostered with Lord Kendrik; I learned under a real armsmaster; Master Orser, and 
he's a good one. Jervis wouldn't be anything but another armsman if he hadn't 
been an old friend of your father's. He don't deserve to be armsmaster. Havens, 
Meke, he goes after the greenest of you like you was his age, his weight, and his 
experience! He don't pull his blows half the time; and he don't bother to show you 
how to take 'em, just lets you fumble it out for yourselves. An' he don't know but 
one bare style, an' that one's Holy Writ!"

"But - "

"But nothin'. He's no great master, let me tell you; by my way of thinkin' he's no 
master at all. If I was Vanyel, I'd'a poisoned myself before I let the old goat take 
his spleen out on me again! I heard what happened this spring - about how he 
took after Van an' beat him down a half dozen times, an' then broke his arm."

"But - he was cheating!" Mekeal protested.

"No such thing; Radevel told me what really happened. Before that bastard 
managed to convince you lot that you didn't see Van getting beaten up 'cause he 
bested the old peabrain. That weren't nothing but plain old bullying, an' if my old 
armsmaster had treated one of his pupils that way, he'd have been kicked off the 
top of the tower by Lord Kendrick hisself!''

Mekeal could hardly believe what he was hearing. "But - " he protested again. 
"But Father - "

"Your father's a damn fool," Joserlin replied shortly. "An' I won't beg your pardon 
for sayin' so. He's a damn fool for keepin' Jervis as Master, an' he's a damn fool 
for treatin' young Vanyel the way he does. He's beggin' for trouble ev'ry time he 
pushes that boy. Half of what Vanyel does he made him do - to spite him. You 
mark my words; I seen this before, only the opposite. Place next to where I was 
fostered at your age, old Lady Cedrys at Briary Holding. Old Cedrys, she was big 
on scholarly stuff; nothin' would do but for her oldest t' be at the books night and 
day.'Cept her oldest was like you, mad for the Guard. And the more Cedrys 
pushed books, the more Liaven ran for the armsmaster at our place, till one day 
he kept right on running and didn't stop till he'd signed up with a common 
mercenary-company, an' she never saw him again."

"But - Jos - you've seen him, the way he lords it over us like he was King of the 
Gods or something - keeping his nose in the air every time he looks at us."

"Uh-huh," Joserlin replied out of the dark, "And some of it's 'cause he's spoiled 
flat rotten by Lady Treesa. I won't deny that; he's one right arrogant little wart an' 
he sure knows he's the prettiest thing on the holding. Makes sure everybody else 
knows it, too. But I can't help but wonder how much he sticks that nose in the air 
around you lot 'cause you seem so bent on rubbin' it in the dirt. Hmm?"

Mekeal could find nothing to say in reply.

I could run away, Vanyel thought, almost dizzy with weariness, but still finding 
sleep eluding him. Icould run away - I think - 

He chewed his lip until it bled. If I did, what could I do? Go for sanctuary? Gods, 
no - there is no way I was meant to be a priest! I don't write well enough to be a 
scribe, and besides, there isn't a lord would hire me once they found out who I 
was. Father would see to that, I know he would. Oh, gods, why didn't you make 
me a Bard?

He licked the corner of his mouth, struck with a kindred though,!. I could try my 
hand at minstrelsy, couldn't I? I couldn't, I daren't show my face at any large 
courts, but there's a bit of coin to be had singing almost anywhere else.

For a moment it seemed the way out. He need only slip across to the storeroom 
and get his instruments, then run off before dawn. He could be far away before 
anyone realized he was gone, and not just hiding again.

But - no.

My hand - my hand. Until it's working right, I can't do anything but the barest 
simple music. If I can't play right, there's no way I could look for a place in a 
household. And without the kind of noble patronage I can't look for, I won't be 
able to do much more than keep myself fed. I can't live like that, I just can't! I 
can't sing for farmers in the taverns and the folks in the fairs, I can't go begging 
like that, not to peasants. Not unless it looks like Savil is going to poison me, and 
I don't bloody think that's likely.

She's a Herald; Heralds don't do that sort of thing even to please their brothers. 
He sighed, and the candle went out. No, it won't work. There's no way to escape.
He waited, feeling the lump growing in his throat, threatening to undermine him 
again. The tears were going to come - going to weaken him still further, push him 
down into helplessness.

The darkness closed around him like a fist, and he fought against crying with 
such single-mindedness that he never quite knew when he passed from a half-
daze into troubled, dream-haunted sleep.

He was alone, completely alone. For once in his life there was no one pushing 
him, no one mocking him. Above him was only dull gray sky; around him a plain 
of ice and snow stretched glittering to the horizon.

Everywhere he looked there was nothing but that barren, white plain. Completely 
empty, completely featureless. It was so cold he felt numb.

Numb. Not aching inside. Not ready to weep at a single word. Just - cold.
No pain. Just - nothing. He just stood, for several long moments, savoring the 
unfeeling, the lack of pain.

Safe. He was safe here. No one could touch him. As long as he stayed in this 
isolation, this wilderness, no one could touch him.

He opened his eyes wide in the dream, and breathed the words out. "If no one 
touches me - no one can hurt me. All I have to do is never care.''

It was like a revelation, a gift from the hitherto-uncaring gods. This place, this 
wilderness of ice - if he could hold it inside him - if he could not-care enough-he 
could be safe. No matter what happened, who hated him, no one could ever hurt 
him again.

Not ever again.


		


Three
		

In the morning all he had to do was think of his dream, and he was cold inside, 
ice filling the place within him where the hurt and loneliness had been. He could 
be as remote and isolated as a hermit on a frozen mountaintop, any time he 
chose.

It was like taking a drug against pain. An antidote to loneliness. Idifference was a 
defense now, and not just a pose.

Could this armor of indifference serve as an offensive weapon too? It was worth 
a try.

After all, he had nothing to lose; the worst had already occurred.

He dressed quickly; riding leathers that had originally been brown that he had 
ordered redyed to black - without his father's knowledge. He was very glad that 
he'd done so, now. Black always made him look taller, older - and just a little bit 
sinister. It was a good choice for a confrontation. It was also the color of death; 
he wanted to remind his father of just how often the man had Vanyel - elsewhere.
He had second thoughts about his instruments, at least the lute, which he had 
been permitted. He wouldn't pack it, but it should be here, else Lord Withen might 
wonder where it was.

Besides, if he could confront Withen with it, then force the issue by packing it in 
front of his eyes - 

It might gain him something. So he slipped quickly across to his hiding place and 
back before the sun actually rose, and when Withen came pounding on his door,
he was ensconced below the window with the instrument in his hands, picking 
out a slow, but intricate little melody. One where his right hand was doing most of 
the work. He had staged the entire scene with the deliberate intent to make it 
seem as if he had been there for hours.

Lord Withen had, no doubt, expected to find his oldest son still in his bed - had 
expected to rouse out a confused and profoundly unhappy boy into the thin, gray 
light of post-dawn. Had undoubtedly counted on rinding Vanyel as vulnerable as 
he had been last night.

That would have pleased you, wouldn't it, Father - it would have given you such 
confirmation of my worth-lessness. . . .

Instead, he flung the door open after a single knock - to find Vanyel awake, 
packed, and already dressed for travel, lute suddenly stilled by his entrance.
Vanyel looked up, and regarded his father with what he hoped was a cool and 
distant arrogance, exactly the kind of expression one would turn upon a complete 
stranger who had suddenly intruded himself without invitation.

His surprise and the faint touch of unease in his eyes gave Vanyel the first 
feelings of gratification he'd had in a long time.

He placed his lute on the bed beside him, and stood up slowly, drawing himself 
up as pridefully erect as he could. "As you see, sir - " he lifted a single finger and 
nodded his head very slightly in the direction of his four packs. " - I am prepared 
already."

Lord Withen was obviously taken further aback by his tone and abstracted 
manner. He coughed, and Vanyel realized with a sudden surge of vindictive joy 
that he, for once, had the advantage in a confrontation.

Then Withen flushed as Vanyel stooped quickly and caught up the neck of his 
lute, detuning it with swift and practiced fingers and stuffing it quickly into its 
traveling bag.

That was a challenge even Withen recognized. He glowered, and made as if to 
take the instrument from his son - 		

And Vanyel drew himself up to his full height. He said nothing. He only gave back 
Withen a stare that told him - 

Push me. Do it. See what happens when you do. I have absolutely nothing to 
lose and I don't care what happens to me.

Withen actually backed up a pace at the look in his son's eyes.

"You may take your toy, but don't think this means you can spend all your time 
lazing about with those worthless Bards," Withen blustered, trying to regain the 
high ground he'd lost the moment he thrust the door open. "You're going to Savil 
to learn something other than - "

' 'I never imagined I would be able to for a moment - sir," Vanyel interrupted, and 
produced a bitter not-smile. "I'm quite certain," he continued with carefully 
measured venom, "that you have given my aunt very explicit instructions on the 
subject. And on my education. Sir."

Withen flushed again. Vanyel felt another rush of poisonous pleasure. You know 
and I know what this is really about, don't we, Father? But you want me to 
pretend it's something else, at least in public. Too bad. I don't intend to make this 
at all easy on you, and I don't intend to be graceful in public. I have the high 
ground, Father. I don't give a damn anymore, and that gives me a weapon you 
don't have.

Withen made an abrupt gesture, and a pair of servants entered Vanyel's room 
from the corridor beyond, each picking up two packs and scurrying out of the 
door as quickly as they could. Vanyel pulled the shoulder strap of the lute over 
his own head, arranging the instrument on his back, as a clear sign that he did 
not intend anyone else to be handling it.

"You needn't see me off, sir," he said, when Withen made no move to follow the 
servants with their burdens. "I'm sure you have - more important things to attend 
to."

Withen winced, visibly. Vanyel strolled silently past him, then turned to deliver a 
parting shot, carefully calculated to hurt as much as only a truth that should not 
be spoken could.

"After all, sir," he cast calmly over his shoulder, "It isn't as if I mattered. You have 
four other potential – and far worthier - heirs. I am sorry you saw fit not to inform 
my mother of my hour of departure; it would have been pleasant to say farewell 
to someone who will miss my presence."

Withen actually flinched.

Vanyel raised one eyebrow. "Don't bother to wish me well, sir. I know what 
Father Leren preaches about the importance of truth, and I would not want you to 
perjure yourself."

The stricken look on Withen's face made a cold flame of embittered satisfaction 
spring up in Vanyel's ice-shrouded soul. He turned on his heel and strode firmly 
down the corridor after the scuttling servants, not giving his father the chance to 
reply, nor to issue orders to the servants.

He passed the two servants with his packs in the dim, gray-lit hallway, and 
gestured peremptorily that they should follow him. Again, he felt that blackly bitter 
satisfaction; obviously Lord Withen had intended that his son should have 
scampered along in the servants' wake. But the sudden reversal of roles had 
confused Withen and left the servants without clear instructions. Vanyel seized 
the unlooked-for opportunity and held to it with all his might. For once, just this 
once, Vanyel had gotten the upper hand in a situation, and he did not intend to 
relinquish it until he was forced to.

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 'II 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 edged 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 
stupified 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 arms-men 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 rode up toll; 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 he 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, Ts 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."

"Never saw m'lord set so on his rump before," Garth agreed, speaking slowly. 

"Ain't never seen him taken down like that by a lord, much less a grass-green 
youngling. An' never saw that boy do anythin' like it before, neither. Boy's got 
sharp a'sudden; give 'im that. Too sharp?''

"Hmm..No - " the other said. "No, I reckon in this case, he be right." Silence for a 
moment, then a laugh. "Y'know, I 'spect his Majesty just don't want to have t' 
lissen t' us gabbin' away at each other. Mebbe we bore 'im, eh? What th' hell, I 
could stand a beer. You?"

"Eh, if you're buy in', Erek - "

Their voices faded as the door to the hall beyond scraped open, then closed 
again.

Vanyel sighed out the breath he'd been holding in, and took the two steps he 
needed to reach the table, sagging down into the hard, wooden chair beside it.
Tired. Gods, I am so tired. This farce is taking more out of me than I thought it 
would.

He stared numbly at the candle flame, and then transferred his gaze to the bright, 
flickering reflections on the brown earthenware bottle beside it.

It's awful wine - but it is wine. I suppose I could get good and drunk. There 
certainly isn't anything else to do. At least nothing they'll let me do. Gods, they 
think I'm some kind of prig. "His Majesty" indeed.

He shook his head. What's wrong with me? Why should it matter what a couple 
of armsmen think about me? Why should I even want them on my side ? Who 
are they, anyway ? What consequence are they ? They 're just a bare step up 
from dirt-grubbing farmers! Why should I care what they think? Besides, they 
can't affect what happens to me.

He sighed again, and tried to summon a bit more of the numbing disinterest he'd 
sustained himself with this whole, filthy day.

It wouldn't come, at first. There was something in the way - 

Nothing matters, he told himself sternly. Least of all what they think about you.
He closed his eyes again, and managed this time to summon a breath of the chill 
of his dream-sanctuary. It helped.

After a while he shifted, making the chair creak, and tried to think of something to 
do - maybe to put the thoughts running round his head into a set of lyrics. 
Instead, he found he could hear, muffled, and indistinct, the distracting sounds of 
the common room somewhere a floor below and several hundred feet away.

The laughter, in particular, came across clearly. Vanyel bit his lip as he tried to 
think of the last time he'd really laughed, and found he couldn't remember it.

Dammit, I am better than they are, I don't need them, I don't need their stupid 
approval! He reached hastily for the bottle, poured an earthenware mug full of the 
thin, slightly vinegary stuff, and gulped it down. He poured a second, but left it on 
the table, rising instead and taking his lute from the corner. He stripped the 
padded bag off of it, and began retuning it before the wine had a chance to 
muddle him.

At least there was music. There was always music. And the attempt to get what 
he'd lost back again.

Before long the instrument was nicely in tune. That was one thing that minstrel - 
What was his name? Shanse, that was it - had praised unstintingly. Vanyel, he'd 
said, had a natural ear. Shanse had even put Vanyel in charge of tuning his 
instruments while he stayed at Forst Reach.

He took the lute back to the bed, and laid it carefully on the spread while he 
shoved the table up against the bedstead. He curled up with his back against the 
headboard, the bottle and mug in easy reach, and began practicing those 
damned finger exercises.

It might have been the wine, but his hand didn't seem to be hurting quite as much 
this time.

The bottle was half empty and his head buzzing a bit when there was a soft tap 
on his door.

He stopped in mid-phrase, frowning, certain he'd somehow overheard something 
from the next room. But the tapping came a second time, soft, but insistent, and 
definitely coming from his door.

He shook his head a little, hoping to clear it, and put the lute in the corner of the 
bed. He took a deep breath to steady his thoughts, uncurled his legs, rose, and 
paced (weaving only a little) to the door.

He cracked it open, more than half expecting it to be one of his captors come to 
tell him to shut the hell up so that they could get some sleep.

"Oh!" said the young girl who stood there, her eyes huge with, surprise; one 
wearing the livery of one of the inn's servants. He had caught her with her hand 
raised, about to tap on the door a third time. Beyond her the armsmen's room 
was mostly dark and quite empty.

"Yes?" he said, blinking his eyes, which were not focusing properly. When he'd 
gotten up, the wine had gone to his head with a vengeance.

"Uh - I just - " the girl was not as young as he'd thought, but fairly pretty; soft 
brown eyes, curly dark hair. Rather like a shabby copy of Melenna. "Just - ye 
wasn't down wi' th' others, m'lord, an' I wunnered if ye needed aught?"

"No, thank you," he replied, still trying to fathom why she was out there, trying to 
think through a mist of wine-fog. Unless - that armsman Garth might well have 
sent her, to make certain he was still where he was supposed to be.

The ties of the soft yellow blouse she was wearing had come loose, and it was 
slipping off one shoulder, exposing the round shoulder and a goodly expanse of 
the mound of one breast. She wet her lips, and edged closer until she was 
practically nose-to-nose with him.

"Are ye sure, m'lord?" she breathed. "Are ye sure ye cain't think of nothin'?"

Good gods, he realized with a start, she's trying to seduce me!

He used the ploy that had been so successful with his Mother's ladies. He let his 
expression chill down to where it would leave a skin of ice OB a goblet of water. 
"Quite certain, thank you, mistress."

She was either made of sterner stuff than they had been, or else the subtler 
nuances of expression went right over her head.

Or, third possibility, she found either Vanyel or his presumably fat purse too 
attractive to let go without a fight.

"I c'd turn yer bed down fer ye, m'lord," she persisted, snaking an arm around the 
door to glide her hand along Vanyel's buttock and leg. He was only wearing a 
shirt and hose, and felt the unsubtle caress with a star-tlement akin to panic.

"No, please!" he yelped in shock; the high-pitched, strangled shout startled her 
enough so that she pulled back her arm. He slammed the door in her face and 
locked it.

He waited with his ear pressed up against the crack in the door; waited for an 
explosion of some kind. Nothing happened; he heard her muttering to herself for 
a moment, sounding very puzzled, then finally heard her retreating footsteps and 
the sound of the outer door opening and closing again.

He staggered back to the bed, and sat down on it, heavily. Finally he reached for 
the lute, detuned it, and put it back in its traveling case.

Then he reached for the bottle and gulped the wine as fast as he could pour it 
down his throat.

Oh, lord - oh, gods. A fool. After everything this morning, after I start to feel like 
I'm getting a grip on things, and I go and act like a fool. Like a kid. Like a baby 
who'd never seen a whore before.

He burned with humiliation as he imagined the girl telling his guards what had 
just passed between them. And drank faster.

He did remember to unlock his door and blow out the candle before he passed 
out. If Sun and Shadow out there decided to take it into their heads to check on 
him, he didn't want them breaking the door down. That would be even more 
humiliating than having them follow him to the privy, or laughing at him with the 
girl.

I've never been this drunk before, he thought muzzily, as he sank back onto the 
bed. I bet I have a head in the morning....

He snorted then, a sound with no amusement in it. At least if I'm hung over, it'll 
make Trusty and Faithful happy. If they can't report to Father that I tried to 
escape, at least they can tell him I made a drunken sot of myself at the first 
opportunity. Maybe I should have let the girl in after all. It wouldn't be the first 
time I've bedded something I didn't much care for. And it would have given them 
one more story to tell. Oh, gods, what's wrong with me? Mekeal would have had 
her tumbled before she blinked twice! What is wrong with me?

He rolled over, and it felt a lot like his head kept on rolling after he'd stopped 
moving.

Then again - I don't think so. Not even for that. The wine's bad enough here. I 
hate to think where the girls came from ... or where they 've been.

But why can't I react the way everyone else seems to? Why am I so different?


His head hurt, but not unbearably. His stomach was not particularly happy with 
him, but he wasn't ready to retch his guts up. In short, he was hung over - though 
less than he'd expected. In an odd sort of way, he was feeling even more 
detached than before. Perhaps his intoxication had purged something out of him 
last night; some forlorn hope, some last grasping at a life no one would ever let 
him have.

He pulled on his riding leathers and groomed himself as impeccably as he could 
manage without a mirror, leaving only the tunic off, since he intended to soak his 
aching head in cold water before he mounted Star - in the horse trough if he had 
to. He walked out into the morning light pouring in through the outer room, 
surveying the pathetic wrecks that had been his alert and vigilant guardians only 
the night before with what he hoped was cool, distant impassiveness.

And he spared a half a moment to hope that the girl hadn't told them - 

His guards were in far worse case than he was, having evidently made a 
spectacular night of it. Quite a night, judging by their bleary eyes, surly, yet 
satiated expressions, and the rumpled condition of the bedding. And Vanyel was 
not such an innocent as to be unable to recognize certain - aromas - when he 
detected them in the air before Garth opened the window. He was just as 
pleased to have been so drunk as to be insensible when they had been 
entertaining their temporary feminine acquaintances. Could be the chambermaid 
had found what she'd sought in the company of Garth and Erek after being 
rebuffed by Vanyel.

They weren't giving him the kind of sly looks he'd have expected if the girl had 
revealed his panicked reaction.

Well - maybe she was too busy. Thank you, gods.

He managed to deal with his hangover in a fairly successful fashion. Willowbark 
tea came for his asking, hot from the kitchen; on the way to the privy, with the 
faithful Garth in queasy attendance, he managed to divert long enough to soak 
his head under the stable pump until his temples stopped pounding. The water 
was very cold, and he saw Garth wincing when he first stuck his head beneath it.
That dealt with the head; the stomach was easier. He drank nothing but the tea 
and ate nothing but bread, very mild cheese, and fruit.

He was perfectly ready to ride out at that point. His guards were not so fortunate. 
Or, perhaps, so wise, since their remedies seemed to consist of vile concoctions 
of raw eggs and the heavy imbibing of the ale that had caused their problem the 
night before.

 As a result, their departure was delayed until mid-morning - not that this 
disturbed Vanyel a great deal. They'd be outside the bounds of the forest before 
dark; at least according to what the innkeeper told Garth. That was all Vanyel 
cared about.

Garth and Erek were still looking a bit greenish as they mounted their cobs. And 
neither seemed much inclined toward talk. That suited Vanyel quite well; it would 
enable him to concentrate on putting just a bit more distance between himself 
and the world. And it would allow him to do some undisturbed thinking.

The forest did not seem quite so unfriendly on the eastern side of the inn - 
perhaps because it was hunted more frequently on this side. The underbrush 
certainly wasn't as thick. The boughs of the trees overhead weren't, either, and 
Vanyel got a bit of nasty satisfaction at seeing Garth and Erek wincing out of the 
way of sunbeams that were much more frequent on this side of the woods.
But it was hotter than yesterday, and Vanyel finally stripped off his leather tunic 
and bundled it behind him.

Seeing no lurking shadows beneath the trees, he felt a bit easier about turning 
his attention inward to think about just what, exactly, he was heading toward.
I can guess at what Father's told the old bat. That's easy enough. The question is 
what she's likely to do about it.

He tried to dig everything he could remember out of the dim recesses of memory 
- not just about his aunt in particular, but about Heralds in general.

He'II tell her I 'm to be weapons-schooled, that's for certain. But how - that's up to 
her. And now that I think of it - damn if it wasn't a Herald that wrote that book that 
got me in such trouble! I may, I just might actually be better off in that area! Huh - 
now that I think about it, I can't see any way I'd be worse off.

A bird called overhead, and Vanyel almost felt a bit hopeful. No matter who I get 
schooled under, he can't possibly be worse than Jervis - because whoever he is, 
he won't have a grudge against me. The absolute worst I can get is a Jervis-type 
without a grudge. That might just be survivable, if I keep myself in the 
background, if I manage to convince him that I'm deadly stupid and clumsy. 
Stupid and clumsy are not possible to train away, and even Jervis knew that.

Another bird answered, reminding him that there was, however, the matter of 
music.

He's bound to have issued orders that I'm not to be allowed anywhere near the 
Bards except right under Savil 's eye - and if she's like Father, she has no ear at 
all. Which means she'lI never go to entertainments unless she has no choice. He 
sighed. Oh, well, there's worse.I won't be any worse off than I was at home, 
where I saw a real, trained Bard once in my entire lifetime. At least they'll be 
around. Maybe if I can get my fingering back and play where one is likely to 
overhear me - 

He sternly squelched that last. Best not think about it. I can't afford hope 
anymore.

Star fidgeted; she wanted her usual early-morning run. He reined her in, calmed 
her down, and went back to his own thoughts. One thing for sure, Father is likely 
to have told Savil all kinds of things about how rotten I am. So she'll be likely 
looking for wrong moves on my part - and I'll bet she 'II have her proteges and 
friends watching me, too. It's going to be hell. Hell, with no sanctuary, and no 
Liss.

He studied Star's ears as he thought, watching her flick them back with alert 
interest when she heard him sigh.

Well, everyone else is going to hate me, but you still love me. He patted Star's 
neck, and she pranced a little.

To the lowest hells with all of them. I do not need them, I don't need anybody, not 
even Liss. I'll do all right on my own.

But there was one puzzle, one he was reminded of later, when they passed one 
of the remote farms, and Vanyel saw the farmer out in the field, talking with 
someone on horseback who was likely his overlord. Huh - he thought, I can't 
figure how in Havens Father expects Savil to train me in governance. . . ,
Then he felt a cold chill.

Unless he doesn't really expect me to ever come home again. Gods - he could 
try to work something out in the way of sending me off to a temple. He could do 
that - and it bloody wouldn't matter if Father Leren could find him a priest he 
could bribe into accepting an unwilling acolyte. It would work - it would work. 
Especially if it was a cloistered order. And with me out of the way in Savil's 
hands, he has all the time he needs to find a compliant priest. He doesn't even 
have to tell Savil; just issue the order to send me back home again when it's all 
arranged. Then spirit me off and announce to anyone who asks that I discovered 
I had a vocation. And I would spend the rest of my life in a little stone cave 
somewhere - 

He swallowed hard, and tried to find reasons to dismiss the notion as a paranoid 
fantasy, but all he could discover were more reasons why it was a logical move 
on Lord Withen's part.

He tried to banish the fear, telling himself that it was no good worrying about 
what might only be a fantasy until it actually happened. But the thought wouldn't 
go away. It kept coming back, not only that day, but every day thereafter. It 
wasn't quite an obsession - but it wasn't far off.

It was quite enough to keep him wrapped in silent, apprehensive thought for 
every day of the remainder of the journey, and to keep him sleepless for long 
hours every night. And not even dreams of his isolate snow-plain helped to keep 
it from his thoughts.

		
		
							
					
		
Four

		
"All right, Tylendel, that was passable, but it wasn't imparticularly smooth," 
Herald-Mage Savil admonished her protege, tucking her feet under the bottom 
rung of her wooden stool, and absently smoothing down the front of her white 
tunic. "Remember, the power is supposed to flow; from you to the shield and 
back again. Smoothly, not in spurts. You tell me why."

Tylendel, a tall, strikingly attractive, dark blond Herald-trainee of about sixteen, 
frowned with concentration as he considered Savil's question. She watched the 
power-barrier he had built about himself with her Mage-Sight, and Saw the pale 
violet half-dome waver as he turned his attention to her question and lost a bit of 
control over the shield. She could feel the room pulsing as he allowed the shield 
to pulse in time with his heartbeat. If he let this go on, it would collapse.

"Tylendel, you're losing it," she warned. He nodded, looked up and grimaced, but 
did not reply; his actions were reply enough. The energy comprising the half-
dome covering him stopped rippling, firmed, and the color deepened.

"Have you an answer to my question yet?" 

"I think so," he answered. "If it doesn't flow smoothly, I'll have times when it's 
weak, and whatever I'm doing with it will be open to interruption when it 
weakens?''

"Right," Savil replied with a brisk nod. "Only don't think in terms of 'interruption,' 
lad. Think in terms of 'attack.' Like now."

She flung a levinbolt at his barrier without giving him any more warning than that, 
and had the satisfaction, not only of Seeing it deflected harmlessly upward to be 
absorbed by the Work Room shields, but Seeing that he shifted his defenses to 
meet it with no chance to prepare at all.

"Now that was good, my lad," she approved, and Tylendel's brown eyes warmed 
in response to the compliment. "So - "

Someone knocked on the door of the Work Room, and Savil bit off what she was 
going to tell him with a muffled curse of annoyance. "Now what?" she muttered, 
shoving back her tall stool and edging around Tylendei's mage-barrier to answer 
the door.

The Work Room was a permanently shielded, circular chamber within the Palace 
complex that the Herald-Mages used when training their proteges in the Mage-
aspects of their Gifts. The shielding on this room was incredibly ancient and 
powerful. It was so powerful that the shielding actually muffled physical sound; 
you couldn't even hear the Death Bell toll inside this room. One of the duties of 
every Herald-Mage in the Circle was to augment the protections here whenever 
they had the time and energy to spare. This shielding had to be strong; strong 
enough to contain magical "accidents" that would reduce the sparse furniture 
within the room to splinters. Those "accidents" were the reason why the walls 
were stone, the furniture limited to a couple of cheap stools and an equally cheap 
table, and why every Herald-Mage put full personal shields on himself and his 
pupil immediately on entering the door of this room.

Those accidents were also the reason why anyone who disturbed the practice 
sessions going on in the Work Room had better have a damned good reason for 
doing so.

Savil yanked the door open, and glared at the fair-haired, blue-uniformed Palace 
Guard who stood there, at rigid and proper attention. "Well?" she said, letting a 
bit of ice creep into her voice.

"Your pardon, Herald-Mage," he replied, his expression as stiff as his spine, "But 
you left orders to be notified as soon as your nephew arrived." He handed her a 
folded and sealed letter. "His escort wished you to have this."

She took it and stuffed it in a pocket of her breeches without looking at it. "Oh, 
bloody hell," she muttered. "So I did."

She sighed, and became a bit more civil. "Thank you, Guard. Send him and 
whatever damned escort he brought with him to my quarters; I'll get with them as 
soon as I can."

The Guard saluted and turned sharply on his heel; Savil shut the door before he 
finished his pivot, and turned back to her pupil.

"All right, lad, how long have we been at this?"

Tylendel draped an arm over his curly head and grinned. "Long enough for my 
stomach to start growling. I'm sorry, Savil, but I'm hungry. That's probably why 
my concentration's going."

She shook her finger at him. "Tchah, younglings and their stomachs! And just 
what do you plan to do if you get hungry in the middle of an arcane duel? Hmm?''

"Eat," he replied impishly. She threw up her hands in mock despair.

"All right, off with you - ah, ah," she warmed, wagging her finger at him as he 
made ready to dispel the barrier the quick and dirty way; by pulling the energies 
into the ground. "Properly, my lad - "

He bowed to her in the finest courtly manner. She snorted. "Get on with it, lad, if 
you're in such a hurry to stuff your face."

She Watched him carefully as he took down the barrier - properly - did so with 
quite a meticulous attention to little details, like releasing the barrier-energy back 
into the same flow he'd taken it from. She nodded approvingly when he stepped 
across the place where the border had been and presented himself to have the 
shields she'd put on him taken off.

"You're getting better, Tylendel," she said, touching the middle of his forehead 
with her index finger, and absorbing the shield back into herself. Her skin tingled 
for a moment as she neutralized the overflow. "You're coming along much faster 
than I guessed you would. Another year - no, less, I think - and you'll be ready to 
try your hand at a Border stint with me. And not much longer than that, and I'll 
shove you into Whites."

"It's my teacher," he replied impishly, seizing her hand and kissing it, his long hair 
falling over her wrist and tickling it. "How can I help but succeed in such attractive 
surroundings?''

She snatched her hand back, and cuffed his ear lightly. "Get on with you! Even if 
I wasn't old enough to be your grandmother, we both know I'm the wrong sex for 
you to find me attractive!"

He ducked the blow, grinning, and pulled the door open for her. "Oh, Savil, don't 
you know that the real truth is that I'd lost my heart to my teacher, knew I had no 
hope, and couldn't accept a lesser woman than - "

"Out!" she sputtered, laughing so hard she nearly choked. "Liar! Before I do you 
damage!"

He ran off down the wood-paneled hallway, his own laughter echoing behind him.

She closed the Work Room door behind her and leaned against the wall, still 
laughing, holding her aching side. The imp. More charm than any five younglings, 
and all the mischief of a young cat! I haven't laughed like this in years - not the 
way I have since I acquired Tylendel as a protege. That boy is such a treasure - if 
I can just wean him out of that stupid feud his family is involved in, he'll make a 
fine Herald-Mage. If I don't kill him first!

She gulped down several long breaths of air, and composed herself. I'm going to 
have to deal with that spoiled brat of a nephew in a few minutes, she told herself 
sternly, using the thought to sober herself. And I haven't the foggiest notion of 
what to do with him. Other than have him strangled - no, that's not such a good 
notion, it would please Withen too much. Great good gods, the man has turned 
into such a pompous ass in the last few years! I hardly recognized him. That 
ridiculous letter a week ago could have come from our father.

She smoothed her hair with her hands (checking to see that the knot of it at the 
base of her neck had not come undone), tugged on the hem of her tunic, and 
made sure that the door of the Work Room was closed and mage-locked before 
heading up the hall toward her personal quarters. The heels of her boots clicked 
briskly against the stone of the hallway, and she nodded at courtiers and other 
Heralds as they passed her.

If only Treesa hadn't spoiled the lad so outrageously, there might be something 
there worth salvaging. Now, I don't know. I certainly don't have the time to find 
out for myself. Huh. I wonder - if I put the buy into lessons with the other Herald-
trainees, then leave him to his own devices the rest of the time, that just might tell 
me something. If he doesn't turn to gambling and hunting and wild parties - (I he 
becomes bored with the flitter-heads in the Court - 

She pushed open one half of the double doors to the new Heralds' quarters, and 
strode through. Her own suite was just at the far end and on the left side of the 
hall.

Changes, changes. Five years ago we were crammed in four to a room, and not 
enough space to throw a tantrum in. Now we rattle around in this shiny-new 
barracks like a handful of peas in a bucket. And me with a suite and not getting 
forlorn looks from Jays or Tantras because one of the rooms is vacant. I can't 
see how we'll ever get enough bodies to fill this place . . .

The door stood slightly ajar; she shoved it out of the way, and paused a few 
steps into her outer room, crossing her arms and surveying the trio on the couch 
beneath her collection of Hawkbrother featherwork masks at the end of the room.
Only one of them was actually on the couch; Vanyel. Beside him, only too 
obviously playing his jailers, stood a pair of Withen's armsmen. On Vanyel's right, 
a short, stocky man - axeman, if Savil was any judge. On his left, one about a 
head taller and very swarthy; a common swordsman. And Vanyel, sitting very 
stiffly on the edge of the couch.

Savil heaved a strictly internal sigh. Lad, a year obviously hadn't improved you 
except in looks - and that's no advantage. You're too damned handsome, and 
you know it.

Since she'd last seen him, Vanyel's face and body had refined. It was a face that 
could (and probably did) break hearts - broad brow, high cheekbones, pointed 
chin, sensuous lips - fine-arched black brows, and incredible silver eyes; all of it 
crowned with thick, straight, blue-black hair most women would kill to possess. 
The body of an acrobat; nicely muscled, if not over-tall.

And the posture was arrogant, the mouth set in sullen silence; the eyes sulky, 
and at the same time, challenging her.

Lord and Lady. Do I believe my fool brother, or do I take the chance that a good 
portion of what's wrong with the boy is due to Withen trying to mold him into his 
own image?

While she tried to make up her mind, she nodded at the two armsmen. "Thank 
you, good sirs," she said, crisply. "You have performed your duty admirably. You 
may go."

The taller one coughed uneasily, and gave her an uncomfortable look.

"Well?" she asked, sensing something coming-something she wasn't going to 
like. Something petty and small-minded - 

"The boy's horse - "

"Stays, of course," she interrupted, seeing the flash of hurt in Vanyel's eyes 
before he masked it, and reacting to it without needing to think about which way 
she was going to jump.

"But, Herald, it's a valuable animal!" the armsman protested, his mouth thinning 
unhappily. "Lord Withen - my lord - surely you've beasts enough here - "

"What do you think this is?" she snapped, turning on him with unconcealed 
anger. Gods, if this was symptomatic of the boy's trip here, no wonder he was 
sullen.

Take the boy's horse, will you? You bloody little - She took control of herself, and 
gave them irrefutable reasons to take back to their master. They were, after all, 
only following orders.

"You think we run a damned breeding farm here? We haven't horses to spare. 
The boy will be taking equitation lessons, of course, and he's hardly going to be 
able to go over the jumping course on foot!"

"But - " the armsman sputtered, not prepared to give up, "Surely the Companions 
- "

"Bear their Chosen and no other. " She took a deep breath and forced her 
temper to cool. The man was making her more than annoyed with his obstinacy, 
he was making her quite thoroughly enraged, and if this was a measure of what 
Vanyel had been subjected to over the past few years, well, perhaps the boy 
wasn't entirely to blame for his current behavior.

"I said," she told the men, glaring, "you may go."

"But - I have certain orders - certain things I am to tell you - "

"I am countermanding those orders," she Answered swiftly, invoking all of her 
authority, not just as a Herald, but as one of the most powerful Herald-Mages in 
the Heraldic Circle, second only to Queen's Own, Seneschal's, and Lord-
Marshal's Herald. "This is my place, and my jurisdiction. And you may tell my 
brother Withen that I will make up my own mind what is to be done with the boy. 
If he wants to deposit young Vanyel in my care, then he'll have to put up with my 
judgments. And you can tell him I said so. Good day, gentlemen." She smiled 
with honeyed venom. "Or need I call a Guard to escort you?"

They had no choice but to take themselves off, though they did so with extreme 
reluctance. Savjl waited until they had gone, and were presumably out of hearing 
range, before taking the letter she'd been given out of her pocket. She held it up 
so that Vanyel could see that it had not been opened, then slowly, deliberately 
tore it in four pieces and dropped the pieces on the floor.

Margret is going to have my hide, she thought wryly. II she's told me once not to 
throw things on the floor, she's told me a hundred times - 

"I don't know what Withen had to say in that letter," she told the strange and 
silent boy. Was that sullenness in the set of his mouth, or fear? Was that 
suspicion in the back of his eyes, or arrogance? "Frankly, I don't care. This much 
I can tell you - young man, you are going to stand or fall with me by your own 
actions. I tell you now that I very much resent what Withen has done; I have 
three proteges to train, and no time to waste on cosseting a daydreamer." Might 
as well let him know the truth about how I feel right out and right now; he 'II find 
out from the gossip sooner or later. I can't afford to have him pulling something 
stupid in the hopes I 'II pull him out of it and give him some attention. "I have no 
intention of trying to make you into something you aren't. But I also have no 
intention of allowing you to make a fool out of me, or inconvenience me."

There was a whisper of sound at the door.

Without turning around, Savil knew from the brush of embarrassed Mindspeech 
behind her that Tylendel and her other two proteges, Mardic and Donni, had 
come in behind her, not expecting to find anyone except Savil here. They had 
stopped in the doorway - startled at finding their mentor dressing down a strange 
boy, and more than a bit embarrassed to have walked in at such a touchy 
moment.

And of course, now it would be even more embarrassing for them to walk back 
out and try to pretend it hadn't happened:

"You'll be taking lessons with some of the Herald-trainees and with some of the 
young courtiers as soon as I get a chance to make the arrangements," Savil 
continued serenely, gesturing slightly with her right hand for her three "children" 
to come up beside her. "Now - Vanyel, this is Donni, this Mardic, and this 
Tylendel. As Herald-trainees, they outrank you; let's get that straight right now."

"Yes, Aunt," Vanyel said without changing his expression a hair.

"Now what that actually means is not one damned thing, except I expect you to 
be polite."

"Yes, Aunt."

"My servant Margret tends to us; breakfast and lunch are cold and left over on 
that table over there. Supper will be with the Court for you once I get you 
introduced. If you miss it, you can take your chances with us. Lessons, hmm. For 
now - oh - Donni, I want you to take him with you in the morning and turn him 
over to Kayla; Withen was rather insistent on his getting weapons work, and for 
once I agree with him."

"Yes, Savil," the short, tousle-haired trainee said calmly. Savil blessed the girl's 
soothing presence, and also blessed the fact that she was lifebound to Mardic. 
Nothing shook a lifebond except the death of one of the pair. Vanyel's handsome 
face wasn't going to turn her head.

She rather dreaded the effect of that face on the rest of the younglings at the 
Court, though.

"Mardic?"

The imperturbable farmer's son nodded his round head without speaking.

"Take him to Bardic Collegium in the afternoon for me, and get them to put him 
into History, Literature, and - " she wrinkled her brow in thought as her three 
proteges arranged themselves around her.

"How about Religions?" Tylendel suggested. He raised one dark-gold eyebrow 
and Mindspoke his teacher in Private-mode, his lips thinning a little. :He's lovely, 
Savil. And he Feels like he's either an arrogant little bastard, or somebody's been 
hurting him inside for an awfully long time. Frankly, I couldn't tell you which. Is he 
going to be as much trouble as I think?:

:Don't know, lad,: Savil Mindspoke soberly. :But don't get wrapped up with him, 
not until we know. And don't fall in love with him. I have no idea where his 
preferences lie, but even Withen didn't hint he was shay'a'chern. I don't want to 
have to patch your broken heart up. Again.:

:Not a chance, Teacher,: Tylendel mind-grinned. :I've learned better.:

:Huh. I should hope. Oh, Lord of Light - I did give all of you grabs at Dominick's 
old room, didn't I? I don't want to start this off with hurt feelings - :

:Yes, you did, and none of us wanted to move,: Tylendel mind-chuckled. The 
garden door may be nice but it's drafty as the Cave of the Winds. If I had 
someone to keep me warm - :

:I could get you a dog,: she suggested, and watched his lips twitch as he tried not 
to smile. :Well, that's one worry out of the way.: Then said aloud, "All right, 
Vanyel, History, Literature and Religions it is, and weapons work with Kayla in 
the morning. She teaches the young highborns, and she's very good - and if I find 
out you've been avoiding her lessons, I'll take a strap to you."

Vanyel flushed at that, but said nothing.

"Donni, Mardic, Tylendel, give Vanyel a hand with his things; we'll put him in the 
garden chamber. I had Margret get it ready for him this morning."

As the three trainees scooped up a pack apiece, and Vanyel bent slowly to take 
the fourth, Savil added a last admonition.

"Vanyel, what you do with your free time is your own business," she said, 
perhaps a bit more harshly than she intended. "But if you get yourself into 
trouble, and there's plenty of it to get into around here, don't expect me to pull 
you out. I can't, and I won't. You're an imposition. It's your job to see that you 
become less of one."

Vanyel thanked the trainees for their help as they dropped his packs to one side 
of the door, speaking in a voice that sounded dull and exhausted even in his own 
ears.

The blond one hesitated for a moment - just long enough to give him what looked 
like a genuine smile, before slipping out the door.

But despite that smile, Vanyel was mortally glad when they didn't linger. He 
closed the door behind them, then leaned up against it with his eyes shut. The 
entire day had been confusing and wearying, an emotional obstacle course that 
he was just happy to have survived.

The worst of it had been the past couple of hours; first, being shuttled off to 
Savil's quarters with Erek and Garth suddenly deciding to act like the jailers that 
they were, then the interminable wait - then the Interview.

Her words had hurt; he willed them not to. He willed himself not to care.
Then he moved to the middle of his new room and looked around himself, and 
blinked in surprise.

It was - amazing. Warm, and welcoming, paneled and furnished in goldenoak, 
and as well-appointed as his mother's private chamber. Certainly nothing like his 
room back at Forst Reach. A huge bed stood against one wall, a bed almost wide 
enough for three and covered with a thick, soft red comforter. In the corner, a 
wardrobe, not a simple chest, to hold his clothing. Beside it a desk and padded 
chair - Havens, an instrument rack on the wall next to the weapons-rack! Next to 
the window a second, more heavily padded chair, both chairs upholstered in red 
that matched the comforter. His own fireplace. A small table next to the bed, and 
a bookcase. But that wasn't the most amazing thing - 

His room had its own private entrance, something that was either a small, glazed 
door or an enormous window that opened up on a garden.

I don't believe this, he thought, staring stupidly through the glass at the 
sculptured bushes and the glint of setting sun on the river beyond. I just do not 
believe this. I expected to be in another prison. Instead - He, tried the 
doorIwindow. It was unlocked, and swung open at a touch.

 - instead, I'm given total freedom. I do not believe this! His knees went weak, 
and he had to sit down on the edge of the bed before he collapsed. The breeze 
that had been allowed to enter when he opened the window made the light 
material used as curtains flap lazily.

Gods - he thought, dazedly. I don't know what to think. She saves Star - then she 
humiliates me in front of the trainees. She gives me this room - then she tells me 
I'm the next thing to worthless and she threatens to beat me herself. What am I 
supposed to believe ?

He could hear the murmuring of voices beyond the other door, the one the tall 
blond had closed after himself. They sound so comfortable out there, so easy 
with each other, he thought wistfully. They were terribly un-alike, the three of 
them. The one called Donni could have been Erek's twin sister; they looked to 
have been cast from the same mold - dark, curly-haired, phlegmatic. The shorter 
boy, Mardic, had the look of one of Withen's smallholders; earthy, square, and 
brown. But the third - 

Vanyel was experiencing a strange, unsteady feeling when he thought about the 
tall, graceful blond called Tylendel. He didn't know why.

Not even the minstrel Shanse had evoked this depth of - disturbance - in him.

There was a burst of laughter beyond the door. They sound so happy, he thought 
a bit sadly, before his thoughts darkened. They're probably laughing at me.
He clenched his teeth. Damn it, I don't care, I won't care. I don't need their 
approval.

He closed his walls a little tighter about himself, and began the mundane task of 
settling himself into his new home. And tried not to feel himself left on the 
outside, telling himself over and over again that nothing mattered.

The slender girl Vanyel's aunt had called "Donni" looked askance at all the 
padding and armor Vanyel picked off his armor-stand and weapons-rack. "Are 
you really taking all that?" she asked, hazel eyes rather wide with surprise.
He nodded shortly.

She shook her head in disbelief, her tight, sable curls scarcely moving. "I can't 
see why you want all that stuff, but I guess it's your back. Come on."

There'd been no one in the suite when Vanyel woke, but there had been cider, 
bread and butter, cheese, and fruit waiting on a sideboard in the central room. He 
had figured that was supposed to be breakfast, seeing that someone - or several 
someones, more like - had already made hearty inroads on the food. He had 
helped himself, then found a servant to show him the way to the bathing-room 
and the privies, and cleaned himself up.

He'd pulled on some of his oldest and shabbiest clothing in anticipation of getting' 
them well-grimed at the coming weaponry-lesson. He was back in his own room 
and in a very somber mood, sitting on the floor while putting some new leather 
lacings on his practice armor, when Donni came hunting him.

He gathered up his things and followed one step behind her out through his 
garden door and into the sunlit, fragrant garden, trying not to let any 
apprehension seep into his cool shell. She took him on a circuitous path that led 
from his own garden door, past several ornamental grottoes and fish ponds, 
down to a graveled pathway that followed the course of the river.

They trudged past what looked like a stable, except that the stalls had no doors 
on them, and past a smaller building beside it. Then the path took an abrupt turn 
to the right, ending at a gate in a high wooden fence. By now Vanyel's arms were 
getting more than a little tired; he was hot, and sweating, and he hoped that this 
was at least close to their goal.

But no; the seemingly placid trainee flashed him what might have been a 
sympathetic grin, and opened the gate, motioning for Vanyel to go through.

"There," she said, pointing across what seemed to be an expanse of carefully 
manicured lawn as wide as the legended Dhorisha Plains. At the other end of the 
lawn was a plain, rawly new wooden building with high clerestory windows. 

"That's the salle," she told him. "That's where we're going. They just built it last 
year so that we could practice year 'round." She giggled. "I think they got tired of 
the trainees having bouts in the hallways when it rained or snowed!"

Vanyel just nodded, determined to show no symptoms of his weariness. She set 
off across the grass with a stride so brisk he had to really push himself to keep 
up with her. It was all he could do to keep from panting with effort by the time 
they actually reached the building, and his side was in agony when she slowed 
down enough to open the door for him.

Once inside he could see that the structure was one single large room, with a 
mirrored wall and a carefully sanded wooden floor. There were several young 
people out on the floor already, ranging in apparent age from as young as eleven 
or twelve to as old as their early twenties. Most of them were sparring - 

Vanyel was too exhausted to take much notice of what they were up to, although 
the pair nearest him (he saw with a sinking heart) were working out in almost 
exactly the weapons style Jervis used.

"This him?"

A woman with a soft, musical contralto spoke from behind them, and Vanyel 
turned abruptly, dropping a vambrace.

"Yes, ma'am," Donni said, picking the bracer up before Vanyel had a chance 
even to flush. "Vanyel, this is Weaponsmaster Kayla. Kayla, this stuff is all his; I 
guess he brought it from home. I've got to get going, or I'll miss my session in the 
Work Room."

"Havens forfend," Kayla said dryly. "Savil would eat me for lunch if you were late. 
Don't forget you have dagger this afternoon, girl."

Donni nodded and slipped out the door, leaving Vanyel alone with the 
redoubtable Weaponsmaster.

For redoubtable she was. From the crown of her head to the soles of her feet she 
was nothing but sinew and muscle. Her black hair, tightly braided to her head, 
showed not a strand of gray, despite the age revealed by the fine net of wrinkles 
around her eyes and mouth. Those gray-green eyes didn't look as if they missed 
much.

For the rest, Kayla's shoulders were nearly a handspan wider than his, and her 
wrists as thick as his ankles. Vanyel had no doubt that she could readily wield 
any of the blades in the racks along the wall, even the ones as tall or taller than 
she. He did not particularly want to face this woman in any sort of combat 
situation. She looked like she could quite handily take on Jervis and mop the 
floor with his ugly face.

Vanyel remained outwardly impassive, but was inwardly quaking as she in turn 
studied him.

"Well, young man," she said quietly, after a moment that was far too long for his 
liking. "You might as well throw that stuff over in the corner over there - " she 
nodded toward the far end of the salle, and a pile of discarded equipment, " - 
we'll see what we can salvage of it. You certainly won't be needing it."

Vanyel blinked at her, wondering if he'd missed something. "Why not?" he asked, 
just as quietly.

"Good gods, lad, that stuff's about as suited to you as boots on a cat!" she 
replied, with a certain amusement. "Whoever your last master was, he was a fool 
to put you in that gear. No, young man - you see Redel and Oden over there?''

She pointed with her chin at a pair of slender, androgynous figures involved in an 
intricate, and possibly deadly dance with very light, slender swords.

"I'll make Duke Oden your instructor; he'll be pleased to have a pupil besides 
young Lord Redel. That's the kind of style suited to you, so that's what you'll be 
doing, young Vanyel," she told him.

His heart rose to its proper place from its former position - somewhere in the 
vicinity of his boots.

Kayla graced him with a momentary smile. "Mind you, lad, Oden's no light 
taskmaster. You'll find you work up as healthy a sweat and collect just as many 
bruises as any of the hack-and-bashers. So let's get you suited for it, eh?"
If the morning was an unexpected pleasure - and it was; for the first time in his 
life he received praise for weapons work, and preened under it - the afternoon 
was an unalloyed disaster.

It started when he returned with equipment that weighed a third of what he'd 
carried over. He racked it with care he usually didn't grant to weaponry, and 
sought the central room of the suite.

Someone - probably the hitherto invisible Margret - had taken away the food left 
on the sideboard this morning and replaced it with meat rolls, more fruit and 
cheese, and a bottle of light wine.

Tylendel was sprawled on the couch, a meat roll in one hand, a book in the other, 
a crease of concentration between his brows. He didn't even look up as Vanyel 
moved hesitantly just into the common room itself.

Once again he got that strange, half-fearful, fluttery feeling in the pit of his 
stomach. He cleared his throat, and Tylendel jumped, dropping his book, and 
looking up with his eyes widened and his hair over one eye.

"Good gods, Vanyel, make some noise, next time!" he said, bending to retrieve 
his book from the floor. "I didn't know there was anyone here but me! That's 
lunch over there - "

He pointed with the half-eaten roll.

"Savil says to eat and get yourself cleaned up; she's going to present you to the 
Queen before the noon recess. Then you'll be able to have dinner with the Court; 
the rest of us get it on the fly as our schedules permit. Savil will be back in a few 
minutes so you'd better move." He tilted his head to one side, just a little, and 
offered, "If you need any help. ..."

Vanyel stiffened; the offer hadn't sounded at all unfriendly, but - it could be 
Tylendel was looking for a way to spy on him. Savil hadn't necessarily told the 
truth.

 - if only - 

"No," he replied curtly, "I don't need any help." He paused, then added for 
politeness' sake, "Thank you."

Tylendel gave him a dubious look, then shrugged and dove back into his book.


Savil was back in moments; Vanyel had barely time to make himself presentable 
before she scooped him up and herded him off to the Throne Room.

The Throne Room was a great deal smaller than he had pictured; long and 
narrow, and rather dark. And stuffy; there were more people crammed into this 
room than it had ever been intended to hold. Somewhere down at the farther end 
of it was the Throne itself, beneath a huge blue and silver tapestry of a rampant 
winged horse with broken chains on its throat and legs that took up the entire 
wall over the Throne. Vanyel could see the tapestry, but nothing else; everyone 
else in the room seemed to be at least a hand taller than he was, and all he could 
see were heads.

The presentation itself was a severe disappointment. Vanyel waited with Savil at 
his side for nearly an hour while some wrangle or other involving a pair of 
courtiers was ironed out. Then Savil's name was called; the two of them (Vanyel 
trailing in Savil's formidable wake) were announced by a middle-aged Herald in 
full Court Whites. Vanyel was escorted to the foot of the Throne by that same 
Herald, where Queen Elspeth (a thin, dark-haired woman who was looking very 
tired and somewhat preoccupied) nodded to him in a friendly manner, and said 
about five words in greeting. He bowed and was escorted back to Savil's side, 
and that was all there was to it.

Then Savil hustled him back to change out of Court garb and into ordinary 
daygarb for his afternoon classes. Mardic practically flew in the door from the 
hallway and took him in tow. They traversed a long, dark corridor leading from 
Savil's quarters, out through a double door, to a much older section of the 
Palace. From there they exited a side door and out into more gardens - herb 
gardens this time, and kitchen gardens.

Mardic didn't seem to be the talkative type, but he could certainly move. His fast 
walk took them past an l-shaped granite building before Vanyel had a chance to 
ask what it was, and up to a square fieldstone structure. "Bardic Collegium," 
Mardic said shortly, pausing just long enough for a couple of youngsters who 
were running to get past him, then opening the black wooden door for him.
He didn't say another word; just left him at the door of his first class before 
vanishing elsewhere into the building.

He was finding it hard to believe that Savil was going so far in ignoring his 
father's orders as to put him in lessoning with the Bardic students. Nevertheless, 
here he was.

Inside Bardic Collegium. Actually inside the building, seated in a row of chairs 
with three other youngsters in a small, sunny room on the first floor.

More than that, pacing back and forth as he lectured or questioned them was a 
real, live Bard in full Scarlets; a tall, powerful man who was probably as much at 
home wielding a broadsword as a lute.

At home Vanyel had always been a full step ahead of his brothers and cousins 
when it came to scholastics, so he began the hour with a feeling of boredom. 
History was the proverbial open book to him - or so he had always thought. He 
began the session with the rather smug feeling that he was going to dazzle his 
new classmates.

The other three boys looked at him curiously when he came in and sat down with 
them, but they didn't say anything. One was mouse-blond, one chestnut, and one 
dark; all three were dressed nearly the same as Vanyel, in ordinary day-clothing 
of white raime shirt and tunic and breeches of soft brown or gray fabric. He 
couldn't tell if they were Heraldic trainees or Bardic; they wore no uniforms the 
way their elders did. Not that it mattered, really, except that he would have liked 
to impress them with his scholarship if they were Bardic students.

The room was hardly bigger than his bedroom in Savil's suite; but unlike the 
Heralds' quarters, this building was old, worn, and a bit shabby. Vanyel had a 
moment to register disappointment at the scuffed floor, dusty furnishings, and 
fuded paint before the leonine Bard at the window-end of the room began the 
class.

After that, all he had a chance to feel was shock.

"Yesterday we discussed the Arvale annexation; today we're going to cover the 
negotiations with Rethwellan that followed the annexation." With those words, 
Bard Chadran launched into his lecture; a dissertation on the important Arvale-
Zalmon negotiations in the time of King Tavist. It was fascinating. There was only 
one problem.

Vanyel had never even heard of the Arvale-Zalmon negotiations, and all he knew 
of King Tavist was that he was the son of Queen Terilee and the father of Queen 
Leshia; Tavist's reign had been a quiet one, a reign devoted more to studied 
diplomacy than the kind of deeds that made for ballads. So when the Bard 
opened the floor to discussion, Vanyel had to sit there and try to look as if he 
understood it all, without having the faintest idea of what was going on.
He took reams of notes, of course, but without knowing why the negotiations had 
been so important, much less what they were about, they didn't make a great 
deal of sense.

He escaped that class with the feeling that he'd only just escaped being skinned 
and eaten alive.

Religions was a bit better, though not much. He'd thought it was Religion, 
singular. He found out how wrong he was - again. It was, indeed, Religions in the 
plural sense. Since the population of Valdemar was a patchwork quilt of a dozen 
different peoples escaping from various unbearable situations, it was hardly 
surprising that each one of those peoples had their own religion. As Vanyel 
heard, over and over again that hour, the law of Valdemar on the subject of 
worship was "there is no 'one, true way,' " But with a dozen or more "ways" in 
practice, it would have been terribly easy for a Bard - or Herald - to misstep 
among people strange to him. Hence this class, which was currently covering the 
"People of the One" who had settled about Crescent Lake.

It was something of a shock, hearing that what his priest would have called 
rankest heresy was presented as just another aspect of the truth. Vanyel spent 
half his time feeling utterly foolish, and the other half trying to hide his reactions 
of surprise and disquiet.

But it was Literature - or rather, an event just before the Literature class - which 
truly deflated and defeated him.

He had been toying with the idea of petitioning one of the Bards to enroll him in 
their Collegium before he began the afternoon's classes, but now he was 
doubtful of being able to survive the lessons.

Gods, I - I'm as pig-ignorant compared to these trainees as my cousins are 
compared to me, he thought glumly, slumping in the chair nearest the door as he 
and the other two with him waited for the teacher of Literature to put in her 
appearance. But - maybe this time. Lord of Light knows I've memorized every 
ballad I could ever get my hands on.

Then he overheard Bard Chadran talking out in the hallway with another Bard; 
presumably the teacher of this class. But when he heard his own name, and 
realized that they were talking about him, he stretched his ears without shame or 
hesitation to catch all that he could.

" - so Savil wants us to take him if he's got the makings," Chadran was saying.

"Well, has he?" asked the second, a dark, sensuously female voice.

"Shanse's heard him sing; says he's got the voice and the hands for it, and I trust 
him on that," said Chadran, hesitantly.

"But not the Gift?" the second persisted.

Chadran coughed. "I - didn't hear any sign of it in class. And it's pretty obvious he 
doesn't compose, or we'd have heard about it. Shanse would have said 
something, or put it in his report, and he didn't."

"He has to have two out of three; Gift, Talent, and Creativity - you know that, 
Chadran," said the woman. "Shanse didn't see any signs of Gift either, did he?"

Chadran sighed. "No. Breda, when Savil asked me about this boy, I looked up 
Shanse's report on the area. He did mention the boy, and he was flattering 
enough about the boy's musicality that we could get him training as a minstrel if - 
"

"If-"

"If he weren't his father's heir. But the truth is, he said the boy has a magnificent 
ear, and aptitude for mimicry, and the talent. But no creativity, and no Gift. And 
that's not enough to enroll someone's heir as a mere minstrel. Still - Breda, love, 
you look for Gift. You're better at seeing it than any of us. I'd really like to do Savil 
a favor on this one. She says the boy is set enough on music to defy a fairly 
formidable father - and we owe her a few."

"I'll try him," said the woman, "But don't get your hopes up. Shanse may not have 
the Gift himself, but he knows it when he hears it."

Vanyel had something less than an instant to wonder what they meant by "Gift" 
before the woman he'd overheard entered the room. As tall as a man, thin, plain-
she still had a presence that forced Vanyel to pay utmost attention to every word 
she spoke, every gesture she made.

"Today we're going to begin the 'Windrider' cycle," she said, pulling a gittern 
around from where it hung across her back. "I'm going to begin with the very first 
'Windrider' ballad known, and I'm going to present it the way it should be dealt 
with. Heard, not read. This ballad was never designed to be read, and I'll tell you 
the truth, the flaws present in it mostly vanish when it's sung."

She strummed a few chords, then launched into the opening to the "Windrider 
Unchained" - and he no longer wondered what the "Gift" could be.

Because she didn't just sing - not like Vanyel would have sung, or even the 
minstrel (or, as he realized now, the Bard) Shanse would have. No - she made 
her listeners experience every word of the passage; to feel every emotion, to see 
the scene, to live the event as the originals must have lived it. When she finished, 
Vanyel knew he would never forget those words again.

And he knew to the depths of his soul that he would never be able to do what she 
had just done.

Oh, he tried; when she prompted him to sing the next Windrider ballad while she 
played, he gave it his best. But he could tell from the look in his fellow 
classmates' eyes - interest, but not rapt fascination - that he hadn't even 
managed a pale imitation.

As he sat down and she gestured to the next to take a ballad, he saw the pity in 
her eyes and the slight shake of her head - and knew then that she knew he'd 
overheard the conversation in the hallway. That this was her way of telling him, 
gently, and indirectly, that his dream could not be realized.

It was the pity that hurt the most, after the realization that he did not have the 
proper material to be a Bard. It cut - as cruelly as any blade. All that work - all 
that fighting to get his hand back the way it had been - and all for nothing. He'd 
never even had a hope.

Vanyel threw himself onto his bed, his chest aching, his head throbbing - 

I thought nothing would ever be worse than home - but at least I still had dreams. 
Now I don't even have that.

The capper on the miserable day was his aunt, his competent, clever, selfless, 
damn-her-to-nine-hells aunt.

He flopped over onto his stomach, and fought back the sting in his eyes.

She'd pulled him aside right after dinner; "I asked the Bards to see if they could 
take you," she'd said. "I'm sorry, Vanyel, but they told me you're a very talented 
musician, but that's all you'll ever be. That's not enough to get you into Bardic 
when you're the heir to a holding."

"But - " he'd started to say, then clamped his mouth shut.

She gave him a sharp look. "I know how you probably feel, Vanyel, but your duty 
as Withen's heir is going to have to come first. So you'd better resign yourself to 
the situation instead of fighting it."

She watched him broodingly as he struggled to maintain his veneer of calm. "The 
gods know," she said finally, "I stood in your shoes, once. I wanted the Holding - 
but I wasn't firstborn son. And as things turned out, I'm glad I didn't get the 
Holding. If you make the best of your situation, you may find one day that you 
wouldn't have had a better life if you'd chosen it yourself."

How could she know? he fumed. I hate her. So help me, I hate her. Everything 
she does is so damned perfect! She never says anything, but she doesn't have 
to; all she has to do is give me that look. If I hear one more word about how I 'm 
supposed to like this trap that's closed on me, I may go mad!

He turned over on his back, and brooded. It wasn't even sunset - and he was 
stuck here with his lute staring down at him from the wall with all the broken 
dreams it implied.

And nothing to distract him. Or was there?

Dinner was over, but there were going to be people gathered in the Great Hall all 
night. And there were plenty of people his age there; young people who weren't 
Bard trainees, nor Herald proteges. Ordinary young people, more like normal 
human beings.

He forgot all his apprehensions about being thought a country bumpkin; all he 
could think of now was the admiration his wit and looks used to draw at the 
infrequent celebrations that brought the offspring of several Keeps and Holdings 
together. He needed a dose of that admiration, and needed its sweetness as an 
antidote to the bitterness of failure.

He flung himself off the bed and rummaged in his wardrobe for an appropriately 
impressive outfit; he settled on a smoky gray velvet as suiting his mood and his 
flair for the dramatic.

He planned his entrance to the Great Hall with care; waiting until one of those 
moments that occur at any gathering of people where everyone seems to choose 
the same moment to stop talking. When that moment came, he seized it; pacing 
gracefully into the silence as if it had been created expressly to display him.

It worked to perfection; within moments he had a little circle of courtiers of his 
own flocking about him, eager to impress the newcomer with their friendliness. 

He basked in their attentions for nearly an hour before it began to pall.

A lanky youngster named Liers was waxing eloquent on the subject of his elder 
brother dealing with a set of brigands. Vanyel stifled a yawn; this was sounding 
exactly like similar evenings at Forst Reach!

"So he charged straight at them - "

"Which was a damn fool thing to do if you ask me," Vanyel said, his brows 
creasing.

"But - it takes a brave man - " the young man protested weakly.

"I repeat, it was a damn fool thing to do," Vanyel persisted. "Totally outnumbered, 
no notion if the party behind him was coming in time - great good gods, the right 
thing to do would have been to turn tail and run! If he'd done it convincingly, he 
could have led them straight into the arms of his own troops! Charging off like 
that could have gotten him killed!"

"It worked," Liers sulked.

"Oh, it worked all right, because nobody in his right mind would have done what 
he did!"

"It was the valiant thing to have done," Liers replied, lifting his chin.

Vanyel gave up; he didn't dare alienate these younglings. They were all he had - 

"You're right, Liers," he said, hating the lie. "It was a valiant thing to have done."

Liers smiled in foolish satisfaction as Vanyel made more stupid remarks; 
eventually Vanyel extricated himself from that little knot of idlers and went looking 
for something more interesting.

The fools were as bad as his brother; he could not, would never get it through 
their heads that there was nothing "romantic" about getting themselves hacked to 
bits in the name of Valdemar or a lady. That there was nothing uplifting about 
losing an arm or a leg or an eye. That there was nothing, nothing "glorious" about 
warfare.

As soon as he turned away from the male contingent, the female descended 
upon him in a chattering flock; flirting, coquetting, each doing her best to get 
Variyel's attention settled on her. It was exactly the same playette that had been 
enacted over and over in his mother's bower; there were more players, and the 
faces were both different and often prettier, but it was the identical seript.
Vanyel was bored.

But it was marginally better than being lectured by Savil, or longing after the 
Bards and the Gift he never would have.

" - Tylendel," said the pert little brunette at his elbow, with a sigh of 
disappointment.

"What about Tylendel?" Vanyel asked, his interest, for once, caught.

"Oh, Tashi is in love with Tylendel's big brown eyes," laughed another girl, a tall, 
pale-complected redhead.

"Not a chance, Tashi," said Reva, who was flushed from a little too much wine. 

She giggled. "You haven't a chance. He's - what's that word Savil uses?"

"Shay'a'chern," supplied Cress. "It's some outland tongue."

"What's it mean?" Vanyel asked.

Reva giggled, and whispered, "That he doesn't like girls. He likes boys. Lucky 
boys!"

"For Tylendel I'd turn into a boy!" Tashi sighed, then giggled back at her friend. 
"Oh. what a waste! Are you sure?"

"Sure as stars," Reva assured her. "Only just last year he broke his heart over 
that bastard Nevis."

Vanyel suppressed his natural reaction of astonishment. Didn't - like girls. He 
knew at least that the youngling courtiers used "like" synonymously with 
"bedding." But - didn't "like" girls? "Liked" boys?

He'd known he'd been sheltered from some things, but he'd never even guessed 
about this one.

Was this why Withen –

"Nevis - wasn't he the one who couldn't make up his mind which he liked and 
claimed he'd been seduced every time he crawled into somebody's bed?" Tashi 
asked in rapt fascination.

"The very same," Reva told her. "I am so glad his parents called him home!"

They were off into a dissection of the perfidious Nevis then, and Vanyel lost 
interest. He drifted around the Great Hall, but was unable to find anything or 
anyone he cared to spend any time with. He drank a little more wine than he 
intended, but it didn't help make the evening any livelier, and at length he gave 
up and went to bed.

He lay awake for a long time, skirting the edges of the thoughts he'd had earlier. 
From the way the girls had giggled about it, it was pretty obvious that Tylendel's 
preferences were something short of "respectable." And Withen - 

Oh, he knew now what Withen would have to say about it if he knew that his son 
was even sharing the same quarters as Tylendel.

All those times he went after me when I was tiny, for hugging and kissing Meke. 
That business with Father Leren and the lecture on ' 'proper masculine behavior.'' 
The fit he had when Liss dressed me up in her old dresses like an overgrown 
doll. Oh, gods.

Suddenly the reasons behind a great many otherwise inexplicable actions on 
Withen's part were coming clear.

Why he kept shoving girls at me, why he bought me that - professional. Why he 
kept arranging for friends of Mother's with compliant daughters to visit. Why he 
hated seeing me in fancy clothing. Why some of the armsmen would go quiet 
when I came by - why some of the jokes would just stop. Father didn't even want 
a hint of this to get to me.

He ached inside; just ached.

I've lost music - no; even if Tylendel is to be trusted, I can't take the chance. Not 
even on - being his friend. If he didn't turn on me, which he probably would.
All that was left was the other dream - the ice-dream. The only dream that 
couldn't hurt him.

* * *
		
				
							
The chasm wasn't too wide to jump, but it was deep. And there was something - 
terrible - at the bottom of it. He didn't know how he knew that, but he knew it was 
true. Behind him was nothing but the empty, wintry ice-plain. On the other side of 
the chasm it was springtime. He wanted to cross over, to the warmth, to listen to 
bird-song beneath the trees - but he was afraid to jump. It seemed to widen even 
as he looked at it.

"Vanyel?"

He looked up, startled.

Tylendel stood on the other side, wind ruffling his hair, his smile wide and as 
warm and open as spring sunshine.

"Do you want to come over?" the trainee asked softly. He held out one hand. "I'll 
help you, if you like. "

Vanyel backed up a step, clasping his arms tightly to his chest to keep from 
inadvertently answering that extended hand.

"Vanyel?" The older boy's eyes were gentle, coaxing. "Vanyel, I'd like to be your 
friend. " He lowered his voice still more, until it was little more than a whisper, 
and gestured invitingly. "I'd like," he continued, "to be more than your friend. "

"No!" Vanyel cried, turning away violently, and running as fast as he could into 
the empty whiteness.

When he finally stopped, he was alone on the empty plain, alone, and chilled to 
the marrow. He ached all over at first, but then the cold really set in, and he 
couldn't feel much of anything. There was no sign of the chasm, or of Tylendel. 

And for one brief moment, loneliness made him ache worse than the cold.
Then the chill seemed to reach the place where the loneliness was, and that 
began to numb as well.

He began walking, choosing a direction at random. The snow-field wasn't as 
featureless as he'd thought, it seemed. The flat, smooth snow-plain that creaked 
beneath his feet began to grow uneven. Soon he was having to avoid huge teeth 
of ice that thrust up through the crust of the snow - then he could no longer avoid 
them; he was having to climb over and around them.

They were sharp-edged; sharp as glass shards. He cut himself once, and stared 
in surprise at the blood on the snow. And, strangely enough, it didn't seem to hurt 

There was only the cold.
	
		
				
						
		
Five
		

Tylendel was sprawled carelessly across the grass in the garden, reading. 
Vanyel watched him from behindthe safety of his window curtains, half sick with 
conflicting emotions. The breeze was playing with the trainee's tousled hair 
almost the same way it had in his dream.

He shivered, and closed his eyes. Gods. Oh, gods. Why me? Why now? And 
why, oh why, him? Savil's favorite protege - 

He clutched the fabric of the curtain as if it were some kind of lifeline, and opened 
his eyes again. Tylendel had changed his pose a little, leaning his head on his 
hand, frowning in concentration. Vanyel shivered and bit his lip, feeling his heart 
pounding so hard he might as well have been running footraces. No girl had ever 
been able to make his heart race like this. . . .

The thought made him flush, his stomach twisting. Gods, what am I? Like him? I 
must be. Father will - oh, gods. Father will kill me, lock me up, tell everyone I've 
gone mad. Maybe I have gone mad.

Tylendel smiled suddenly at something he was reading; Vanyel's heart nearly 
stopped, and he wanted to cry. If only he'd smile at me that way - oh, gods, I 
can't, I can't, I daren't trust him, he'll only turn on me like all the others.

Like all the others.

He turned away from the window, invoking his shield of indifference with a sick 
and heavy heart.

If only I dared. If only I dared.		


Savil locked the brassbound door of her own private version of the Work Room 
with fingers that trembled a little, and turned to face her favorite protege, 
Tylendel, with more than a little trepidation.

Gods. This is not going to be easy. She braced herself for what was bound to be 
a dangerous confrontation; both for herself and for Tylendel. She didn't think he 
was going to go for her throat - but - well, this time she was going to push him 
just a little farther than she had dared before. And there was always the chance 
that it would be too far, this time.

He stood in the approximate center of the room, arms folded over the front of his 
plain brown tunic, expression unwontedly sober. It was fairly evident that he had 
already gathered this was not going to be a lesson or an ordinary discussion.

There was nothing else in this room, nothing at all. Unlike the public Work Room, 
this one was square, not circular; but the walls here were stone, too, and for 
some of the same reasons. In addition there was an inlaid pattern of lighter-
colored wood delineating a perfect circle in the center of the hardwood floor. And 
there was an oddness about the walls, a sense of presence, as if they were 
nearly alive. In a way, they were; Savil had put no small amount of her own 
personal energies into the protections on this room. They were, in some senses, 
a part of her. And because of that, she should be safer here than anywhere else, 
if something went wrong.

"You didn't bring me in here to practice," Tylendel stated flatly.

Savil swallowed and shook her head. "No, I didn't. You're right. I wanted to talk 
with you; I have two subjects, really, and I don't want anyone to have a chance at 
overhearing us."

"The first subject?" Tylendel asked. "Or - I think I know. My family again." His 
expression didn't change visibly, but Savil could sense his sudden anger in the 
stubborn setting of his jaw.

"Your family again," Savil agreed. "Tylendel, you're a Herald, or nearly. Heralds 
do not take sides in anyone's fight, not even when their own blood is involved. 
Your people have been putting pressure on you to do something. Now I know 
you haven't interfered - but I also know you want to. And I'm afraid that you might 
give in to that temptation."

His mouth tightened and he looked away from her. "So Evan Leshara can pour 
his poison into the ear of anyone at Court who cares to listen - and I 'm not 
allowed to do or say anything about it, is that it? I'm not even allowed to call him 
a damned liar for some of the things he's said about Staven?" He pulled his gaze 
back to her, and glared at her as angrily as if she were the one responsible for 
his enemy's behavior. "It's more than just my blood, Savil, it's my twin. By all he 
believes, by all he holds true, we've got blood-debt to pay here - and Staven, for 
all that he's young, is the Lord Holder now. It's his decision; the rest of us 
Frelennye must and will support him. And besides all that, he's in the right, 
dammit!"

"Lord Holder or not, young or not, right or not, he's a damned hotheaded fool," 
Savil burst out, flinging up both her hands before her in a gesture of complete 
frustration. "Blood-debt be hanged, it's that kind of fool thinking that got your 
people and the Leshara into this stupid feud in the first damned place! You can't 
bring back the dead with more blood!''

"It's honor, dammit!" He clenched his hands into fists. "Can't you even try to 
understand that?"

"It has nothing to do with real honor," she said scornfully. "It has everything to do 
with plain, obstinate pride. 'Lendel, you cannot be involved."

She froze with her heart in her mouth as he made one angry step toward her.
He saw her reaction, and halted.

She plowed onward, trusting in the advice she'd gotten. Please, Jaysen, be right 
this time, too.

"This whole feud is insanity! 'Lendel, listen to me! lt has got to be stopped, and if 
it goes on much longer it's the Heralds who'll have to stop it and you cannot take 
sides!"

All right so far, she hadn't said anything new. Now for the fresh goad. And hope it 
wasn't too much of a goad, too soon.

" 'Lendel, I know you've never been able to figure out why both you and Staven 
weren't taken by Companions - well, dammit, it's exactly this insanity that's the 
reason your beloved twin didn't get Chosen and you did. You at least can see the 
futility of this when you aren't busy defending him - he's too full of vainglory and 
too damned stubborn to ever see any solution to this but crushing the Leshara, 
branch and root! Your twin is an idiot, 'Lendel! He's just as much an idiot as 
Wester Leshara, but that doesn't change the fact that he's going to get people 
killed out of plain stupidity! And I will not permit this to go on for very much 
longer. If I have to denounce Staven to end your involvement with this, I will. 
Never doubt it. You have more important things to do with your life than waste it 
defending a fool."

Tylendel's fists clenched again; he was nearly rigid with anger, as his eyes went 
nearly black and his face completely white with the force of his emotions - and for 
one moment Savil wondered if he'd strike her this time. Or strike at her, that is; if 
he came for her, she didn't intend to be where his fist landed. Or his levinbolt, if it 
came to that.

Please, Lord and Lady, don't let him lose it this time, let him stay in control - I've 
never pushed him this far before. And don't let him try magic. If he hits out, I may 
not be able to save him from what my protections will do.

She prayed, and looked steadfastly (and, she hoped, compassionately) into 
those angry eyes.

She could Feel him vibrating inside, caught between his need to strike out at the 
one who had attacked his very beloved twin and his own conscience and good 
sense.

Savil continued to hold her ground, refusing to back down. The tension in the 
room was so acute that the power-charged walls picked it up, reverberating with 
his rage. And that fed back into Savil, will-she, nill-she. It was all she could do to 
hold fast, and maintain at least the appearance of calm.

Then he whirled and headed blindly into a corner. He rested his forehead against 
the cool stone of the wall with one arm draped over his head, pounding the fist of 
his free hand against the gray stones, cursing softly under his breath.

Now Savil let him alone, saying absolutely nothing.

Once you get him worked into a rage, let him deal with his anger and his internal 
turmoil in his own way, had been Jaysen's advice. Leave him alone until he's 
calmed himself down.

Finally he turned back to the room and her, bracing himself in the corner, eyes 
nearly closed; breathing as hard as if he'd been running a mile.

"You'll never get me to agree to stop supporting Staven, you know," he said in a 
perfectly conversational tone. "I won't interfere with the Heralds, I won't help with 
the feud, and I won't call Evan Leshara a damned liar - but I will defend Staven 
and what he thinks is right, if only to you. I love him, and I will not give that up."

There was no sign that a moment before he'd been in - literally - a killing rage.

"I know," Savil replied, just as calmly, giving no indication that she was still 
shaking inside. "I'm not asking you to give up loving Staven. All I want is for you 
to think about this mess, not just react to it. If it was only your two families, it 
would be bad enough, but you're involving the whole region in your feuding. We 
know very well that you've both been looking for mages to escalate this thing - 
and 'Lendel, I do not want to hear a single word about which side started that. 
The important thing is that you've done it. The important thing is that if either side 
involves magic in this, the Heralds must and will take a hand. We can't afford to 
have wild magic loose and hurting innocent people. You are a Herald, or nearly. 
You have to remember that you cannot take a side. You have to be impartial. No 
matter what Evan Leshara does or says."

Tylendel shrugged, but it was not an indifferent shrug. His pain was very real, 
and only too plain to his mentor; she hurt for him. But this was one of the most 
important lessons any Herald had to learn - that he had to be impartial, no matter 
what the cost of impartiality was. And no matter whether the cost was to himself, 
or to those he cared for.

"All right," he said, tonelessly. "I'll keep out of it. So. Now that you've turned my 
guts inside out, what else did you want to discuss?''

"Vanyel," Savil said, relaxing enough that her voice became a little dulled with 
weariness. "He's been here for more than a month. I want you to tell me what 
you think."

"Gods." He sagged back against the wall, and opened his eyes completely. They 
had returned to their normal warm brown. "You would bring up His Loveliness."

"What's the matter?" Savil asked sharply, and took a closer look at him; he was 
wearing a most peculiar half-smile, and she smelled a rat - or at least a mouse. " 

'Lendel, don't tell me you've gone and fallen in love with the boy!"

He snorted. "No, but the lad is putting a lot of stress on my self-control, let me tell 
you that! When I don't want to smack that superior grin off his face, I want to 
cuddle and reassure him, and I don't know which is worse."

"I don't doubt," Savil replied dryly, walking over to where he leaned, and draped 
herself against the wall opposite him. "All right, obviously you've had your eye on 
him; tell me what you've figured out so far. Even speculation will do."

"Half the time I think you ought to drown him," her trainee replied, shaking his 
golden head in disgust. "That miniature Court he's collected around himself is 
sickening. The posing, the preening - "

Savil made a little grimace of distaste. "You don't have to tell me. But what about 
the other half?"

"In my more compassionate moments, I'm more certain than ever that he's 
hurting, and all that posing is just that - a pose, a defense; that the little Court of 
his is to convince himself that he's worth something. But I've made overtures, 
and he just - goes to ice on me. He doesn't hit at me, he just goes unreachable."

"Well - " Savil eyed her protege with speculation.

"That particular scenario hadn't occurred to me. I thought that now he'd been 
given his head, he was just showing his true colors. I was about ready to wash 
my hands of him. Foster him with - oh - Oden or somebody - somebody with 
more patience, spare time, and Court connections than me."

"Don't," Tylendel said shortly, a new and calculating look on his face. "I just 
thought of something. Didn't you tell me one of the things his father was 
absolutely livid about was his messing about with music?"

"Yes," she said, slowly, pretending to examine the knuckles of her right hand as if 
they were of intense interest, but in reality concentrating on Tylendel's every 
word. The boy was a marginal Empath when he wasn't thinking about it. She 
didn't want to remind him of that Gift just now; not when she needed the 
information she could get from it. "Yes," she repeated. "Point of fact, he told me 
flat I was to keep the boy away from the Bards."

"And you told me Breda let him down gently, or as gently as she could, about his 
ambitions. How often has he played since then ?''

Now Savil gave him a measuring look of her own. "Not at all," she said slowly, 

"Not a note since then. Margret says there's dust collecting on that lute of his."

"Lord and Lady!" Tylendel bit his lip, and looked away, all his attention turned 
inward. "I didn't know it was that bad. I thought he might at least be playing for 
those social butterflies he's collected."

"Not a note," Savil repeated positively. "Is that bad?"

"For a lad who's certainly good enough to get a lot of praise from his 
sycophants? For one whose only ambitions lay with music? It's bad. It's worse 
than bad; we broke his dream for him. Savil, I take back the first half of what I 
said." Tylendel rubbed his neck, betraying a growing unease. He looked up at the 
ceiling, then back down at her, his eyes now frank and worried. ''We have a 
problem. A serious problem. That boy is bleeding inside. If we can't get him to 
open up, he may bleed himself to death."

"How do we get at him?" Savil asked, taking him at his word. Her weakness - and 
what made her a bad Field Herald, although it was occasionally an asset in 
training proteges - was in dealing with people. She didn't read them well, and she 
didn't really know how to handle them in a crisis situation. This business with 
Tylendel and his twin and the feud, for instance - 

I would never have thought of this solution - desensitizing him, weaning him into 
thinking about it logically by bringing him to the edge over and over but never 
letting him slip past that edge. Bless Jaysen. And damn him. Gods, every time 
we play this game it wreaks as much damage on me as it does on poor 'Lendel. 
I'm still vibrating like a harpstring.

Tylendel pondered her question a long time before answering, his handsome 
face utterly quiet, his eyes again turned inward. "I just don't know, Savil. Not 
while he's still rebuffing every overture he gets. We need some time for this to 
build, I think, and then some event that will break his barricades for a minute. 
Until that happens, we won't get in, and he'll stay an arrogant bastard until he 
explodes."

She felt herself grow cold inside. "Suicidal?"

To her relief, Tylendel shook his head. "I don't think so; he's not the type. It 
wouldn't occur to him. Now me - never mind. No, what he'll do is go out of control 
in one way or another. He'll either do it fast and have some kind of breakdown, or 
slowly, and debauch himself into a state where he's got about the same amount 
of mind left as a shrub."

"Wonderful." She placed her right hand over her forehead, rubbing her eyebrows 
with thumb and forefinger. "Just what I wanted to hear."

Tylendel made one of his expressive shrugs. "You asked."

"I did," she said reluctantly. "Gods, why me?"

"If it's any comfort, it's not going to happen tomorrow. ''

"It better not. I have an emergency Council session tonight." She sighed, and 
rubbed her hands together. "I'll probably be up half the night, so don't wait up."

"Does that mean the interview is over?" he asked quirking one corner of his 
mouth.

"It does. You can have the suite all to yourself tonight - just don't leave crumbs 
on the floor or grease on the cushions. I wouldn't care, but Margret will take your 
hide off in one piece. And don't look for the lovebirds, either - they're out on a 
fortnight Field trial with Shallan and her brood. So you'll be all alone for the 
evening."

"Oh, gods, all alone with the beautiful Vanyel - you really want to test my self-
control, don't you!" He laughed, then sobered, shoving away from the wall and 
straightening. "On the other hand, this might give me the chance I was talking 
about. If I get him alone, maybe I can get him to open up a bit.''

Savil shrugged and pushed away from the wall herself. "You're better than I with 
people, lad, that's why I asked your advice. If you think you have an opportunity, 
then take it. Meanwhile, I have to go consult with the Queen's Own."

"And from there, straight to the meeting? No time for a break?" Tylendel asked, 
sympathetically. She nodded.

He reached for her shoulders and embraced her closely. "See that you eat, 
teacher," he murmured into her hair. "I want you to stay around for a while, not 
wear yourself into another bout of pneumonia, and maybe kill yourself this time. 
Even when I hate you, you old bitch, you know I love you."

She swallowed down another lump in her throat, and returned the embrace with 
a definite stinging in her eyes.

"I know, love. Don't think I don't count on it." She swallowed again, closed her 
eyes, and held him as tightly, a brief point of stability in a world that too often was 
anything but stable. "I love you, too. And don't you ever forget it."

The emptiness of the suite almost oppressed Tylendel. With the "lovebirds" gone, 
Savil due (so the dinnertime rumor in the kitchens had it) for a till-dawn Council 
session in her capacity as speaker for those Heralds teaching proteges, and 
Vanyel presumably entertaining his little coterie of followers, there was nothing 
and no one to break the stifling silence. It closed around him like a shroud, until 
the very beating of his heart was audible. Outside the windows it was as dark as 
the heart of sin, and so overcast not even a hint of moon came through. His scalp 
was damp, hot, and prickly. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and soaked 
into his collar. It felt a whole lot later than it actually was; time was crawling 
tonight, not flying.

Tylendel gave up trying to read the treatise on weather-magic Savil had assigned 
him and switched to a history instead. A handwritten pamphlet on 
weatherworking was not what he needed to be reading right now, anyway; not 
with a storm threatening. His energy control often wasn't as good as he'd like, 
and he didn't want to inadvertently augment what was coming in. He was a lot 
better at controlling his subconscious than he had been, but there was no point in 
taking chances with Savil out of reach.

That storm was at least part of what was making the suite seem stuffy; Tylendel 
Sensed the thunderheads building up in the west even though he couldn't see 
them from where he was sprawled on the couch of the common room. That was 
the Gift that made him a Herald-Mage trainee and not just a Herald-trainee; the 
ability to See (or otherwise Sense) and manipulate energy fields, both natural 
and supernatural. His Gifts had come on him early and a long time before he was 
Chosen; they'd given him trouble for nearly half of his short life, and only his 
twin's support had kept him sane in the interval between their onset and when his 
Companion Gala finally appeared - 

:Are you tucked safe away, dearling?: he Mindspoke to her. :When this blow 
comes, it's going to be a good one.:

The drowsy affirmative he got told him that she was half-asleep; heat did that to 
her.

Heat mostly made him irritable. He had propped every window and door wide 
open (and to hell with bugs), but there wasn't even a whisper of breeze to move 
the air around. The candle flames didn't even waver, and the honey-beeswax 
smell of the candles placed all around the common room was almost choking him 
with its sweetness.

 He shook back his damp hair, rubbed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on his 
book, but part of him kept hoping for a flash of lightning in the dark beyond the 
windows, or the first hint of cooling rain. And part of him kept insisting that all he 
had to do was nudge it a little. He told that part of himself to take a long walk, and 
waited impatiently for the rain to come of itself.

Nothing happened. Just an itchy sort of tension building.

He gave up trying to concentrate, got up and went to the sideboard for a glass of 
wine; he needed to get centered and calmed, and a little less sensitive, and he 
wasn't going to be able to do it on his own. The only wine left was a white, and it 
was a bit dry for his taste, but it did accomplish what he wanted it to. With just 
that hint of alcohol inside him, he finally managed to relax and get into the 
blasted book.

He got so far into it, in fact, that when the first simultaneous blast of wind and 
thunder came, he nearly jumped off of the couch.

Half the candles - the ones not sheltered in glass chimney-lamps - blew out. 
Wind whipped through the suite, sending curtains flying and carrying with it a 
welcome chill and the scent of rain. The shutters in Mardic's and Donni's room 
banged monotonously against the walls; not hard enough to shatter the glass yet, 
but it was only a matter of time. He dropped the book and got up to head for their 
door just as Vanyel stumbled in through the corridor door and into the brightness 
of the common room.

The boy stood as frozen as a statue, blinking owlishly at the light. Tylendel's 
stomach gave a little lurch; Vanyel looked like death.

It was bad enough that the boy was light-complected; bad enough that he was 
wearing stark black tonight, which only accentuated his fair skin. But his face had 
no color at the moment; it was so white it was almost transparent. His eyes 
looked sunken, and his expression was of someone who has seen, but been 
denied, the Havens.

"Vanyel - " Tylendel said - whispered, really - his voice barely audible above the 
banging shutter and the sound of the storm. He cleared his throat and tried 
again. "Vanyel, I didn't expect you back so - uh - soon. Is something wrong?"

For one moment - for one precious moment - Tylendel thought he had him; he 
was sure that the boy was going to open up to him. His eyes begged for pity; his 
expression, so hungry and haunted, nearly cracked Tylendel's own calm. The 
trainee made a tentative step toward him - 

It was the wrong move; he knew that immediately. Vanyel's face shuttered and 
assumed his habitual expression of flippant arrogance. "Wrong?" he said, with 
false gaiety. "Bright Lady, no, of course there's nothing wrong! Some of the 
Bards just came over from their Collegium and started an impromptu contest; it 
got so damned hot in the Great Hall with all those people crowded in that I gave 
up - "

Just then the shutters in both the lifebonded's room and Savil's crashed against 
the walls with such force that it was a wonder that the windows didn't shatter.

"Havens!" Vanyel yelped, "She'll kill us!" and dove for Savil's room. Tylendel 
dashed into the other, mentally cursing his own clumsiness, and cursing himself 
for letting his reaction to the boy cloud his reading of him.

By the time he got everything secured and returned to the common room, Vanyel 
had retreated into his own room and the door was firmly and irrevocably shut.

"Vanyel," the trainee said, softly, his eyes dark with compassion and 
understanding, "Is something wrong?"

"I - " Vanyel began, then closed his eyes as a jit of trembling hit him. ' 'I - the 
music - I - ''

Suddenly Tylendel was beside him, holding him, quieting his shivering. ' 'It's all 
right,'' he murmured into Vanyel's ear, his breath warm and like a caress in his 
hair. ' 'It's all right, I understand. ''

Vanyel stood as unmoving as a dead stick, hardly daring to breathe, afraid to 
open his eyes. Tylendel stroked his hair, the back of his neck, his hands warm 
and light - and Vanyel thought his heart was going to pound itself to pieces. ' I 
understand,'' he repeated. ' 'I know what it's like to want something, and know 
you 'II never have it. "

' 'You - do ?'' Vanyel faltered.

Tylendel chuckled. It was a warm, rich sound.

And his fingers traced the line of Vanyel's spine, slowly, sensuously. Vanyel 
started to relax in Tylendel's arms - and his eyes popped open in startlement 
when his own hands at Tylendel's chest encountered, not cloth, but skin.

The trainee was starkly, gloriously nude.

"Then again, " Tylendel whispered, looking deeply into Vanyel's eyes. ' 'Maybe I 
will get it. ''

Vanyel made a strangling noise, wrenched himself away, and fled into darkness, 
into cold - 

Into the middle of his old dream.

First there had been the snow-plain, then as he walked across it, the teeth of ice 
had begun poking their way up through the granular snow. They'd grown higher 
as he walked, but what he hadn't known was that they were growing behind him 
as well. Now he was trapped inside a ring of them. Trapped inside walls of ice, 
smoother than the smoothest glass, colder than the coldest winter. He couldn't 
break out; he pounded on them until his arms were leaden, to no effect. 
Everywhere he looked - ice, snow, nothing alive, nothing but white and pale blue 
and silver. Even the sky was white. And he was so alone - so terribly alone.
Nothing soft, nothing comforting. Nothing welcoming. Only the ice, only the 
unyielding, unmoving ice and the white, grainy snow.

He was cold. So appallingly cold - so frozen that he ached all over.
He had to get out.

Hoping to climb over the barrier, he reached for the top of one of the ice-walls, 
and pulled back his hands as pain stabbed through them. He stared at them 
stupidly. His palms were slashed nearly to the bone, and blood oozed sluggishly 
from the cuts to pool at his feet.

There was blood on the snow; red blood - but as he stared at it in numb 
fascination, it turned blue.

Then his hands began to burn with the cold, yet fiery pain of the wounds. He 
gasped, and tears blurred his vision; he wanted to scream, but could only moan. 

Gods, it hurt, he'd give anything to make it stop hurting!

Suddenly, the pain did stop; his hands went numb. His eyes cleared and he 
looked down at his injured hands again - and saw to his horror that the slashes 
had frozen over and his hands were turning to ice; blue, and shiny, and utterly 
without feeling. Even as he gazed at them, the ice crept farther up; over his 
wrists, crawling up his forearms - and he cried out - 

Then he wasn't there anymore, he was somewhere else. It was dark, but he 
could see; by the lightning, by a strange blue glow about him. Lightning flickered 
overhead, and seemed to be controlled by what he did or thought; he was 
standing on a mound of snow in the center of a very narrow valley. To either side 
of him were walls of ice that towered over his head, reaching to the night sky in 
sheer, crystalline perfection. Behind him - there was nothing - somehow he knew 
this. But before him - 

"Vanyel!"

Before him an army; an army of mindless monsters-creatures with only one goal. 
To get past him. Already he was wounded; he twisted to direct the lightning to 
lash into their ranks, and felt pain lancing down his right side, felt the hot blood 
trickling down his leg into his boot and freezing there. There were too many of 
them. He was doomed. He gasped and wept at the horrible pain in his side, and 
knew that he was dying. Dying alone. So appallingly alone - 

"Vanyel!"

He struggled up out of the canyon of ice, out of the depth of sleep; shaken out of 
the nightmare by hot, almost scorching hands on his shoulders and a 
commanding voice in his ears.

He blinked; feeling things, and not connecting them. His eyes hurt; he'd been 
crying. His hair, his pillow were soggy with tears, and he was still so cold - too 
cold even to shiver. That was why Tylendel's hands on his bare shoulders felt so 
hot.

"Vanyel - " Tylendel's eyes were a soft sable in the light of the tiny bedside 
candle; like dark windows on the night, windows that somehow reflected concern. 
His hands felt like branding irons on Vanyel's skin. "Gods, Vanyel, you're like 
ice!"

As he tried to sit up, Vanyel realized that he was still leaking tears.

As soon as he started moving he began shivering so hard he couldn't speak. ''I - 
" he said, and could get nothing more out.

Tylendel snagged his robe from the foot of the bed without even looking around, 
and wrapped it about his naked shoulders. It wasn't enough. Vanyel shook with 
tremors he could not stop, and the robe wasn't doing anything to warm him.

"Vanyel," Tylendel began, then simply wrapped his arms around Vanyel and held 
him.

Vanyel resisted - tried to pull away.

He blinked.

The snow-plain stretched all around him, empty - but not asking anything of him. 
Cold, but not a threat. But lonely, lonely - oh, gods, how empty - 

But not asking, not hurting - 

He blinked again, and Tylendel was still there, still staring into his eyes with an 
openness and a concern he could not doubt.

"Go away!" he gasped; waiting for pain, waiting to be laughed at.

"Why?" Tylendel asked, quietly. "I want to help you."

He was turning to ice; soon there would be no feeling and nothing to feel - and he 
would be trapped.

Tylendel took advantage of his distraction to get his arms around him. "Van, I 
wouldn't hurt you. I couldn't hurt you."

He closed his eyes and gasped for breath, his chest tight and hurting. - oh, gods 
- I want this - 

"I'm just trying to get you warm again," Tylendel said with a hint of impatience. 
"That's all. Relax, will you?"

He did relax; he couldn't maintain his indifference - and to his shame, began 
crying again - and he couldn't stop the tears any more than he could the 
shivering.

But not only did Tylendel not seem to mind - 

"Come on, Vanyel," he soothed, pulling him into a comfortable position on his 
shoulder, supporting him like a little child. "It's all right, I told you I won't hurt you. 
I wouldn't ever hurt you. Cry yourself out, it's just you and me, and I'll never tell 
anyone. On my honor. Absolutely on my honor."

It was already too late to save his battered dignity anyway - 

Vanyel surrendered appearance, self-respect, everything. He sagged against 
Tylendel's shoulder, burying his face in Tylendel's soft, worn, blue robe. He let 
the last of his pride dissolve, releasing all the tears he'd been keeping behind his 
walls of indifference and arrogance. Soon he was crying so hard he couldn't even 
think, just cling to Tylendel's shoulders and sob. He didn't really hear what 
Tylendel was saying, only the tone of his voice registered in his sleep-mazed 
grief; comforting, compassionate, caring.

He cried his eyes sore and dry; he cried until his nose felt swollen to the size of 
an apple. All the time he shivered with the terrible cold that seemed to have 
become one with his very bones; shivered until the bed shook.

Finally there just weren't any tears left - and he wasn't shivering anymore, he was 
warm - and more than warm; protected. And completely exhausted. Tylendel 
held him as carefully as if he was made of spun glass and would shatter at a 
breath; just held him. That was all.

It was enough. It was more than he ever remembered having. He wished it could 
last forever.

 - may the gods help me. I've always wanted this - 

"Done?" Tylendel asked, very quietly, a good while after the last of the sobs and 
the tremors had finished shaking his body.

He nodded, reluctantly, and felt the arms holding him relax. He sat up again, and 
Tylendel cupped both his hands around his face, turning him into the light. He 
winced away from it, knowing what he must look like; the trainee chuckled, but it 
had a kindly, not a mocking, sound.

"You're a mess, peacock," he said, somehow making the words a joke to be 
shared between them. Vanyel smiled, tentatively, and Tylendel dabbed at his 
eyes with the corner of the sheet.

"Do you have so common a thing as a handkerchief around here?" he asked, 
quite casually. Vanyel nodded, and fumbled at the drawer of the bedside table 
until Tylendel patted his hand away and got the square of linen out of it himself.

"Here," he gave it to Vanyel, then settled back a little. "I couldn't sleep; got up to 
get some wine and heard you. Do this often?"

Vanyel blew his nose, and looked up at the older boy through half-swollen eyes. 

"Often enough," he confessed.

"Nightmare?"

He nodded, and looked down at his hands.

"Know why?"

"No," he whispered. But he did. He did. It was hearing the Bards - hearing what 
he'd never, ever have – and then encountering Tylendel and knowing- 

Gods.

"Want to tell me about it?"

He dared another glance at the trainee; the quiet face of the older boy was not 
easy to read, but there were no signs of deception there that Vanyel could see.
But - 

"You'll laugh at me," he said, ready to pull away again.

"No. On my honor. Van, I don't lie. I won't laugh at you, and nothing you tell me 
will go outside this room unless you want it to."

Vanyel shivered again, and without any warning at all, the words came spilling 
out.

"It's - ice," he said, sniffing, studying his hands and the handkerchief he had 
twisted up in them. "It's all around me; I'm trapped, I can't get out, and I'm so cold 
- so cold. Then I cut myself, and I start to turn into ice. Then - sometimes, like 
tonight - I'm somewhere else, and I'm fighting these things, and I know I'm going 
to die. And the worst of it isn't the pain, or the dying - it's that - that - " he faltered, 
" - I'm - all alone. So totally alone - "

It sounded so banal, so incredibly foolish, just put into words like that. Especially 
when he didn't, couldn't, tell Tylendel the rest, the part about him. He looked up, 
expecting to see mockery in the older boy's face - and froze, seeing nothing of 
the kind.

"Van, I think I know what you mean," Tylendel said slowly. "There are times when 
- when being alone is a hurt that's worse than dying. When it's easier to die than 
to be alone. Aren't there?"

Vanyel blinked, caught without words.

Tylendel's voice was so soft he might well have been speaking to himself. 
"Sometimes, maybe it's better to have had someone and lost them than to have 
never had anyone - "

Then Tylendel's eyes focused for a moment on Vanyel. And Vanyel's heart 
spasmed at the flash of emotion he saw. A longing he'd not ever dreamed to see 
there. Directed at him.

 - oh - gods. I never - I thought - he can't - 

He does. He is. Father will - 

I don't care!

He snatched at what was proffered before it could be taken away.

"Vanyel - " the blond began.

" 'Lendel - " Vanyel interrupted, urgently, daring the nickname he'd heard his aunt 
use. "Stay with me - please. Please." His words tumbled over one another as he 
hurried to get them out before Tylendel could interrupt; he caught hold of the 
older boy's wrist. "The ice is still there, I know it is, it's inside me and it's freezing 
me from the inside out - it's killing my - feelings. I think it's killing me. Please, 
please, don't leave me alone with it - "

"You don't know what you're asking," Tylendel said, almost angrily; pulling his 
hand out of Vanyel's, his eyes no longer readable. "You can't know. You don't 
know what Iam."

"But I do," Vanyel protested desperately. "I do, the girls tell me things to get my 
attention - they told me you're - uh - shay'a'chern, they said. That you don't sleep 
with girls; that you - " He felt himself blush, the rush of blood almost painful, his 
cheeks were so sore from crying.

"Then dammit, Vanyel, what do you think I'm made of?" Tylendel cried harshly, 
his face twisted and his eyes reflecting internal pain. "What do you think I am? 

Marble? You're beautiful, you're bright, you're everything I'd ever ask for - you 
think I can stay here and not want you? Good gods, I won't take advantage of an 
innocent, but what you're asking of me would try the control of a saint!"

"You don't understand. I know what I'm asking," Vanyel replied, catching his wrist 
again before he could get up and stalk off into the dark. "I do know."

Tylendel shook his head violently and looked away.

" 'Lendel - look at me," Vanyel pleaded, pouring his heart out in a confession he'd 
never have dared to make before this. "Listen - I don't like girls either. I'm not an 
innocent, I know what I want, 'Lendel, please, listen - I've been - rl've bedded 
enough of them to know that they don't do anything for me. It's - about as 
mechanical as dancing, or eating. They just don't mean anything to me."

Tylendel stopped trying to pull away, and turned a face to Vanyel that was so full 
of dumbfounded surprise that the younger boy had to fight hysterical laughter.

"And I do? You - " Tylendel began, then his face hardened. "Don't play with me, 
Vanyel. Don't toy with me. I've had that game played on me once already - and I 
don't want to hear you crying to Savil in the morning that I seduced you."

Vanyel bit his lip, and looked directly into Tylendel's eyes, pleadingly. "I'm not 
playing, 'Lendel. Please." He felt his eyes sting, and this time didn't try to hide the 
two tears that spilled down his raw cheeks. "I - I've been thinking about this for a 
long while. Almost since I got here, and they - told me about you. And you never 
laughed at me. You - were - kind to me. You kept being kind to me even when I 
was pretty rude. It meant a lot to me. And I didn't know how to thank you. I - 
started feeling - things around you. I was scared. I didn't dare let you guess. I 
didn't want to admit what I wanted; now I do."

The older boy looked at him sideways. "Which is?"

Vanyel gulped. "I want to be with you, 'Lendel. And if you go - I won't have any 
choice but the ice - "

Once again Tylendel cupped his face between his strong hands, and gently 
brushed the tears away with hesitant fingers. He stared deeply into Vanyel's eyes 
for so long, and so searchingly, that Vanyel thought he surely must be reading 
right down to the depths of his soul. Vanyel held his gaze, and tried to make his 
own eyes say that he meant every word he'd said. Tylendel finally nodded, once, 
slowly.

Then he reached out, quite deliberately, and snuffed the candle before taking 
Vanyel back into his arms.

It was very dark; no light outside, no sound but the rain falling. After a moment, 
Tylendel chuckled with what sounded like surprise, and said softly into Vanyel's 
ear, "I'm beginning to wonder just who's taking advantage of who, here."

Then, a bit later, another chuckle to tell Vanyel that he was teasing. "Move over, 
you selfish little peacock, I'm about to freeze to death."

Then no words at all.

Then again, they didn't need words.

The halls were totally deserted, chill, and lit by lamps that were slowly flickering 
out as they used up the last of the night's oil. Savil's slow, weary footsteps 
echoed before and behind her without disturbing so much as a spider. At one 
point on the long walk back to her quarters from the Council Chamber, Savil 
wasn't entirely certain she was going to make it. She was so damned tired she 
was about ready to give up and lie down in the middle of the cold hall.

I'm getting too old for this, she told herself. No more younglings after this lot. I 
can't take the emotional ups and downs. And I truly cannot take these all-night 
sessions with a lot of stubborn old goats.

She grinned a little ironically at herself.

Of which I am one of the most stubborn. But gods - hours like this are for the 
young. I hurt. And I think I'm going to beg off 'Lendel's weather working lesson 
today, else my bones are going to ache more. Gods bless - the door at last.

She pushed open the door to the suite; Tylendel had left a night-candle burning, 
but it, too, was guttering. No matter, there was the pearly gray light of an 
overcast dawn creeping in through the windows of her room, the lifebonded's, 
and Tylendel's - 

She froze. Tylendel's bed was unoccupied; she could see it through the door.

Don't panic, old woman - she cautioned herself. Just do a bit of a trace, first - 
you've shared magic; you 've got the line to his mind. See where it leads.

She found the little energy-link that said Tylendel and followed it back to where 
Tylendel himself was. It wasn't very far. Still in the suite, in fact. In Vanyel's room.
Vanyel's room?

Her first reaction was to fling the door open and demand to know what was going 
on. Her second was to chuckle; with aura overtones like that she bloody well 
knew what was going on!

But - Vanyel? Gods have mercy. No sign he was shay 'a 'chern - 

Then again, given Withen's prejudices, he might have feared for a long time that 
the boy was fey. And Withen's answer to that fear would have been - 

Exactly what he'd been doing. Keeping the boy sheltered at home rather than 
fostering him out and trying to shove him in the direction Withen wanted. Trying 
to force the boy into a mold he was totally unsuited for. And he also might well 
have protected the boy from even the idea that same-sex pairings were possible. 
So the boy himself wouldn't have known what he was - until he first found out 
about 'Lendel.

Which answered a great many questions indeed. The question now was - what 
had led to this, and what was it going to mean for the future?

She took a deep breath of the chilly, damp air, and groped her way back to her 
own room. No use rushing things; questioning could be done just as easy with 
herself lying in her own warm bed. Easier, actually, given 
how she felt.

She stripped herself down to the skin, promised her weary bones a bath later, 
and dragged on a bedgown before crawling into the blankets. The warm 
blankets, and she blessed Tylendel's thoughtfulness for putting the warming spell 
on her bed before he'd taken to his own. Or - whatever.

She settled herself comfortably, and reached out a thin tendril of Mindspeech in 
Private-mode. If the imp was awake- 

He was.

:Savil?: came the sleep-blurred thought, dense with a feeling of contentment. –

.Thought I heard you come in. Found me, hmm?:

:Aye. And I have a pile of questions.: She shifted herself until her left shoulder 
stopped aching quite so much. :The only important one is, how did you talk him 
into it?:

:I didn't. It was all Van's idea.:

She almost lost the Mindspeech thread with her start of surprise, and had to 
grope after it. :Sounds like I really missed something! What in the name of the 
Havens happened last night?:

:Too much to talk about now.: There were overtones of mental and physical 
weariness to his Mind-voice. :But he's going to be all right, Savil. We did more 
than - just the physical. I think we must have talked for hours, before and after. 
He handed me the key to himself, and he wanted me to have it.:

She raised a sardonic mental eyebrow. :'Lendel - I don't want to drench you with 
cold water, but may I remind you of what happened the last time morning arrived 
with you in someone else's bed?:

:It 's all right, Savil, it really is this time.: A feeling of faint surprise. :You know, you 
're always teasing me about falling in love - but - I don't know, this feels different. 
:
Savil snorted. :Right; it always does. No, don't let an old cynic disturb you.:

:Teacher - I think this is going to be something more than just a one-time; I think 
he needs me.:

:Oh, Havens. All right, if that's the way you think it's going - just let me know in 
the morning if you plan to move in with him. Or him with you, though his is the 
better chamber. We could use a spare for guests.:

Flavor of laughter like crisp apples. :You just want my room back. :

:If you aren't using it - seriously, 'Lendel, this is important. I want to have a long 
talk with him when I get up, and I want you there. He really should know what 
he's letting himself in for as shay'a'chern. I don't think we should let that get out, 
and I'll Mindspeak with you on that before we talk with him. Hmm - cancel your 
classes this morning; I'm too tired, and I have the feeling you weren't exactly 
early to sleep:

Another apple-feeling of laughter, and the mind-link faded. And she let 
exhaustion pull her down into a slumber that she really didn't want, not anymore.
One last thought before sleep came.

Great good gods, what am I going to tell Withen ?


Tylendel raised himself up on his elbow and looked down at the slumbering boy 
beside him. Rest had repaired the damages that several hours of soul-wrenching 
weeping had done to Vanyel's face; relaxed, and with all his barriers down, he 
looked as innocent as an unawakened child - 

 - which he was, as Tylendel now knew quite intimately, not. Not in any way; 
except, perhaps, his vulnerability.

"Van," he whispered, touching his shoulder, and feeling just a faint chill of 
apprehension despite his words to his mentor, "can you wake up a little?"

Vanyel stirred, wrinkled his nose, and half-opened his eyes. And when he saw 
who was beside him, he smiled with heart-stopping sweetness. With all his 
masks gone, he was as charming as he was beautiful.

"Hmm?" he said, blinking, as Tylendel felt a surge of relief and gratitude that this 
was not going to be a repeat of the infamous Nevis affair.

"Want a roommate?"

"You - why?"

He grinned; he knew now that you had to show Van that something was a joke, 
or often he'd taken it seriously. "Savil seems to want my room back - for guests, 
she says. Besides, I like your company."

Vanyel's reply, though not verbal, was a definite and unmistakable affirmative.


"We have," Savil said dryly, "several problems, here."

She'd had that Mindspeech conference with Tylendel as she'd gotten herself put 
together for the day. Nice thing, Mindspeech; let you cover more than one thing 
at once. And after giving it thorough consideration while she bathed, she decided 
to have her "little talk" with Vanyel in his room. With any luck, he'd feel less 
threatened there.

She did usurp the most comfortable chair in the room, though. The privilege of 
age, she told herself, waiting for the two young men to settle themselves. Without 
seeming to consult about it, Tylendel sat on the edge of the bed, and Vanyel 
arranged himself cross-legged on the floor at his feet.

And the flexibility of youth. Would that I could still do that! The body language 
gave her spirits a lift, though; the way Vanyel had positioned himself was 
interesting. At Tylendel's feet, below both her head and his lover's. That could 
well show he'd given up that pose of arrogant superiority. Very interesting.
I wonder if having a steady lover at his side might well give 'Lendel something to 
think about besides his twin and that damned feud. On the other hand - this lad's 
been so affection-starved - this could be another sort of trouble.

"Yes, indeed, we have quite a few little problems here," she repeated.

Tylendel nodded at her words; Vanyel looked puzzled, at first, then thoughtful.

"The first problem and the one that's going to tie in to all the others, Vanyel, is 
your father." She paused, and Vanyel bit his lip. "I'm sure that you realize that if 
he finds out about this, he is going to react badly."		
	
Vanyel coughed, and bowed his head, hiding his face for a moment. When he 
looked back up, he was wearing a weary, ironic half-smile; a smile that had as 
much pain in it as humor. It was, by far and away, the most open expression 
Savil had ever seen him wear.

" 'Badly' is something of an understatement, Aunt," he replied, rubbing his temple 
with one finger. "He'll - gods, I can't predict what he'll do, but he'll be in a rage, 
that's for certain."

"He'll pull you home, Van," Tylendel said in a completely flat voice. "And he can 
do it; you're not of age, you aren't Chosen, and you aren't in Bardic."

"And I can't protect you," Savil sighed, wishing that she could. "I can stall him off 
for a while, seeing as he officially turned guardianship of you over to me, but it 
won't last more than a couple of months. Then - well, I'll give you my educated 
guess as to what Withen will do. I think he'll put you under house arrest long 
enough for everybody to forget about you, then find himself a compliant priest 
and ship you off to a temple. Probably one far away, with very strict rules about 
outside contact. There are, I'm sorry to say, several sects who hold that 
shay'a'chern are tainted. They'd be only to happy to 'purify' you for Withen and 
Withen's gold. And under the laws of this kingdom, none of us could save you 
from them."

Vanyel nodded; by the startled agreement in his eyes, Savil reckoned that this 
was a speculation he'd entertained before this, although for different causes. "So 
is there anything I can do?'' he asked quietly.

"Obviously," she said, "Or I wouldn't be talking to you now. But you aren't going 
to like the solution to your problem. It's pretty heartbreakingly simple. Outside of 
this room, Vanyel, nothing is to change. "

"But - " He twisted his head around to see what Tylendel thought about this, only 
to find that his lover was nodding, in complete agreement with her.

"Savil's right, Van," Tylendel said sadly.

"But - " Vanyel protested, holding out one hand toward him in entreaty, then 
turning the same pleading eyes on Savil when Tylendel shook his head.		

"Mardic and Donni are discreet, and I'd trust Margret to keep what she knows 
behind her teeth even under torture, but if you want to stay here, Vanyel, you 
won't say or do anything to betray your relationship to 'Lendel. The moment 
people start to talk, it'll get back to your father."

"The quickest way to make them talk, love," Tylendel said in what was almost a 
whisper, "is to change. Is to even be friendlier to me than you have been. You 
told me the girls told you I was a pervert." Vanyel's eyes widened at Tylendel's 
directness. "It can't have escaped your notice how they sniggered and giggled 
about it, and they were being polite. My preferences are not generally socially 
acceptable. There are only two reasons why I have as little trouble as I do. The 
first is that I'm a Herald-trainee, and Heralds are allowed a bit more license than 
ordinary mortals. And my patron is Savil. She just happens to outrank everybody 
in the Circle except the Queen's Own."

"And the other reason?" Vanyel said in a very subdued voice.

What stretched Tylendel's mouth was something less than a smile. "The fact that 
I took a couple of the worst offenders on and kept knocking them down until they 
didn't get up."

"Oh."

Tylendel caught up one of his hands in both of his own. "I know you want 
everyone to know about us. I can't tell you how much that means to me. But it will 
mean a lot more to me to know you were going to be able to stay with me."

"And to do that, young Vanyel," Savil said, intruding into the intense interaction 
between them, "you are going to have to begin a performance a Master Player 
couldn't equal. 'Lendel and I have been talking about you this afternoon."

From the complete astonishment on his face, Savil could tell that he hadn't 
guessed they'd been in conference via Mindspeech. For that matter, it might be 
that he didn't know they both had that Gift.

"We share the Mindspeech Gift, lad, and it's damned useful at times like this. 
He's told me some of what you told him, and it rather changed my mind about 
you. But I will not lie to you; I'm going to help you because he wants it, because 
he wants you here. So now I'm going to order you; outside of this suite you are to 
be the same arrogant little bastard that arrived here. And if you can manage to 
be slightly rude to 'Lendel, that's even better. And in return, I'll make this suite a 
little sanctuary for the two of you. Is it a bargain?"

Vanyel, who had gone rather pale, gulped, and nodded.

Savil smiled for the first time since she'd begun this conference.

"That's a good lad. If you're half of what 'Lendel claims for you, I'm going to come 
to like you a great deal, and I'm sorry for the treatment you've had from your 
father. I'll tell you that he isn't the same person I knew when I was Chosen. He's 
gone stiff and stubborn, and altogether hidebound. Maybe it's age; maybe it's 
that a lot of his old friends have taken the Long Walk and he's seeing Death 
looking for him, too. Maybe it's that priest he's gotten tied up with - I just don't 
know." She coughed. "Well, that's not to the point; what is to the point is that 
you'll only have to keep up this charade until you're eighteen; you'll be your own 
man then, and can do what you please. And I'll see to it that 'Lendel begins 
having trouble with his Mage-lessons." She winked, and Tylendel chortled. "I 
think we can keep him out of Whites until you're of age. After that," if this love 
affair lasts that long "you'll have to make your decisions on your own. Fair 
enough?"

"More than fair, Aunt Savil." Vanyel looked very subdued, and quite unlike the 
boy that had faced her something like a month ago. She couldn't quite pinpoint 
why.

:'Lendel, what is it about him?: she Mindspoke, letting her puzzlement drift over.

:No masks,: came the immediate answer. .-This is the real Vanyel, dearheart. 
The one nobody but me - and maybe his sister - has seen. Now see why I love 
him?:

The last thought stopped her cold. :Are you that sure, ke'chara? Are you really 
that sure?:		

His eyes caught hers over Vanyel's head; caught and held them. :I'm that sure.:

:And him ?:

:I don'( know; but he was willing to defy his father for me, and I think that says 
something.:

She closed her own eyes against that burning, intense gaze. :Then may the gods 
help and guard you.:

She turned her attention back to Vanyel, and quickly. He was still looking toward 
Tylendel, and the very same look was in his eyes - and a vulnerability and 
apprehension that cut at her heart.

"I'll help you all I can, son," she said quietly. "I'll help you all I can."



Six


Don't go yet," Tylendel said abruptly, as Vanyel picked himself up off the floor. 

Vanyel gave him a look of uncertainty. He was still too new to this - being open. 
He was still waiting for blows that never came.

But Tylendel seemed to know that.

"It's all right, Van," he said softly. "It's really all right. I have a good reason."

"I've got a lesson," he protested. "History, and I'm still behind the other three."

Tylendel made a wry face. "You're a law unto yourself, remember? At least that's 
what you're supposed to be acting like. You skipped your lessons this morning, 
skip the rest of them today; tell 'em you were sick. Tell 'em the storm last night 
gave you a headache."

"But - "

"It's important," Tylendel coaxed. "Really, it is. More important than that history 
lesson. If you're behind, I'll coach you. Please?"

It didn't take much encouragement from Tylendel to get him to do what he 
already wanted to do; lessons were hardly as attractive as more of Tylendel's 
company. Here he wasn't going to be hurt. Here - someone cared for him. It was 
as heady as a little too much wine, only without the hangover.

Vanyel closed the door to his room, then turned an expectant face toward his 
lover, poised with one hand still on the latch.

Tylendel stretched lazily, reaching for the ceiling with his head tilted back. Then 
he dropped his arms, rose from his seat on the bed, and walked over to put his 
hand behind Vanyel's shoulder.

"There's somebody I want you to meet," he said, gently pushing Vanyel in the 
direction of the room's outside door.

"But - " Vanyel protested weakly, "I thought - "

"You're awfully fond of that word 'but,' love," Tylen-del chuckled. "What does it 
take to get you to say something else?"

He opened the door, still without enlightening Vanyel as to the reason why he 
was going to introduce Vanyel to someone after Savil had just got done telling 
them both that they were to keep the relationship a secret - 

 - and Tylendel had agreed with her.

Vanyel started to protest again, realized that the only thing he could think of to 
say was "but," and subsided, as Tylendel guided him out the door to the gardens 
beyond.

"You see that bridge?" Tylendel pointed northward to the first of the two bridges 
crossing the Terilee River on the Palace grounds. "And that stand of pines on the 
other side?"

Vanyel nodded; it was quite a healthy grove, in fact, and the trees extended a 
good distance back into the Field. They were tall, very thick, and a deep green 
that was almost black, with huge branches that drooped beneath their own 
weight until they touched the ground.

"You count to fifty after you see me go in there, then you follow," Tylendel 
ordered. "In case anybody happens to come by, though, or looks out a window, 
you'd better try your hand at acting the arrogant little prig."

Vanyel nodded again; completely mystified, but willing to go along with about 
anything that Tylendel wanted. He posed himself carefully, leaning against the 
doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, attempting to look as if he were 
simply idling about in the gardens, while Tylendel sauntered off.

This is going to be harder than it was before, he thought somberly, trying to look 
anywhere except after Tylendel. I didn't have anything to lose, before. Now I 
have everything to lose if I slip. He closed his eyes, and turned his face up to the 
sun, as if he were savoring the warmth. But if I don't slip - oh, gods, whichever 
one of you is responsible for this - it's worth anything. I swear, it's worth anything 
you ask of me!

He chanced a sideways glance across the river; Tylendel was only just reaching 
the pine grove. He looked away, strolled over to a stand of daylilies, admired 
them for a moment, then glanced across the river again. Tylendel's blond hair 
gleamed against the dark boughs like a tangled skein of spun sunlight, then 
vanished as the branches closed behind him.

Vanyel transferred his admiration to a bed of rose vines, languidly bending to 
inhale their perfume, all the while counting to the requisite fifty. He had no sooner 
reached the required number, though, when a giggling flock of his admirers 
rounded a hedge, saw him, and altered their course to intersect with his.

Oh, no! he thought, dismayed, and looked surreptitiously about for an escape 
route, but saw no way to avoid them. Sighing, he resigned himself to the 
inevitable, and waited for their arrival.

"Vanyel, what are you doing out here?" asked slim, barely-adolescent Jillian, 
batting her sandy lashes at him. "Aren't you supposed to be at lessons?"

Vanyel covered a wince. It would have to be Jillian. No common sense, and the 
moral fiber of a hound in heat. And after me with all the dedication you'd see in a 
hawk stooping on a pigeon. Lord. I hope her father marries her off quick, or she 
'II be sleeping her way around the Court before long.

But he smiled at her, a smile with a calculated amount of pain in it. "A rotten 
headache, pretty one. It took me last night when the storm came in, and I cannot 
be rid of it. I tried sleeping in, but - " he shrugged. "My aunt suggested I take a 
long walk.''

The entire covey giggled in near-unison. "Suggested with a stick, I'll bet," dark 
Kertire said sardonically, squinting into the sunlight. "Sour Savil. Well, we'll walk 
with you then, and keep you from being bored,"

Vanyel bit his lip in vexation and thought quickly. "She suggested my course, as 
well," he told them, grimacing.

"To the end of Companion's Field and back. And I have no doubt she's watching 
from her window."

He pouted at them. "Much as I would adore your company, my pretties, I rather 
doubt those slippers you're wearing are equal to a hike across a field full of - er - 
"

"Horseturds," said Jesalis inelegantly, wrinkling her nose and tossing her blonde 
curls over her shoulder. "Bother. No, you're right," she continued, sticking her 
foot out a little, and surveying the embroidered rose-satin slipper on it with regret. 
"I just finished the embroidery on these and got them back from the cobbler; I 
don't want them spoiled, and they would be before we'd gotten half across." The 
others murmured similar sentiments as their faces fell. "We're never going to 
forgive you for deserting us, Vanyel."

"Now that's unfair," he exclaimed, assuming a crushed expression. "Blaming me 
for the orders of my crotchety old aunt!" He rolled his eyes mournfully at them.
Jesalis giggled. "We'll only forgive you if you promise to make it up to us tonight 
after dinner.''

"Tonight?" he asked, pained by the idea of spending the evening with them 
instead of with Tylendel as they'd planned this morning.

They mistook his expression for headache. "Well, not if you still aren't feeling 
well," Jesalis amended.

"After a tramp across a perilous obstacle course like that,'' he gestured 
flamboyantly at the Field across the river, ' 'I much doubt I 'm going to be feeling 
better.''

"Well - "

"A bargain; if you'll forgive me, I'll come and play for you while you're doing 
finework tomorrow morning," he said, quite desperately, willing to promise them 
almost anything to avoid losing his evening, and recalling that they'd all been 
pestering him to play for them. Before it hadn't been possible; it would have hurt 
too much. Now, though - well, becoming - or not becoming - a Bard didn't seem 
all that important anymore. And consequently the thought of music didn't hurt 
anymore. Or not as much. Certainly it was a small price to pay for having his 
evening free.

"You will?" squealed Wendi, whose older sister was fostered with Vanyel's 
mother. "Really? Ratha told me you were as good as a Bard!"

"Well," he shrugged, then smirked, "I won't say I'm a bad hand at the lute. And I 
know a ballad and a dance or two."

"Done," said Jesalis. "A bargain."

"Bless you, my dear," he replied, with honest thankfulness. "I wouldn't be able to 
live without your forgiveness. Now, if you'll all excuse me - the sooner I get this 
nonsense over, the sooner I'll be able to go back to my bed."

They giggled and turned back, retracing their footsteps. While he watched them, 
they disappeared behind the hedge again, heading in the direction of the maze.
When they were safely out of sight, he trudged - to all appearances, most 
unwillingly - across the bridge and up a little rise, heading a little indirectly for the 
pine grove.

He went past it, walking through soft grasses that ranged from knee-high to 
closely cropped. And despite what he had told the girls, there were no "traps" 
lurking beneath the grass for the unwary. That did surprise him, a bit; he was no 
stranger to long walks across pastureland and the hazards thereof.

What on earth do the Companions do - drop it all in one corner? I suppose - the 
stories say they're as intelligent as a human. I suppose it's possible. Likely, 
really. They still eat grass, like horses, and who'd want to eat in the privy?

After first making certain that there was no one about to see him, Vanyel doubled 
back to the pine grove, and pushed aside the heavy, scratchy boughs. He almost 
had to force his way past them; the needles caught in his hair and clothing and 
the branches closed over his head almost immediately, shutting off most of the 
sunlight. A few feet inside the grove there was no direct light; he walked through 
a pine-scented twilight gloom, with boughs lacing together just barely above his 
head, and a thick carpet of dry needles at his feet. The needles crunched a little, 
releasing more piny scent, but otherwise his own footsteps were almost 
noiseless. Somewhere in the distance he could hear birds calling, but their songs 
seemed to be furlongs away. This place looked enormous now that he was inside 
it, much larger than it had appeared from outside; magical, almost mystical, and 
far removed from the bright green-and-gold Field just a few feet away.

This wasn't the Grove; that was a good deal farther into the Field - but this stand 
of ancient pines was giving Vanyel a pleasant, shivery sort of feeling, making him 
feel somehow more aware and alive.

" 'Lendel?" he called softly into the blue-green quiet under the pine boughs, his 
voice muffled by the rows of straight, columnar trunks of shaggy ebony all about 
him. He turned, slowly, trying to see past the shadows; peering beneath the 
feathery branches.

"Right here," came the reply from slightly behind him, and a white shape ghosted 
up on his right, resolving itself into - 

A Companion. The first that Vanyel had ever seen at close range. And Tylendel 
beside her, one hand on her snowy, arched neck.

"This is who I wanted you to meet. Van - this is Gala. She already knows about 
you, Van, she knew last night. We're mind-linked; I told her everything, and she 
wanted to see you right away."

Vanyel felt strange and awkward. Those sapphire eyes held an intelligence that 
was rather frightening, but the form was a horse. How in the Havens did you 
introduce yourself to a horse?

The silence grew; he stared into Gala's eyes, swallowed, and finally made the 
attempt.

"Hullo," he said, shyly, looking straight into those eyes and hoping to speak 
directly to the intelligence there; trying to ignore the fact that he was feeling more 
than a bit intimidated and foolish. "I - I hope you don't mind - "

Gala snorted, and Tylendel chuckled."She says to tell you that she's been hoping 
I'd 'find a nice mate and give her a chance for a little peace' for a long time. She 
says it's altogether disconcerting to be sidling up to a handsome stallion and find 
me in her head asking for bedtime stories!"

That was the last response he'd expected. Vanyel choked down a laugh. " 
'Lendel, you didn't!"

He nodded, as Gala tossed her own head. "I most certainly did, but only once. It 
was after Nevis, and I was," he faltered, and looked to the side, "rather lonely."
Vanyel touched the hand still resting on Gala's neck. "Not anymore, I hope."

Tylendel glanced from the hand resting lightly on his own to Vanyel's face, and 
half-smiled into his eyes. "No," he replied quietly. "Not anymore."

The quiet, the peace of the shadowed grove let them ignore everything except 
each other. Caught in the spell of that place and that pose, neither paid any 
attention to the passing of time - 

Until Vanyel stumbled forward, propelled by a hard shove in the small of his 
back. Tylendel grabbed him to keep him from falling, both of them too startled to 
do more than emit rather undignified squeaks of surprise.

Gala danced backward a few steps, making sounds Vanyel would have been 
willing to stake his life were laughter. It was pretty obvious that she'd shoved him 
into Tylendel's arms with her nose.

Tylendel burst into gales of laughter; he clutched his stomach, nearly incoherent, 
and gasping for breath. Gala snorted and bobbed her head, and he doubled over 
again.

They're talking, Vanyel finally realized, as Tylendel wheezed. Or - well, I guess 
she's teasing him. Gods above and below, all the stories are true! I wish I could 
hear them.

His stomach fluttered uncertainly, and he tasted the sour bite of what could only 
be jealousy. Tylendel and Gala were sharing something he never could - 
something they'd had for years before he had come along. In this, he was, he 
would always be, the outsider. That realization condensed into a hard, cold lump 
in his throat, and besides the bitter taste of jealousy, he shivered in a sudden chill 
of loneliness. And just a touch of doubt.

He could really have about anyone he wanted, couldn't he? So why should he 
bother with me? How can I know if he means what he told me?

But before he could throw himself into a mire of depression he found he had his 
hands full; keeping the trainee from falling over, while Tylendel struggled to 
breathe around his laughter, and gasped like a stranded fish.

"You wouldn't!" Tylendel choked, as tears ran down his cheeks, and he pulled 
away from Vanyel to advance on his Companion in mock threat - the effect 
somewhat spoiled by the fact that he had to catch hold of a tree trunk as 
something she "said" made him bend over again with laughter. "Don't you dare! 
Gala, I'll do no such thing! You rude little bitch!"

Gaia danced in place, her hooves making no sound at all in the thick carpet of 
needles. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and Vanyel had, for one moment, a 
disconcerting double-vision image of the prancing Companion and an equally 
mischievous young woman of about Tylendel 's age, laughing soundlessly at her 
Chosen.

This was worse than before. Vanyel felt completely alone - and left altogether on 
the outside.
Tylendel, not noticing his distress in the least, managed to get himself back 
under control, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as he straightened 
up.

He assumed a stern expression. "Now see here, you wicked young lady," he 
began, when she turned the tables on him by whickering and reaching out to 
nuzzle his cheek.

Vanyel saw his eyes soften as he folded immediately. "Oh, all right, I forgive 
you," he sighed in defeat, putting his arms around her neck and resting his cheek 
against hers. "But you had damn well better not - "

What it was Gala had "better not" do, Tylendel did not verbalize; nor was Vanyel 
entirely certain he wanted to know. He had the sneaking suspicion that it would 
be no little embarrassing.

Finally Gala shook herself free and shoved her Chosen in Vanyel's direction - a 
good bit more gently than she'd shoved the latter. And as if in apology, she 
paced forward and gave Vanyel a brief caress with her nose, rather like a soft 
kiss, before trotting off into the blue twilight under the pine boughs and out of 
sight among the trunks.

Silence followed her going.

"Well," Tylendel said, at last. "That was Gala."

Vanyel replied with the first thing that came into his head. "You really love her, 
don't you?"

"More than anything or anybody except you and Staven," Tylendel replied, 
almost apologetically. "I'm not sure I can explain it - " He bit off what he was 
saying, as if something in Vanyel's expression told him how depressed this 
meeting had made him.

"Van," he reached out hesitantly toward Vanyel's shoulder, then pulled his hand 
back, as if unsure whether to touch him. "I didn't bring you here to hurt you."

His very real distress forced Vanyel to pull himself together and try to analyze his 
feelings, instead of just wallow in them.

They were, to say the least, mixed. "I think I'm jealous," he said, after an 
uncomfortable pause. "I know it's stupid, she can't ever have you the way I do - 
but I can't ever share your thoughts the way she does."

"Huh. You wouldn't want to - " Tylendel began.

"But that's not the point," Vanyel interrupted, backing a few steps away. "I can't 
know that. You can tell me, but I can't ever know that, can I?" He wasn't sure 
what to do or what else to say, and so fell silent, turning away slightly and looking 
out past Tylendel into the shadows that had swallowed the Companion.

"Van," he felt Tylendel's hand fall lightly on his shoulder, and turned to look into 
his eyes. "Do you want to talk about this? Do you want to hear about what it's like 
for us, how it started? Do you think that will help you understand?"

Not trusting his voice, Vanyel nodded.

"This will take a while; pick a spot to sit. Unless you'd rather go back to the 
room?" Tylendel raised one eyebrow inquiringly.

"No, I like it here; it somehow seems more private." Vanyel faltered, and covered 
his hesitation by looking around for a good place. He finally chose a spot at the 
base of one of the bigger trees beside them, between two roots that were each 
as thick as his leg. He put his back against the trunk and slid down it to be 
cradled where the roots joined the tree.

Tyiendel pondered his choice for a moment. "Well, I can only see two ways I can 
talk and look at you at the same time, and since I don't fancy shouting across the 
clearing - "

Before Vanyel had time to react, he'd stretched himself out along the ground and 
put his head in Vanyel's lap. " - much better," he sighed.

Vanyel froze.

"Van," Tyiendel said quietly, closing his eyes, "I won't hurt you. Not for any 
reason. I like being near you, with you. I need to touch people; and I won't ever 
hurt you."

Vanyel relaxed a little.

"I like this grove, too, though hardly anyone else seems to. It feels like there's no 
time in here." He kept his eyes closed, and Vanyel saw a little pain-crease 
between his eyebrows.

He gets those headaches; he told me last night - I wonder - if he'd mind - if it 
would help - 

Vanyel hesitated for a moment, then began massaging Tylendel's temples with 
gentle fingertips.

The trainee chuckled and Vanyel felt his shoulders relax. "You have about a 
hundred years to stop doing that," he said. "I think I have the headache you 
claimed."

"You were going to tell me about you and Gala and being Chosen," Vanyel 
prompted, though the thought made him a little uncomfortable still. "I mean, you 
practically got my whole life story last night, and I still don't know that much about 
you."

"To begin at the beginning - I have a twin, Staven. He's the elder by about an 
hour. Nothing like me, by the way; he's taller, thinner, darker, and much 
handsomer. He's the leader, I'm the follower. We've had a primitive sort of mind-
link ever since we were born. Things happened between us all the time. Things 
like - oh, I blacked out when he fell down the well; he acted like he'd broken his 
leg when I broke mine. We always knew what the other one was up to." He took 
a deep breath. "People knew all about that, but I had other Gifts, too, that I could 
use. Besides that mind-link, from the time I was about nine I had a touch of 
Thought-sensing for people besides Slav, and I had an ability to - make 
accidents happen to people I didn't like."

"Did that cause you problems?" Vanyel asked. "With other people, I mean. I 
should think they wouldn't much appreciate that last."

Tylendel shook his head slightly. "It didn't crop up often enough for people to 
really notice - or if they did, they were too afraid of my father to say anything 
about it. I didn't do it often, the accident-causing, I mean; it made me sick, after. 
Staven sometimes tried to egg me on, but it wasn't something I'd give in to him 
about." Tylendel paused, and bit his lip; his expression flickered briefly into one 
both dark and brooding before it lightened again. "It was the link between me and 
Staven that was the strongest and most predictable of the Gifts; it was pretty 
much limited to physical sensations, but once we figured out how to use it - "

Vanyel chuckled. "I bet you were unholy terrors."

Tylendel echoed the chuckle, and winked at him. "I wouldn't mind having a link 
like that with you."

Vanyel blushed, but answered with exactly what he was thinking. "I wouldn't mind 
either."

Tylendel's expression sobered. "Now comes the part where things got odd. 
Staven matured pretty early; by twelve he was as tall as most at fifteen, and all 
the girls were starting to flirt with him. And not just the girls, but grown women as 
well. I think he got all his share of female-attraction and mine, if you want to know 
the truth. That summer we were hosting a tournament and everything from 
goosegirls to visiting highborn were after him and he was acting like a young and 
randy rooster in a henyard. It all climaxed - if you'll forgive the expression - when 
one of the ladies who'd come to visit Mother dropped him a note that said in no 
uncertain terms that she'd be quite pleased to find him in her bed that night - well 
- "

He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked up into Vanyel's face, his own 
expression ironic. "Understand, I was just as curious as any twelve year old 
about what Doing It was like. I said I'd cover for him if he let me - uh - 
eavesdrop.''

"Something tells me it didn't go according to plan," Vanyel guessed.

"Dead in the black," Tylendel said soberly. "I was 'with' him for about as long as it 
took for things to get interesting. I had been feeling odd from the start, but I tried 
to ignore it, and concentrated on the link. Then things got - I don't know how to 
describe it, except that I started losing my grip on me and started merging with 
him. And the more I concentrated, the stranger it all got. It was a bit like those 
times I'd made accidents happen; the room faded in and out, I was in a kind of 
sickish fever, my heart was racing - and I couldn't tell what was 'me' and what 
was Slav. Under any other circumstances I think I would have quit and shut 
everything down, but I was stubborn and I was a little afraid of Stav making fun of 
me for diving out, after this was over. I kept holding to that link, figuring that if I 
could just weather it out, things would get fun again. Then - " He shook his head 
a bit, and his mouth twitched. "Just as things were about to come to the cusp for 
Staven, something - broke loose in me. I just barely remember the start of it; like 
I'd suddenly been dropped into a fire. I was in unbelievable pain. It felt like being 
in the middle of a lightning storm, and from the wreck I made of our room, that's 
exactly what I may have created. Something about what was going on, 
something about the link I had with Staven, triggered all my potential Gifts - 
explosively. I was unconscious for about a day, and when I woke up - "

He shuddered. " - nothing would ever be the same."

He closed his eyes, and Vanyel stroked his forehead. His mouth was tight, with 
lines of unhappiness at the corners. Far off in the distance, Vanyel could hear 
meadows wifts crying like the lost souls of ghost-children.

"So there I was;" Tylendel continued, his voice thin and strained. "I had the 
Mage-Gift, Thought-sensing, Fetching, a bit of Empathy - none of it predictable, 
none of it controlled, and all of it likely to burst out at any moment." He took a 
look at Vanyel's face and read the puzzlement there. "Gods, I keep forgetting you 
aren't a trainee. Fetching - that means I can move things without touching them; 
Empathy means I can feel what someone else is feeling, which is why I knew 
when you had that nightmare last night. Thought-sensing - if someone isn't 
shielding, I can tell what they're thinking. The Mage-Gift is harder to explain, but 
it's what makes it possible for a Herald-Mage to do magic."

"You can tell what I'm thinking?" Vanyel said dubiously. He would have liked 
being able to share Tylendel's thoughts the way Gala did, but wasn't entirely sure 
he wanted the relationship to hold that kind of one-sided intimacy.

"I can, but I won't, " Tylendel said, with such firmness that Vanyel couldn't find it 
in his heart to doubt him. "Even if it wasn't so unfair to you, it's counter to all the 
ethics that go with being a Herald. Basically I just use it to talk with Gala and 
Savil."

Vanyel nodded, comforted. "So you had all these - Gifts - sort of thrown at you, 
and no way to control them."

"Exactly," Tylendel said soberly. "And all this at twelve. It was two years before 
Gala came for me. If it hadn't been for Staven, I'd have gone mad."

"Why?" Vanyel whispered. "What was happening?"

"What wasn't? I'd drop into a fit - when I'd wake up again, I'd be in the middle of a 
fifty-foot circle of wreckage. That was the Mage-Gift and Fetching working 
together in a way Savil and I haven't been able to duplicate under control. Seems 
I have to go berserk."

He frowned, and reached up to rub his forehead between his eyebrows. "Staven 
was the only one who could get near me - who was willing to stay near me, in or 
out of a fit. They said I'd been taken by a demon. They said that because of what 
Staven and I had tried to share, I had been possessed. When I - started to show 
signs of being shay'a'chern, they said I was cursed, too."

"That's - that's stupid!" Vanyel cried indignantly.

"They still said it; if they'd dared, they'd have outcaste me. But they didn't; Staven 
swore if they did he'd go with me, and he was the heir, the only possible heir with 
me acting the way I was. Mother wasn't capable of having any more children, 
Father wouldn't remarry, and he'd been completely faithful to her, so there 
weren't any bastards around. They didn't have a choice. They had to allow me to 
stay, but they didn't have to make it comfortable for me."
Vanyel thought with wonder that Tylendel's situation was actually worse than his 
own.

"They kept me pretty well isolated; even when I was fine they avoided me. But 
when everyone else abandoned me in one of my fits, he stayed, he took care of 
me, absolute and unshakable in the belief that I would never hurt him. Positive 
that, despite what was whispered, what had happened was not that I'd been 
possessed, but was something that would somehow be worked out."

Tylendel shuddered again, his eyes haunted, and plainly seeing another time and 
place. Vanyel, feeling his pain, put both his hands on his shoulders, trying to just 
be a comforting presence without disturbing him; Tylendel looked up at him, 
patted his hand, and half-smiled.

"You see? I think maybe that's why we understand each other. Well, finally Gaia 
came - gods. I cannot ever tell you what it was like, looking into her eyes for the 
first time. It was - like souls touching. And the relief-knowing that I wasn't mad, 
that I wasn't demon-possessed - I went from hell to the Havens in the space of a 
heartbeat.''

He sighed and seemed to sink into his own thoughts for a long while.

"What did she do?" Vanyel asked.

"For one thing, she put me under her shielding; got me controlled until we arrived 
here and Savil took me under her wing. That's more than enough reason to love 
her, even without the bond to her. She's my very best friend and the sister of my 
soul."

He reached up, and touched Vanyel's cheek. His hand was cool; almost cold. 

"But she'll never be what you are. Can you understand what I'm saying, love? I 
owe her my sanity, but in a lot of ways she's more than I am; I love her the way I 
love Savil or my mother - inferior to superior. Not brother to sister, or lover to 
lover; not ever as equals."

Vanyel put his own hand over the one touching his cheek, and held it, warming it 
in his own. "What am I, then?"

"You're my partner, my equal, my friend - and my love. Vanyel, I didn't say this in 
so many words last night - but I do love you."

Those words were not expected; certainly the implied level of commitment was 
not what Vanyel had expected. "But - " he stuttered, not sure whether what he 
was feeling was joy or fear.

"Van, I know we haven't known each other long, but I do love you," Tylendel said, 
ignoring the 'but,' holding Vanyel's gaze with his own. "And I love you because I 
love you; not because I owe you anything, or because some god somewhere 
decided I was going to be a Herald, or because you're a beloved teacher. I love 
you because you're Vanyel, and we belong together, and together we can stand 
back-to-back against anything."

Much to his confusion, Vanyel felt his eyes start burning. "I don't know - really 
know what to say," he replied awkwardly, blinking hard. "Except - 'Lendel, I think 
after last night - I can't ever remember being this happy. I've never loved anyone, 
I don't know what it's like, but if - " he tried to say what he felt. " - if wanting to die 
for you is love - "

His eyes burned; he rubbed at them with his free hand, and tried to put his 
feelings into coherent words. He groped after his thoughts, totally awkward and 
altogether out of his depth, but he needed to articulate his bewildering emotions. 
He'd never felt so vulnerable and exposed in his life. "I'd do anything for you; I'd 
take the sneers, the pointed fingers - I wouldn't care, so long as they didn't take 
me away from you. If I could, I'd give you anything. I'd do anything I could to 
make you happy. And - I'll .gladly share you with Gala."

"Havens, don't say that," Tylendel chuckled, though his voice sounded 
suspiciously thick and his eyes glistened in the shadows. "She wanted to 
'eavesdrop,' you know. She'd take you up on that, the randy little bitch."

Vanyel's face flamed hotly, and he laughed, using his own embarrassment to get 
past that moment of complete vulnerability. "I knew she was saying something 
that would make me blush, I just knew it!"

"Well, she is not going to have her prurience satisfied, I promise you," Tylendel 
said firmly. "I am not going to share you, and that's that."


Vanyel entered their room through the garden door, blinking until his eyes 
adjusted to the semidarkness after the noontide sunlight of the gardens. He was 
carrying his lute by the neck in his right hand, and holding his left, wrapped in a 
handkerchief, curled against his chest.

Ye gods, I should have known better, he thought ruefully, as his left hand 
throbbed. I am such a damned fool.

" 'Lendel?" he called into the outer room, racking the lute with care, still using 
only his right hand. "Are you out there?"

"Of course I am." Tylendel strolled in, a half-eaten slice of bread and cheese in 
one hand. "It's lunchtime, you know I'm always here when the food is!"

Vanyel began unwrapping his hand - slowly - 

Tylendel stopped chewing, then tossed his lunch, forgotten, onto the table. 

"Gods, Van - what did you do to yourself? Sit!"

The ends of Vanyel's fingers were blistered, and the blisters had broken and 
were bleeding. The muscles of the hand were cramped so hard he couldn't have 
gotten his fingers uncurled to save his soul. He looked at the wreckage he'd 
made of his hand with a kind of pained disbelief.

Tylendel pushed him down onto the bed, and took the injured hand in both his 
own.

"I made a fool of myself, is what I did," Vanyel told him, regretfully. "I told the girls 
yesterday that if they'd leave me alone I'd play for them this morning. I forgot how 
long it's been since I played - and, well, I'll tell you the truth, I forgot I lost some 
feeling in those fingers when the arm got broken. I didn't even realize what I'd 
done to my finger-ends until after the muscles in my hand started to cramp."

"Stay right there." Tylendel went to the little chest at the foot of the bed that he'd 
moved into Vanyel's room with the rest of his things, bent over it for a moment, 
and came back with bandages and a little pot of salve. "I'm no Healer," he said, 
sitting down and taking Vanyel's hand back into his, "but I've banged myself up a 
time or two, and this is good stuff."

He took some of it on the ends of his fingers and massaged it into the palm of 
Vanyel's hand. A pleasant, sharp odor came from it, both green and spicy, and 
his fingers began to relax from their cramped position, both from the warming 
effect of the salve and the massage.

"What is that?" Vanyel asked, sniffing. "I'm going to smell sort of like a pastry."
Tylendel laughed. "Don't tempt me this early in the day, Vanyel-ashke. It's 
cinnamon and marigold. Good for the cramped muscles and the poor, battered 
fingers."

He had worked all the way out to the ends of Vanyel's fingers; the cramps were 
mostly gone, and the salve, rather than burning as Vanyel had half feared it 
would,, was numbing the areas where Tylendel was spreading it.

"Now just let me get you bandaged up."

' 'What was that you just called me?''

"Ashke? It's Tayledras. Hawkbrother-tongue. All those feathered faces and 
masks Savil has on the wall out in the common room are from the Tayledras; she 
studied with one of their Adepts, Starwind k'Treva, and they made her a 
Wingsister. That's like a blood brother for them."

Tylendel was wrapping each finger carefully and taking his time about it. Vanyel 
didn't mind in the least. Now that he wasn't in much pain, there was something a 
bit sensual about Tylendel's ministrations.

"She uses a lot of their expressions when there isn't a good word for the thing in 
our tongue. Like shay'a'chern - it translates as - oh - 'one whose lover is like self,' 
with a sexual connotation to the word 'self that makes it clear that they aren't 
talking about incest or similar interests. It's a very complicated language." He 
looked up from his bandaging, and Vanyel could see laughter-glints lurking in the 
depths of his eyes. "You smell delicious; are you sure you have lessons this 
afternoon?"

"We promised Savil we'd be virtuous today," Vanyel reminded him, feeling greatly 
tempted anyway.

Tylendel heaved an exaggerated sigh. "Too true. Well, ashke translates simply to 
'beloved.' And it's part of your name already - ashke, Ashkevron. See?"

He tied off the last bit of bandage with a flourish.

"Ashke, " Vanyel mused. "I - like it."

"It suits you, ashke; Savil says the Hawkbrothers seldom go by their born-names, 
they take use-names when they become mages. Maybe that's the name you 
always should have had. Now let's go eat lunch and be virtuous - before I decide 
to break my sworn word to Savil!"


Savil looked up from her book and rubbed her tired, blurring eyes. Tylendel and 
Vanyel had taken over the couch across from her to study. Candlelight from the 
lantern beside them made a halo of Tylendel's dark gold curls and highlighted the 
golden brown of his tunic; beside him, in deep blue, Vanyel seemed to be an 
extension of his shadow. They shared Vanyel's history text; it rested on their 
knees with each holding a corner. Tylendel's arm was around Vanyel's shoulder, 
their heads nestled closely together. From time to time Savil could catch the 
murmur of a question from her nephew and Tylendel's slightly higher reply.
Strange that it's the older who has the tenor voice and the younger who's the 
deeper, she mused, blinking sleepily at them. Though the pairing is strange all 
around. I would never have reckoned Vanyel for shay'a'chern. Not with Withen 
for a father.

She yawned silently, and half-closed her eyes. The two young ones across the 
room from her blurred into a haze of gold and darkest blue. He's got 'Lendel 
thinking about something other than that damned feud, at least; for that I'd warm 
to him. Even if I want to knock him into the wall occasionally for being a little prig. 
'Lendel does seems to be getting some notion of responsible behavior into his 
head. And a bit more politeness. Though it's a damn good thing Mardic and 
Donni are inclined to take everything he says generously, or they might have 
knocked him into the wall for me! Bless them. He can be so damned rude 
sometimes - arid not mean it.

She worried a hangnail with the end of her thumb. He's been so isolate I suppose 
I shouldn't be surprised. Gods be thanked 'Lendel seems to be civilizing him. 
There's more patience there than there was before - and I think, maybe, a little 
more kindness. Less arrogance, for certain. Withen should be pleased enough 
with the reports he's getting to let him stay. She noted Vanyel's intense 
concentration on his book, and restrained the corners of her mouth from quirking 
up. Looks like he's enjoying himself. Can't say that I 'd mind studying with my 
'Lendel coaching! Poor little lad; when he gives his heart to a thing, he certainly 
doesn't do it halfway. Still, I'm not certain I like the way he's becoming so 
dependent on 'Lendel. That isn't healthy, not for either of them. It could make for 
trouble later on.

A thin tendril of contact reached for her from across the room, although 
Tylendel's eyes remained on the book. :A silver for your thoughts, teacher-mine.:

:How pretty you look together, young demon.: she replied the same way. :And 
how grateful I am that you 've managed to stay discreet. :

:Discipline, discipline,: came the laughter-tinged answer. .-Seriously, you've 
heard no gossip?:

:Only that I'm likely to find you two at knife-point one day. :

The aura of amusement deepened. :Well, well, so it worked. I owe Van a forfeit. :

Savil raised her eyebrows in surprise, and opened her eyes again to catch 
Tylendel looking at her with a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth. :How so, 
demon-child?:

:He's been insulting me behind my back. Popinjay pecking. Mostly on my 
proclivities. So if anything gets back to Withen . . . We decided I should "find out 
about it" and go for him if the insults got noticed.:

'.Great good gods!: She bit her lip to keep from laughing. :Pot calling kettle, oh 
my hope of the Havens! What were you planning on doing ? Are you going to call 
him out? I'd rather you didn't have at each other with any-  
thing sharp. :

:Oh, probably I'll make a major confrontation, with as many witnesses as 
possible. But not with blades, teacher-love; he's too good for me, and we figured 
he should lose so he gets the sympathy of his flock of doves. Barehanded, we 
think. Wrestling; we 'II try to keep fists out if it as much as possible too. We had 
some vague notion of trying it the next time it rains, in the mud. It should be lots 
of fun. :

Savil had to drop the mind-link for a moment until she got herself back under 
control. Lots of fun indeed - great good gods, both of them tussling in the open in 
front of everyone and no one guessing how much they 're enjoying it.
:Demon-child, I think I'll put you in for envoy when I grant you your Whites; you 
have altogether too twisted a mind!:

:-Well, doing it that way we can avoid the chance of hurting each other, and I've 
already established that I go after people very directly. Poor Van is going to have 
to decide which outfit of his I'm going to ruin, though. I intend to rip it to rags for 
verisimilitude. :

Savil nearly choked to death, trying not to laugh at the mind-pictures and 
overtones that came across with that last sending. Verisimilitude, my behind! You 
just want - :

:Why, Savil!: The eyes across from her were wide with assumed innocence. 
:How could you think such a thing?:

:Easy enough,: she replied, her own mental tone so dry that it had a metallic 
taste. .-Given who I've got for a protege.:

:Well - :

Well, indeed.: 'Lendel - just a word of caution, and I may be being reactionary - 
but I don't like the way Van is coming to lean on you for everything. It isn't 
healthy; he needs to learn how to depend on himself a little. :

:Oh, Savil.:

:I'm serious.:

:It's just a phase. He's young, and he needs so badly. Great good gods, nobody's 
ever bothered to love him cept his sister. After he's had me around for a bit and 
knows I won't vanish on him, he'll grow out of it.:

:'Lendel, I'm not the expert on people that Lancir is, but in my experience people 
don't grow out of a habit of dependence.: She glanced at the time-candle. :Ah, 
we'II just leave it at that, all right? Keep it in mind. And that's enough study for 
one night. Both of you to bed.:

Again the mental laughter. :Why, Savil - :

:To sleep, dammit!:

Tylendel nudged the other boy, and closed the book, then looked across the 
room at his mentor with that ironic half-smile she knew so well. "Let's pack it up 
for the night, Van," he said quietly - 

 - and :Of course, teacher. To sleep,: she Mindheard.

Then, as they disappeared into their room - 

:Eventually. :

Savil had forgotten all about the planned "fight" by the time a good, soaking rain 
actually put in an appearance, nearly a fortnight later. She had reserved the 
Work Room for Mardic and Donni that afternoon; for all that they were lifebonded 
they were having a tremendous difficulty in working together, magically speaking. 
Donni had a tendency to rush into something at full tilt; Mardic was entirely the 
opposite, holding reserves back until the very last moment and dithering about 
full commitment. That meant that when they worked together their auras pulsed 
and had some serious weak spots, and their shields never quite meshed. Savil 
was putting them through an exercise designed to force them to synchronize 
their energy-levels and work as a unit rather than as an uneven team, when 
someone pounded urgently on the door.

The union of energy fields disintegrated at the first knock; dissipating with a "pop" 
into a shower of visible sparks and separating into the auras - green for Donni, 
yellow for Mardic - surrounding each of her crestfallen students. Savil swore an 
oath sufficiently heated to blister paint. She looked the couple over with 
OtherSight and swore another nearly as strong.

Dammit, their concentration's gone completely. Look at those auras pulse! Oh, 
hellfires! If this isn't important, I'll kill whoever's out there!

She banished the violet shield she had placed about the pair with an abrupt 
gesture, and stalked to the door, yanking it open and glaring at the agitated 
Guard standing just outside.

"Yes?" she said, with an edge to her voice that was sharp enough to shave with.

"Herald Savil, your nephew and your protege Tylendel - they're fighting - " the 
man gulped, stepping back involuntarily at the sight of her angry face. "Tylendel 
put up a barrier and we can't get at them to break it up; he's got your nephew 
down and we're afraid he may do him true harm - "

' 'Damn!'' the word exploded from her, as for one moment she thought that 
something had really happened between the pair and the fight was serious,
Then she recalled the plan, and almost ruined it for them all by laughing in the 
man's face.

She schooled her expression to the one she would have been wearing if this had 
been a genuine fight; mouth tight and eyes narrowed in feigned anger. "Show 
me," she barked. "I'll deal with this nonsense right now."

The Guard scurried ahead of her down the hallway; she followed at a near-trot, 
wincing a little at the aches the rain had called up in the depths of her joints.

I'II bet 'Lendel put up the mage-barrier to keep people from seeing that he and 
Van aren't really hitting each other, she decided, hastening her pace a bit as the 
Guard pulled ahead. And to keep folks from breaking up the fight too soon. I'd 
better make a major scene over this or he'll never forgive me.

There was no doubt of where the fight was taking place - Herald-proteges, young 
courtiers, Bard-trainees and other assorted young people were clustered tightly 
around the door to the gardens on the southeast side of the Palace, all of them 
babbling like a pack of fools. The Guard pushed his way through them with no 
regard for rank or ceremony whatsoever; Savil followed behind him and peered 
out the door into the pouring rain.

The combatants were about fifty paces beyond the door, in a spot beside the 
paved path where all the grass had been worn away. There was, indeed, a 
mage-barrier over the area where they were struggling, a place that looked more 
like a pig-wallow at this point. The barrier and the rain were blurring the 
combatants badly enough that it was hard to see exactly what was going on. 
Vanyel was down, on his back; at least Savil assumed it was Vanyel, since the 
current loser was slightly smaller and his hair was mostly dark under the mud. 
Tylendel was sitting on his chest, and if Savil hadn't known better, she'd have 
sworn he was strangling the younger boy.

"You take that back, you little bastard!" Tylendel roared. "You take that back, 
unless you want another pound of mud shoved down your throat!"

Savil steeled herself and barked - in her best stop-a-mob-in-full-cry voice - a 
single word.

"ENOUGH!"

Instantly the fighters froze.

Savil strode out into the deluge, her dignity somewhat diminished when her feet 
squelched instead of coming down firmly, and the rain immediately plastered her 
hair to her skull, sending tendrils of it straggling into her eyes and mouth.
Nevertheless, she reckoned she looked imposing enough, since all the babbling 
behind her ceased as she reached the edge of Tylendel's mage-barrier and 
stopped.

"Take it down, trainee," she said, her tone so cold it could have turned the rain 
into snow.

Tylendel scrambled to his feet and dismissed the barrier. Now that he could be 
seen clearly, he truly looked as if he'd been through the wars. His hair was full of 
mud and straggling around his face in dirty coils. One eye was turning black and 
starting to swell; his lower lip was split and bleeding. His tunic was torn and 
muddy and so were his breeches; one of his boots had come unlaced and 
sagged around his ankle. He wore a very un-Tylendel-like expression; sullen and 
full of barely-smothered anger.

Vanyel remained prone for several moments longer with his chest heaving as he 
gulped for air; long enough that Savil began to think he might really be hurt. She 
breathed a little easier when he levered himself up out of the mud and got slowly 
to his feet.

He was in worse case than Tylendel; his tunic had been all but stripped from his 
body, there wasn't much left of it, and what there was hung in strips from his belt 
and his wrists. He had several angry-looking scratches on his arms and chest, 
and a split lip to match Tylenders; but more seriously, he was favoring his right 
foot, wincing in real pain when he had to put any weight on it.

He didn't move, once he'd gotten to his feet; just stood with his hands clasped 
before him, wearing an expression so like Tylendel's that Savil began to be 
alarmed.

:'Lendel?: she Mindspoke, layering the name with her anxiety and distress.
Tylendel's expression didn't change by so much as a twitch of an eyelid, but the 
Mindvoice was as cheerful and amused as his face was angry and sullen. :No 
fear, teacher-mine. It's still going mostly as planned.:

She sighed mentally with relief. .'Mostly?:

:Well, we couldn' tpractice this much, so we made some miscalculations. Van got 
me in the eye with his elbow, we both managed to sock each other in the mouth 
somehow, and I think I made him sprain his ankle when I tackled him. Hurry up 
and lecture us, I can't keep a straight face much longer!:

She straightened, and looked down her long nose at both of them, ignoring the 
water dripping off the end of it. "A fine thing," she said acidly, "when I can't trust 
my protege and ward to conduct themselves like civilized adults in my absence! 
What am I to do with you? Find you keepers?"

Tylendel made as if to say something, but shrank under her icy glare, the rain 
slowly washing the mud out of his hair.

"Trainee Tylendel, you should have known better! You are a Herald-in-training; I 
expect you to act in accordance with the dignity and honor of our office. I do not 
expect to find you thrashing about in the mud like a six-year-old brat with no 
manners and no sense! No matter how much Vanyel provoked you, you should 
have come to me first, not taken the matter into your own hands!"

Tylendel hung his head and mumbled something in the direction of the puddle 
around his feet.

"Louder, trainee," she snapped. "I can't hear you."

"Yes, Herald Savil," he repeated, his voice harsh, and full of suppressed emotion. 
"I was wrong."

"Go - back to your quarters. Now. Make yourself presentable. I'll deal with you 
when I'm done with Vanyel."

Tylendel bowed slightly, and without another word, walked past her and through 
the crowd at the doorway. Savil didn't turn around to watch his progress, but 
even above the steady beat of the rain she could hear the sound of the crowd 
parting behind her to let him through. One or two in the group snickered a little, 
but that was all.

She turned her dagger-gaze on Vanyel, who was glaring at her from under a wet 
comma of black hair that was obscuring one eye.

"And you. Fine state of affairs this is." She walked forward a bit and folded her 
arms, trying not to shiver in the cold rain. "I've heard about those snide little 
comments of yours, the backbiting, and all the rest of it. You've been picking at 
'Lendel ever since you arrived here, young man, and I won't have it!"

Vanyel raised his head, glaring back at her with every bit of the arrogance he'd 
ever shown. "He's nothing but a-"

"He outranks you, young man, and you'd do well to remember that!" she 
snapped. "Consider yourself confined to your quarters for the duration! If I learn 
you've set one toot out of the suite when you aren't at lessons, I'll ship you back 
to your father so fast the wind of your passing will tear the thatch from the roofs! 
Now march!"

Vanyel set his jaw, and pivoted where he stood, setting off toward Savil's suite 
through the rain - taking the opposite course that Tylendel had followed. He was 
more than half staggering, and it made Savil's ankle ache in sympathy to to see 
him struggling through the mud, but she made no move to help him. Instead, she 
stalked along behind him, as if making certain that he reached his goal.

But once they had rounded the corner and were out of sight of the doorway, she 
dropped her pose and her dignity and scrambled through the slippery grass to 
reach his side.

"Lean on me, lad," she said, coming up beside him, and pulling his arm over her 
shoulder. "I've been called an old stick before this, I might as well act like one."

"Aunt - thank the gods - " he gasped. "I thought we'd never get out of sight." He 
stumbled and nearly fell, all of his weight suddenly landing on Savil, making her 
stagger. "Please, I've got to rest a minute. Gods above, this hurts.''

"How bad is it?" she asked, as he shivered beside her in the cold rain.

"Don't know." He managed a wan grin. "Hurts more than a thorn in the toe, less 
than when I broke my arm. That tell you anything?"

"Hardly," she snorted. "Come on, the sooner I get you inside, the happier I'll be. 
And I hope my protege has the sense to think and not come running out to help.''

The lights of Savil's windows were in sight - and her heart sank for a moment 
when she did see someone running toward them through the rain. Then she saw 
a second silhouette beside the first, and realized that it was not Tylendel who 
was coming to help them in, but Mardic and Donni.

The youngsters took over the task of supporting Vanyel. That left Savil free to go 
on ahead of them; for which she was truly grateful. She was chilled right down to 
the bone, and those bones were starting to ache rather persistently.

She stepped in through Vanyel's outer door; almost as soon as she'd stepped 
across the threshold she found herself enveloped in a warm blanket and 
practically carried into the common room. It was Tylendel, of course; he stayed 
with her just long enough to settle her in her favorite chair and put a mug of 
mulled wine in her hand, then he was gone.

He was back again in a moment, Vanyel's arm around his shoulder, the latter 
hopping awkwardly beside him.

There was already a blanket waiting on the couch; Tylendel got Vanyel bundled 
into it and pressed another mug of the wine into his hands.

 Mardic and Donni piled in right behind them; giggling, shaking the rain out of 
their hair, and heading straight for the kettle of wine on the hearth. Vanyel was 
more interested in his lover's black eye and swollen lip than the wine.

"Gods - 'Lendel, I did not mean that - " he mourned, reaching out hesitantly to 
touch the edge of the bruise. "Oh Lord and Lady, why do I have to be so 
clumsy?"

"Oh, you just fight like a girl," Tylendel teased. "All flying knees and elbows. It 
was my own stupid fault for getting my face in the way. It's your ankle I'm worried 
about." He started unlacing Vanyel's boot, fighting the wet laces and swearing 
under his breath when they wouldn't cooperate.

"I'm all - ouch!"

Tylendel froze. "Did I - "

"No," Vanyel said around clenched teeth. "Just get that damned boot off before 
you have to cut it off.''

But Tylendel dithered over the task until Mardic pushed him out of the way and 
took over, getting the boot off with an abrupt yank that blanched Vanyel to the 
color of pure beeswax. He clutched Tylendel's hand while Mardic examined the 
ankle, pronounced it "probably not broken," and bound it up.

"Havens, teacher," Mardic laughed, rescuing his cup from Donni and returning to 
sit at her feet across from Savil, "Were we as moonstruck as that? Gods, I feel 
like I'm being smothered in syrup!"

He nodded at the two on the couch, each assuring the other that his own hurts 
were less than nothing and fussing over the other's injuries.

"For at least the first five or six months," Savil replied dryly, after sipping her 
wine. "Just as moonstruck, and just as cloying. And even more sentimental." She 
raised her voice a bit. "You two might thank me."

"Certainly, Savil," Tylendel replied, craning his head around. "If you'd tell us what 
we're thanking you for."

"Gods. Vanyel, don't you ever listen?"

"I'm sorry, Aunt," he said, looking confused, his hair still trailing over one eye. "My 
foot hurt so much I wasn't paying any attention; it wasn't a real lecture, after all."

She cast her eyes up to the ceiling. "Give me strength. I just confined you 
completely to the suite for as long as I care to enforce my decision, you little 
ninny. I just got you away from the girl-gaggle and gave you orders to stay here 
indefinitely. Except for lessons, you'll be here waking and sleeping. That includes 
taking meals here."

"You did?" he said, dazed. "I am? You mean I can stay here?"

"With 'Lendel, and not arouse any suspicions," she interrupted. "That's exactly 
what I mean. Fact of the matter is, your damnfool father will probably be pleased 
to hear that you were - "

She broke off, seeing that she no longer had the attention of either of them. 
Across from her she heard Mardic snicker.

She favored the lifebonded with a sardonic glance. "Don't feel too smug," she 
told them. "Or I'll start trotting out tales about you two."

"Yes, Savil," Mardic replied, not in the least repentant. "Whatever you say. Would 
you care for honey in that wine?"

Savil spared a glance back toward the couch. Tylendel was rebandaging 
Vanyel's ankle, treating it as if it were as fragile as an insect's wing. She made a 
face.

"I think not," she replied. "We've got enough sweetness around here for one 
night.''

Tylendel looked up, and stuck his tongue out at her, while Vanyel blushed.
Savil chuckled and sat back in her chair, well content with her world. At least for 
the moment, she thought, taking another sip of spiced wine, which is all any 
Herald can reasonably hope for. I'll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow gets 
here.


	
Seven
		
Tylendel sprawled in his favorite chair, and watched Vanyel restringing his lute, 
sitting cross-legged on the bed. Candlelight reflected in a honey-colored curve 
along the round belly of the instrument.

Is it time? he wondered. He plays for the girls, but they don't matter. He doesn't 
care if he plays well or badly for them. Will he play for someone he loves, 
someone who does matter? Can he? Has he recovered enough?

Only one way to find out, though.

' 'Ashke,'' he said quietly, extending his little Gift of Empathy as far as it would go. 
Van lifted his head from his work; he looked rather comical with the old strings 
dangling from his mouth like the feelers on a catfish.

"Mph?" he replied.

"When you get Woodlark in tune, would you play for me?"

Vanyel froze. Tylendel Felt the startlement - and the ache. And reacted to them.
"Please? I'd like it."

Vanyel took the strings out of his mouth, and Tylendel could sense his 
withdrawal. "Why?" he asked, bitterly, his eyes shining wetly. "There's dozens 
better than I am right here at Bardic. Why listen to a half-crippled amateur? ''
Tylendel restrained his natural reaction - which was to go to him, hold him, ease 
his hurt that way. That would ease it all right, but it wouldn't cure it. "Because you 
aren't half-crippled anymore," he replied. "Because you aren't an amateur. You're 
good; the Bards all say so."

"But not good enough to be one of them." Vanyel turned away, but not before 
Tylendel saw tears in his eyes. And Felt the anguish.

"That's not true," he insisted gently. "Look, Van, it's not that you aren't good 
enough. It's that you just don't have the Gift. Can a blind man paint?"

Vanyel just shook his head, and Tylendel could sense his further withdrawal. "It's 
not the same thing," he said, tightly. "The blind man can't see a painting. But 
there's nothing wrong with my ears."

Tylendel searched for something that might reach this wounded corner of his 
beloved, and finally found it.

"Ashke, why do you think there are minstrels trained at Bardic? Why do you think 
that people welcome minstrels when there are Bards about?" He'd asked that 
same question of Breda, who had all three Bardic Talents: the Gift, the Skill, and 
the Creativity. Her answer had been enlightening.

Vanyel shook his head, still tightly bound up inside himself. "Because there aren't 
enough Bards to go around, just like there aren't enough Heralds or Healers."

"Wrong," Tylendel said firmly, "and I have this from Breda. There are times when 
the Gift gets in the way of the music. ''

"What?" Vanyel's head whipped around in startlement, and Tylendel saw the 
shine of tears on his cheek. "What do you mean by that?"

"Just what I said." Now was the time to rise and go to Vanyel's side, and Tylendel 
did just that. "Listen to me; just what is the Bardic Gift, hmm? It's the ability to 
make others feel the things you want them to through music. But when a Bard 
does that, you can't keep your mind on the music, can you? You never really 
hear how beautiful it is; you're too busy with what the Bard is doing. You never 
really hear it for itself, and when you remember it, you don't remember the music, 
you remember the emotions. There's another reason; when the Bard performs, 
you put nothing of yourself into the listening. But when a minstrel performs, or a 
Bard without the Gift, you get out of the music exactly what you put into 
thelistening." He chuckled, and reached for Vanyel's limp hands. "Breda said that 
in some ways it's a little like making love with a paid courtesan or with your lover. 

Your lover may not be as expert, but the experience is a lot more genuine."

"Breda said that?" Vanyel faltered.

"In her cups, yes." He didn't add it had been here, in Savil's quarters, the evening 
she'd tested and failed Vanyel. Breda had a very soft heart beneath that bony 
chest; she'd not enjoyed destroying Vanyel's hopes, even indirectly. "They do say 
that there's truth in the bottom of every wine bottle." He paused, and raised one 
eyebrow at his lover. "She also said that if you weren't your father's heir, they'd 
snap you up so fast you'd leave your boots behind."

"She did?" He could Feel Vanyel uncoiling from around that lump of hurt.

"She did." He picked up the lute and put it back in Vanyel's hands. "And since my 
personal preference is not for courtesans, however expert - will you play for me?"

"Just - " Vanyel swallowed, and finally met his eyes. The hurt was still there, but 
already fading, " - just let me get her in tune."


To Vanyel Ashkevron from Lord Withen Ashkevron: greetings. I have received 
good reports of you from Herald Savil, except for the instance of your quarrel with 
her protege. While I cannot condone your actions, I can understand that it may 
be irritating to share the same roof with the young man. You must keep your 
temper and not provoke him further, as it is obvious that he cannot be relied upon 
to keep his. I am also given to understand that you have abandoned your 
pretensions as a musician and relegated such nonsense to its proper place; an 
amusing hobby, no more. I am pleased with this development; it seems to me 
this is evidence of maturity and acceptance of your proper place in life, and I 
have sent a small token of my approval. Inscribed by Father Leren Benevy, By 
my hand and seal, Lord Withen Ashkevron.


* * *


To Lord Withen Ashkevron from Vanyel Ashkevron: greetings. I have received 
your letter and your token, for which my thanks. I am endeavoring to follow all of 
Herald Savil's instructions to the best of my ability. I have found her to be a wise 
and knowledgeable mentor, and hope to better please her in the future. By my 
hand, Vanyel Ashkevron.



Dearest Son: I Pray with all my Heart that this finds you Well, and that you were 
not Hurt by that Brutal Boy. I Feared that something of this Nature would Occur 
from the Instant your Father Told me of this Foolish Scheme and have had Dark 
and Fell Dreams from the moment you Departed. Savil is plainly Not To Be 
Relied Upon to keep her Creatures in Order. I pray you, do not Provoke the 
Barbarian further; lam endeavoring to Persuade your Father to fetch you Home 
again, but thus far it is All In were not enough, I have been visited with a Further 
Grief. My maid Melenna has been rendered With Child - and by your Brother 
Mekeal! So she Claims, and so Mekeal Admits. Your Father is No Help; he 
seems to Think it is All Very Amusing. Indeed, I am at my Wit's End and I know 
not What To Do! But even in my Extremity, I have not forgotten my Beloved 
Child, nor that your Birthday is this very day. I enclose a Small Token - All that I 
could Manage, and not Nearly your Desert. I Beg you that if you are in Need that 
you will Tell Me at Once. I shall Manage something More from your Father, Hard-
Hearted as he is. Your Loving Mother, Lady Treesa Ileana Brendywhin-
Ashkevron.


"Purple ink?" Tylendel said incredulously, looking over Vanyel 's shoulder. "Am I 
really seeing purple ink? And pink paper?"

"Costs a fortune, and it's all she'll use," Vanyel answered absently, pondering 
how to reply without setting his mother off again. The pink page lay on the blotter 
of the desk, its very existence a maternal accusation that he hadn't written since 
he arrived here. Beside it were two piles of silver coins - absolutely equal in 
value.

One reward for beating up a pervert, one consolation for getting beaten up by a 
pervert. He sighed. Gods, there are times I wish I was an orphan.

"May I?" Tylendel asked.

Vanyel shrugged. "Go ahead. You'll encounter her eventually, I'm sure. You 
ought to know what she's like."

Tylendel worked his way through the ornamented and scrolled calligraphy, and 
gave it back to Vanyel with a grimace that said more than words could have.

"You think this is bad - you should see the letters she writes to friends, or worse, 
people she thinks have slighted her. Three, four, and five pages, purple ink and 
tear-blotches, and everything capitalized." He sighed again. "And appalling 
grammar. When she gets really hysterical, she goes into formal mode and she 
cannot seem to keep her 'thees' and 'thous' straight."

He contemplated the letter for a moment. "What's really awful, she talks like that, 
too."
Tylende laughed, threw himself down on the bed, and got back to the book he'd 
been reading.


Dear Mother: I really am all right. Please don't worry about me - worry about 
yourself. If you don't take care of yourself, if you let your fine sensibilities get the 
better of you, you'II make yourself ill. Savil is quite kind, and the problems I had 
with Tylendel have been taken care of. Every rumor that comes out of this Court 
is an exaggeration at best and an outright lie at worst, so pay no attention to what 
your friends are telling you. I am sorry to hear about Melenna; this must be a 
terrible burden for you. Your present was very kind, and very much appreciated, 
and for in excess of my needs. I love you, and I think about you often. Be well, 
Vanyel.


Dear Vanyel; What in Havens is going on? Are you all right? If it's unbearable, for 
the gods' sake let me know and I'll lead the Seven Corey Swordmaids to your 
rescue - they're dying to play avenging angels, although given their figures, it's 
more like avenging angles. All my love, Lissa.


* * *

Vanyel laughed aloud, and passed the note to Tylendel.

Tylendel grinned broadly and handed it back to him. "Now this one I like. What's 
my chances of meeting her?"

"Pretty good," Vanyel replied, stretching. "Once the secret's out about us, Father 
will disinherit me, Mother will have vapors, and Lissa will show up, sword in hand, 
to defend me from Father's wrath. She's gotten a lot spunkier since she went 
over to the Coreys to foster. Lord Trevor has just about promised her a 
commission in the Guard."

"Which he can give her, since he's in charge of recruitment for the Guard," 
Tylendel said thoughtfully. "Is that your last letter?''

"One more after this - "


Dearest Lissa; Don't worry, it's all right. I'm fine, and I'm happier than I've been in 
my life here. Savil is on my side against Father, and some of what you 've been 
hearing is to keep him happy. Trust me, it really is all right. I love you, and I miss 
you, Van.


To Vanyel Ashkevron from Evan Leshara; greetings. I believe we have mutual 
interests and I would be honored and pleased if we could meet to discuss them. I 
am at your disposal any evening. By my hand and seal, Evan Leshara.


" 'Lendel - " Vanyel said slowly, sorely puzzled by this last note, which had been 
delivered to the suite by a page that very afternoon. "Who is Evan Leshara?"


Tylendel paced the confines of the bedroom, as restless as a caged wolf. Savil 
thought both of them were in here; he hadn't told her that Vanyel had slipped his 
leash to go see what Evan Leshara wanted. He glanced over at the time-candle; 
it hadn't burned down any since the last time he'd looked at it.

I shouldn't have let him go. If Leshara figures out the fight was all a ruse - 
Up and back, up and back. It was damned hot for an autumn night, or was it 
being on edge that was making him sweat? His scalp prickled, and he felt a 
headache beginning just under his right eye. Shadows cast by the light of the 
time-candle danced and flickered, shrank and grew.

 - if he figures out the game we're playing, he'll be able to use blackmail on Van 
against me, and me against Staven. Oh. gods, I shouldn't have let him go. I 
should have told him to ignore Leshara's invitation. I should have. I - 

The creak of the garden door broke into his worries, and his tensions evaporated 
when Vanyel slipped in from the darkness and latched the door behind himself.

"Ashke?" Tylendel began, then hesitated, seeing the troubled expression in 
Vanyel's eyes.

"He's a damned persuasive man, this Leshara," Vanyel said softly, sitting himself 
in the chair in front of the cold fireplace.

"That's why he's here," Tylendel replied grimly. "It's the Leshara countermove to 
my being here. Since they can't buy into the Heralds, they've sent the one of their 
kin with the sweetest tongue to get the ear of the Queen, if he can."

"He says he's got it. He said a lot of things. 'Lendel, there was an awful lot of 
what he said that made sense."

"Of course there was!" Tylendel interrupted. "I'll be willing to bet that half of what 
he told you was the absolute truth even by my standards. It's the way he said it, 
the context, and what he was prompting you to infer from what he told you that 
counts! You ought to know yourself from what you've been writing home that the 
best possible lie is to tell only the truth - just not all of it!"

"But 'Lendel," Vanyel still looked uncertain. " 'Lendel, he says his people have 
been willing to settle for months now, a settlement the Queen approves, and 
yours refuse to go along with it - "

"He didn't tell you what that 'plan' was, did he?"

Vanyel shook his head.

"To marry my thirty-year-old maiden-cousin who's never been outside of a 
cloister to a fifty-year-old lecher, take Staven out of being Lord Holder and put 
her in," he said savagely, "which effectively means putting him in, since there's 
no way she'd ever be able to stand up to him. She'd dry up and blow away the 
first time he spoke harshly to her. That's the Leshara notion of an equitable 
settlement." He glared at Vanyel, angry and a little hurt that Vanyel would even 
consider taking Evan Leshara's word as the whole truth. "He's using the fact that 
Staven's only seventeen as a way to imply that he's incompetent, too young to 
make any kind of rational decisions. And a lot of the powers at Court, being old 
goats themselves, are buying into the idea. After all, seventeen's only old enough 
to be told you have to go fight and die for something - it's not old enough to have 
any say in the matter!"

Vanyel's eyes had gotten very distressed, and he had shrunk back into the chair 
as far as he could. " 'Lendel," he faltered. "I didn't mean - I wasn't doubting you-"

Tylendel gave himself a mental kick in the posterior for upsetting him. "Ashke, I 
didn't mean to shout at you," he said, kneeling beside the chair and putting one 
hand on Vanyel's knee. "I'm sorry - I'm just so damned frustrated. He can say any 
damned thing he wants, and because I'm a Herald-trainee, I can't even refute 
him. It makes me a little crazy, sometimes."

Vanyel brightened, and put his hand over Ty lenders. "That's all right. I know how 
you feel. Like me and Father and Jervis."

"Something like it."

" 'Lendel, would you," Vanyel hesitated, "would you tell me your side?"

Tylendel took a deep breath. "If I do, I'll be breaking a promise I made to Savil, 
not to get you involved."

"I'm already involved. I - why? That's what I really want to know. What's keeping 
this thing going?"

"Something Wester Leshara did," Tylendel replied, fighting down the urge to get 
up, grab a horse, and ride out to strangle Wester with his bare hands. The white-
hot rage that always filled him whenever he called that particular memory up was 
very hard to control. "Savil says I have to be absolutely fair - so to be absolutely 
fair, I'll tell you that this was in retaliation for a raid that accidentally killed his 
youngest son. We - our people - went in to stampede his cattle. The boy fell off 
his horse and wound up under their hooves. But I don't think that excuses what 
Wester did."

"Which was?"

"My father had just died; he hired some kind of two-copper conjuror to convince 
Mother that Father's ghost wanted to speak with her. She wasn't very stable - 
which Wester was damned well aware of, and this pushed her over the edge. We 
got rid of the charlatan, but not before he'd gotten her convinced that if she found 
just the right formula, she'd be able to communicate with Father's spirit. She 
started taking all manner of potions, trying to see him. Finally she did see him - 
she ate Black Angel mushrooms."

He did not add that he and Staven had been the ones to find her. Vanyel looked 
sick enough. Tylendel got a lid on his anger, and changed the subject. "What did 
the bastard want, anyway?"

"He wanted me to let him know any time I heard anything about you or your 
family, and he wanted me to talk my father 'round to his side."

"What did you tell him?"

Vanyel grimaced. "I guess I was playing the same game of telling not all of the 
truth. I told him that I heard more about your people directly from you than I 
heard casually, and let him draw his own conclusions."

Tylendel relaxed, and chuckled. Vanyel brightened a little more. "What about 
your father?"

"I told him the truth; that I had been sent here as punishment, because I wouldn't 
toe the line at home, and that father would take advice from a halfwit before he'd 
take it from me. He was rather disappointed."

Now Tylendel laughed, and hugged him. "Ashke, ashke, you couldn't have done 
better if I'd given you a script!"

"So I did all right?" Now Vanyel was fairly glowing.

"You did better than all right."

Gods, he thought, seeing Vanyel so elated, he fades like an unwatered flower 
when he thinks I'm angry at him - and now this - you'd have thought I'd offered 
him a Bard's laurel. Does my opinion mean so much to him? Do I mean so much 
to him ?

The thought was a sobering one. And it was followed inevitably by another. 
Maybe Savil 's right. . . .

"He said he wants to stay in touch with me anyway, just in case I hear something. 
I told him that was all right with me. In fact, I acted pretty eager about it." He 
turned his head a little to one side, and offered, tentatively, "I thought we could 
sort of tell him what we wanted him to hear."

Ha. "We," not "you. " No, Savil's not right. He depends on me, but I depend on 
him, and if he's leaning on me a little, well, that isn't going to hurt anyone. He's 
just not used'to making decisions on his own, that's all.

"That's perfect," he said, leaning on the arm of the chair. "Absolutely perfect. 
Now, after facing off the dragon for me, oh noble warrior, in what way can I ever 
reward you?" He batted his eyelashes at Vanyel, who laughed, and drew himself 
up as if he sat in a throne. "I'll do anything - "

"Oh?" Vanyel replied archly. "Anything?"


"Savil told me something funny today," Tylendel murmured quietly into Vanyel's 
ear. His voice roused Vanyel out of the sleepy half-dream he'd been in ever since 
he and Tylendel had settled into their favorite spot in all of the Field.

It was the first time either of them had broken the silence since they'd entered the 
pine copse.

The suite had seemed far too stuffy for the warm autumnal evening, even with all 
the windows open. And Vanyel had scarcely left it since they'd staged their "fight" 
- except for lessons and the obligatory evenings with Evan Leshara to feed him 
misinformation. And the appearances he had to make at Court to keep his circle 
of admirers happy and deceived.

It was moon-dark, and the chance of anyone seeing them heading out into 
Companion's Field together was practically nonexistent. So when Vanyel had 
looked up from his Religions text and tentatively suggested a walk, Tylendel had 
shut his own book and flung the garden door open with a mocking bow and a real 
grin.

It was inevitable that Gala should join them when they crossed the river; Vanyel 
had come to take her presence for granted on the precious few joint excursions 
they'd judged safe from detection. It was equally inevitable that they should seek 
"their" pine grove; it drew them as no other place within walking distance could.
It was blacker than Sunsinger's despair beneath the branches on this moonless 
night, but Tyiendel had made a tiny mage-light once they'd gotten past the first 
line of trees and were safely out of sight. They'd just rambled for a long time, 
from one end of the peaceful grove to the other and back again; not speaking, 
but not needing to. Not touching, either - but again, not needing to.

It wasn't until they'd walked out the last of their end-of-the-day tensions that 
they'd finally decided to settle next to the oldest tree in the grove and just relax in 
silence. Gala provided a willing backrest, and the two of them leaned up against 
her soft warmth, with Vanyel resting his head on Tylendel's shoulder. Tyiendel 
had put out the mage-light, leaving them in near-total darkness. There were still a 
few crickets that hadn't been killed by the first frost, calling from a dozen different 
directions, and once Vanyel had heard geese crying by high overhead. But other 
than that, and the sigh of Gala's breathing, they might have been the only two 
living creatures in an endlessly empty, pine-fragrant universe.

Which was exactly the way Vanyel wanted it. This continual charade of theirs 
was proving to be both harder and easier than he'd thought it would. Easier, 
because he was no longer trying to block out his feelings, no longer trying to 
convince himself that he didn't need anyone. Easier, because the arrogant pose, 
the flirtation games, were no longer anything more than an elaborate set of 
games. But harder, because one single slip, one hint getting back to Withen of 
what was really going on, and he'd lose everything that was making his life 
something more than a burden to be endured. And harder, because of the 
double-game he was playing with Leshara. One slip there and Leshara would 
know what was really going on - and it would be child's play for him to use that 
knowledge as a double-weapon against Vanyel and Tylendel.

And there was no way of knowing how much - or how little - Evan Leshara 
believed out of all the things Vanyel was telling him. All he could do was trust that 
'Lendel knew enough to seed the falsehoods with exactly the right amount of 
truth - because he certainly didn't know enough.

The pretense was a constant drain on his emotional energy, and it wasn't often 
that he felt safe enough to forget and enjoy the moment. The insecurity of the 
situation was the first thing on his mind when waking and the last when going to 
sleep.

That wasn't the only strain. Since the fight, he'd been virtually ostracized by the 
Bards, Heralds, and all their trainees. Tylendel was (somewhat to his own 
surprise) highly-regarded among the "working" members of Queen Elspeth's 
High Court. But that meant that Vanyel was bearing the burden of their scorn for 
provoking the fight. And while his teachers remained within the bounds of polite 
civility, they were making no secret of their disdain. Lessons had become 
ordeals, and only Tylendel's insistence that he was going to have to continue if 
the charade was going to work had kept Vanyel persisting in the face of the 
hostility he was facing. The only one of his teachers that seemed oblivious to the 
whole mess was Lord Oden - possibly because the Lord-Marshall's second-in-
command was pretty well indifferent to anything not involving the martial arts. 
Vanyel had ample occasion to reflect on the irony that his situation was now 
precisely the opposite of what he had endured at Forst Reach. There he'd been 
the pet of his tutors, except for the armsmaster, and despised by everyone his 
own age. Here - discounting the trainees - his peers were fawning on him, but his 
teachers were doing their icily gracious best to get him to give up and drop out of 
their lessons - except for his armsmaster. It was not his imagination that they 
were being harder on him than the others being lessoned; Mardic was in his 
Religions group now, and had confirmed his suspicions.

 "So what did Savil say?" he replied, closing his weary eyes, and shifting a bit so 
that he wasn't resting so much of his weight on Tylendel's arm. Tylendel 
responded by holding him a little closer.

"That she can't understand why we haven't had at least one fight," Tylendel said, 
laughing a little. "She says we're sickening."
"She has a point," Vanyel conceded, with a ghost of a chuckle. "We are, a bit."

"She told me she can't understand how we stay so dotingly devoted to each 
other. She says we act like a couple of spaniels - you know, kick 'em, and they 
just come back begging to be kicked again - only worse, because we aren't 
kicking each other."

"She just doesn't realize," Vanyel said, sobered by a moment of introspection. " 
'Lendel, there is no way I'd fight with you, when any moment my father might find 
out about us and pull me home. I couldn't bear the idea of our last words being 
angry ones. I have to make every moment we have together a good memory."
"Don't let it eat at you," Tylendel interrupted. "You're sixteen now; I'm seventeen. 
It's only two years before you're of age. We'll be all right so long as you can keep 
your end of things going with Lord Evan."

Vanyel sighed. "Gods, gods, two years - it seems like forever. It seems like it's 
been years already. I just can't imagine coming to the end of this."

Tylendel stroked his hair, his hand as light as a breath of wind. "You'll manage, 
ashke. You're stronger than you think. I sometimes think you're stronger than I 
am. I doubt I could be dealing successfully with the plate you've been handed. 
And whether or not you believe this, I think I depend as much on you as you do 
on me. Gala says so."

"She does?" Vanyel's voice rose with his surprise. "Really?"

"Frequently." He sighed, and Vanyel wondered why. There were times when it 
seemed that there were some serious points of disagreement between Gala and 
her Chosen, usually involving Tylendel's tacit and unshakable support of his twin. 
Vanyel personally couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Even if 'Lendel hadn't 
had the close bond he did with Staven, even if Wester Leshara hadn't connived 
the painful suicide of 'Lenders mother, it would still have been his duty to support 
Staven. Even though Vanyel himself had a rather bitter and uncomfortable 
relationship with his own brother, Mekeal, if it came to an interHouse 
confrontation there was no doubt in his mind where he would stand, and he knew 
Mekeal was likely to feel the same. And given how much Tylendel owed to his 
brother for supporting him in the face of all opposition - well, Vanyel couldn't see 
what else he could do, in all decency and honor.

But then, there was a great deal about all this "Herald" business he didn't 
understand. For instance - 

" 'Lendel, if we make it that far - all the way to when you get your Whites - "

" 'If?' Don't think in terms of 'if,' love," Tylendel chided, softly. "It may not be easy, 
but we'll make it. Havens, I should talk about not being easy, when it's you that is 
having to take the worse share on your shoulders. But I'll help you, I'll help you all 
I can, and we will see this through to the other side."

"Well, what's going to happen with us? When you get your Whites and I'm of age 
- what then?"

There was a long pause, and Tylendel's hand stopped moving, resting on the 
back of his neck. "That's the easy part, really. First thing, you make up your mind 
about exactly what you want to do about Lord Withen. I mean, you could flat tell 
him about us, or you could just - let him find out. Whichever way you want. At 
that point the worst he could do is disown you, and you know everything I have is 
yours for the asking. The Circle won't stint me; I'll have more than enough to 
support two."

"He probably will disown me," Vanyel said bitterly. "Which will mean I'll have to 
ask, 'Lendel."

"So? We're partners, aren't we? It won't be charity, ashke; it'll be sharing."

Vanyel squelched the automatic retort that it would still feel like charity. "All right, 
assume I've told my father and I'm free to do what I want. Then what?"

"After that, Savil will turn the lovebirds over to another Herald and take me - us - 
out on a Field assignment. Us, because obviously I won't go without you; Savil 
knows that, so it's a given. That's a year, or thereabouts. But then - I don't know. 
I'm a Herald-Mage trainee; they usually give us permanent positions rather than 
having us ride circuit like the straight Heralds do. They'll probably put me either 
here at Haven, or out along the Border at the places where magic is needed. 
Down by White Foal Pass, around the edge of the Pelagirs - "

 - "Why? That's something that has me baffled. Why?" Vanyel asked. "I mean, 
why are you going to do what somebody else wants? Why do you have to go 
where they say? Who are 'they,' anyway?"

" 'They' - that's the Heraldic Circle. Queen's Own, Seneschal's Herald, Lord-
Marshal's Herald, the speaker for the Heralds with trainees - that's Savil - the 
speaker for the Herald-Mages and the speaker for the Heralds on circuit. And the 
Queen, of course, and the Heir. They're the ones who decide where Heralds and 
Herald-Mages will serve and what they'll do. That's - that's just the way it is. Van, 
I don't understand you now." There was hurt in Tylendel's voice. "Don't you want 
to go with me?"

"Oh, gods - " Vanyel groped for Tylendel's free hand, and held it tightly. " 'Lendel, 
I didn't mean that. I'd rather lose my arms and legs than lose you. I'll go wherever 
you go, and glad to. I'm just trying to get all this to make sense. Why are you 
doing this, going where they tell you, doing what they tell you to do? Why is this - 
Herald stuff - so important to you?"

Vanyel could almost feel Tylendel fumbling after the right words. "It^s, I don't 
know, it's a kind of hunger. I can't help it. I've got these abilities, these Gifts, and I 
can't not use them. I couldn't sit here, knowing that there were people out there 
who need exactly the kind of help I can give them and not make the effort to find 
them and take care of them. It's like backing Staven - it's just something I could 
not even see myself not doing. I can't explain it, Van, I can't. I have to, or - or I'm 
not me anymore."

Vanyel just shook his head a little. "All right, I'll accept that. But I still can't really 
grasp it," he confessed.

"Giving up everything to play nursemaid to a pack of people you don't even 
know. Won't you have any life of your own? Who are these hypothetical people 
that need you, that you're sacrificing your whole life for them?"

"Huh," Tylendel said, "You sound just like Stav - "

Suddenly he went rigid; "Staven?" he whispered. "Stav-"

Then his entire body convulsed as he screamed Staven's name. And the night 
erupted into chaos around them.
 
The scream went on and on, filling the entire universe with pain and loss. An 
unbearable pressure rose around them, and shattered, all in the moment, the 
eternity of that scream. The still air churned, and began pummeling them with 
fists of heat and turbulence.

Gala scrambled to her feet; Vanyel caught and held his lover, trying to support 
him as he thrashed in uncontrolled spasms. Tylendel's forehead cracked against 
the bridge of his nose; he saw stars and tasted blood, but gritted his teeth against 
the pain and held on.

A gale-force wind sprang up out of the confusion and chaos. It went howling 
about them, moving outward in a spiral, nearly tearing the clothes from Vanyel's 
body as it passed. Tylendel was - glowing; angry red light pulsed around him. In 
it, Vanyel could see his face set in a mask of madness. His teeth were clenched 
in a grimace of pain, and there was no sense in his eyes, no sign of intelligence.
The trees closest to them literally exploded in a shower of splinters; those farther 
away spasmed in convulsions much like Tylendel's before they began tearing 
them selves apart.

The wind picked up in strength; trees farther away began thrashing and the wind 
spiraled outward a little farther than it had a moment before. The light 
surrounding Tylendel - and now Vanyel - throbbed, ebbing and strengthening 
with each paroxysm of his body. And something frighteningly like lightning was 
crackling off the edges of that glow, striking at random all about them. Where it 
hit, the effect was exactly like natural lightning; trees split, and the ground was 
scorched and pitted.

The wind was scouring the earth bare, making projectiles of dead needles and 
bits of wood. Even the ground was shuddering, heaving like a horse trying to 
throw a rider.

Vanyel held Tylendel as tightly as he could, looking wildly about for Gala. Finally 
he saw her, off on the edge of the circle of chaos. She, too, was glowing, bluely; 
the edge of her glow seemed to be deflecting the debris and the lightning, but it 
looked as if she was unable to do anything. Not that she wasn't trying - she 
stretched her neck out toward her Chosen, her eyes bright and terrible with 
distress - but all she seemed able to do was shield herself. She couldn't even get 
near them.

"Gala!" Vanyel shouted, over the screaming of the wind, restraining Tylendel as 
his lover spasmed in another convulsion. "Get help! Get Savil!" He couldn't think. 
If Gala were helpless to do anything, Savil was the only possible source of aid.
She shook her head; tried to force her way through the gale toward them, but 
was actually pushed back by whatever force was controlling the raging wind. She 
tried twice more; twice more was shoved farther back, as the circle of destruction 
grew. Finally she reared, screamed like a terrified human, and pivoted on her 
hind feet, then sprang off into the darkness.

Vanyel closed his eyes and clasped Tylendel against his chest, trying to protect 
him from the wind, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he continued to 
convulse. He was well beyond fear; his mind numb, his mouth dry, his heart 
pounding - praying for an end to this, praying for help. He couldn't think, couldn't 
move - all he could do was stay. -

'Lendel, I'm here - he thought, as hard as he could, hoping somehow that 
Tylendel would "hear" him. 'Lendel, come back to me - 

The trainee spasmed once more, his back arcing - and suddenly, it was over. 
The light vanished, and with it, the wind. The ground settled - and there was 
nothing but a deadly silence, hollow darkness, and the weight of his lover's 
unmoving body in Vanyel's arms.

" 'Lendel?" He shook Tylendel's shoulders, and bit back a moan when he got no 
response. "Oh, gods - "

Tylendel was still breathing, but it was strange, shallow breathing - and the 
trainee's skin was clammy and almost cold.

A moment later Savil and two other Heralds came pounding up on their 
Companions, mage-lights glowing over their heads. By their light, Vanyel could 
see that Tylendel was limp and completely unconscious, his head lolling back, 
his eyes rolled up under half-open lids. He swallowed down fear, as Savil slid off 
Kellan's back without waiting for her to come to a full stop, landing heavily and 
stumbling to them. As the light of the pulsing balls strengthened, Vanyel saw with 
shock that there was not so much as a single pine seedling left standing in what 
had been a healthy grove of trees.

"I - I-I d-d-don't know what h-h-happened," he stuttered, as Savil went to her 
knees beside them, pulled open Tylendel's eyelids and checked his pulse, her 
face gray and grim in the blue light of her globe. The other two Heralds 
dismounted slowly, looking about them at the destruction with expressionless 
faces. "He was a-a-all right one minute, and then - Aunt Savil, please, I d-d-didn't 
do this t-t-t-to him - did I?"

"No, lad," she said absently. "Jaysen, come over here and confirm, will you?"

The taller of the two Heralds knelt beside Savil and made the same examination 
she had. "Backlash shock," he said succinctly. "Bad. Best thing we can do for 
him is get him in a bed and put someone he trusts with him."

"What I thought," she replied, getting to her feet and motioning to the older 
Herald to come help Jaysen take up the unconscious trainee. "No, Vanyel, it had 
nothing to do with you." She finally looked at him. "Did you know your nose is 
broken?"

"It is?" he replied, mind still fogged with fear for Tylendel.

"It is. Hold still; Jaysen's got just about enough of the Healing Gift to do 
something - "

The tall, bleached-looking Herald freed a hand from his task just long enough to 
touch his face. There was an odd tugging sensation, and a flash of pain that sent 
him blind for a moment, then numbness.

Savil looked him over briefly. "Good enough; it'll hurt like hell for the next few 
days, but it'll heal up straight. We'll wash the blood off your face later. Jaysen, 
Rolf, get 'Lendel back to my quarters; this isn't anything a Healer's going to be 
able to treat. We'll take care of him ourselves."

"Aunt, please, what happened?" He staggered to his feet, holding Tylendel's 
hand tightly as the other two picked him up, still limp as a broken doll and 
showing no signs of consciousness. He was not willing to let go until he knew 
what was wrong.

Savil gently loosed his fingers from their grip. "If what we got from Gala is right - 
the moment he went mad is the moment someone assassinated his twin," she 
said angrily. "You know the bond he had with Staven."

Vanyel nodded, and his whole face throbbed.

"He felt it; felt the death, knew what had happened. Lost all control, lost his mind 
for a while, like the fits he used to have - only, I think, worse this time. Now he's 
depleted himself down to next to nothing, his whole body's in collapse from the 
energies he put through it, his mind's in trauma from Staven's death. That's 
backlash shock."

Vanyel,wasn't sure he understood, but nodded anyway.

Savil's face darkened to pure rage. "May all the gods damn those fools and their 
feuding! Death after death, and still they aren't satisfied! Van, our job is to see we 
don't lose Tylendel as well."

"Lose him?" Vanyel's voice broke, and he looked wildly after the Heralds and 
their unconscious burden. "Oh no - oh gods - Aunt, tell me what to do, I can't let 
him - "

"I don't intend to let him die," she interrupted him. pushing him after the other 
Heralds. "The masquerade has been canceled, and to hell with what your father 
finds out; I'll deal with Withen myself, and I'll keep you here if I have to get the 
Queen's order to do it. You go with them, and don't you leave him, no matter 
what happens." Savil bit her lip, and gave Vanyel another push when he looked 
at her with a fear that held him nearly paralyzed. "Go - go on. He needs you, lad - 
like he's never needed anyone before. You're my only hope of getting him 
through this sane."

The two Heralds that Savil had called Jaysen and Rolf got Tylendel stripped and 
into bed without the trainee giving any sign of returning consciousness. Vanyel 
hovered at the edge of the room, his hands clenched, his face throbbing and 
feeling as if it were nearly as white as Tylendel's. When they left - after giving him 
more than one dubious and curious glance - he installed himself in a chair at 
Tylendel's side, took his lover's limp, cold hand in his own, and refused to be 
moved.

He stayed there for the rest of the night; unable to sleep, unable to even think 
very clearly. Tylendel looked ghastly; his skin had gone transparent and waxy, 
there was no muscle tone in die hand Vanyel held, and the only thing showing he 
was alive was the shallow movement of his chest as he breathed.

Savil looked in once or twice during the night, but said nothing. Mardic came in at 
dawn to try to persuade him to get some rest, but Vanyel only shook his head 
stubbornly. He would not, he could not, rest; until he knew that Tylendel would be 
all right.

Savil left for a Council session - probably dealing with the feud - right after 
sunrise; with some reluctance, Mardic and Donni departed for their lessons a 
couple of candlemarks later. When Mardic failed to convince Vanyel to rest, 
Donni had tried to talk him into some food. He'd refused that as well, suspecting 
that - with all the best intentions in the world - she might have slipped something 
into it to make him sleep.

" 'Lendel, they've gone," he said, when he heard the door open and close, just to 
have some other sound in the room besides Tylendel's breathing. "It's just you 
and me. 'Lendel, you have to come back - please. I need you, 'Lendel." He 
laughed, right on the edge of hysteria. "Look, you know yourself that I'm too far 
behind on my History for Mardic to help me."

He thought - maybe - he saw a flicker of response. His heart leapt, and he 
continued talking, coaxing, reciting bits of Tylendel's favorite poems - anything to 
bring him out of that unnatural sleep. He talked until his mouth and throat were 
dry, talked his voice into a harsh croak, left just long enough to get water, and 
returned to begin the monologue again. He lost track of what he was saying, 
somewhere around mid-afternoon; he was vaguely aware of someone checking 
on them, but ignored the other presences to keep up the flow of words. For by 
afternoon, there was no doubt; there was some change going on in Tylendel's 
condition, and for the better. He didn't know if it was the talking that was doing it, 
but he couldn't take any chances. He just kept holding to Tylendel's hand, saying 
anything that came into his head, however foolish-sounding.

Sunset arrived, turning the river beyond the windows briefly to a sword of flame; 
the light faded, the room darkened, and still he refused to move. Savil came in 
long enough to light the candles and whisper something - that he was doing the 
right thing, he thought, he wasn't sure. He didn't care; his whole world had 
narrowed to the white face resting on the pillow, and the slowly warming hand in 
his.

His eyes grew heavy, and his whole body ached, and his voice had thinned down 
to a whisper not even he could make out. He finally put his head down on his 
arms, intending to just rest for a moment - 

And woke, feeling a hand tentatively caressing his hair. He started, jerking his 
head up off the coverlet, making his face pulse with pain.

Tyiendel regarded him out of blue-ringed, weary eyes; eyes so full of anguish 
and loss that Vanyel nearly started weeping. "I heard you," he whispered. "I 
heard you, I just didn't have the strength to answer. Van - Staven - "

His face crumpled, and Vanyel slid oif the chair and onto the side of the bed, 
talking him into his arms and holding him as tightly as he could; supporting him 
against his shoulder, giving him what little comfort his presence would give. 
Tylendel's body shook with sobs and he clung to Vanyel as to the only source of 
consolation left to him in the entire world, and Vanyel wept with him.

They finally fell asleep like that; true sleep, not the state of shock Tyiendel had 
been in - Vanyel still fully clothed and sprawled between his chair and the side of 
the bed; Tylendel clinging to him like a heartbroken child.

"Eat," Vanyel ordered, setting the tray down in Ty-lendel's blanket-covered lap.
Tylendel looked nauseated and shook his head. "Can't," he whispered hoarsely.

"You mean 'won't,' " Vanyel retorted almost as hoarsely, trying to ignore the fact 
that talking made the whole of his face ache. "You've gone all day without food. 
Savil says if you don't get something down, you'll go into backlash shock again. I 
didn't spend all that time talking you out to have you drop back in again. Now eat, 
dammit!" He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Tylendel. The 
trainee eased a little higher up on the pillows supporting him in a sitting position 
and tried to shove the tray away. Unfortunately he was so weak he couldn't even 
lift it; he just moved it a palm-length away. Vanyel put it back precisely where he 
had placed it the first time.

Tylendel gave the perfectly good soup on the tray a look that would have been 
better bestowed on a bowl of pig swill, but picked up the spoon anyway. He 
swallowed the first spoonful with the air of someone who expects what he's just 
eaten to make a precipitate reappearance, but when nothing happened, gingerly 
ventured a second mouthful, and a third.

Vanyel sat warily on the edge of the bed, careful not to overset the tray between 
them. There was something very different about Tylendel since he'd reawakened 
- something secretive, but at the same time, impassioned. He could sense it in 
every word they'd exchanged. He thought he knew what it was, but he wanted to 
be sure.

"They're afraid I'm going to go mad, you know," Tylendel whispered in a matter-
of-fact tone when he was about halfway through the bowl.

"I know," Vanyel replied, just as matter-of-factly, sensing that the secret was 
about to be revealed. "That's why they have me here. Are you?"

Tylendel looked up from his meal, and there was that strange, burning something 
Vanyel had felt searing sullenly at the back of his eyes. "They might think so. 
Van, you've got to help me."

"You didn't have to ask," Vanyel replied soberly. "Tell me what you want, and I'll 
get it for you.'

"Vengeance." The thing at the back of his eyes flared for a moment, before 
subsiding into half-hidden, secretive smoldering again.

Vanyel nodded. This was rather what he had expected. If Tylendel wanted 
revenge - "Tell me. If I can do it, I will."

Tylendel slumped back on the pillows piled behind him, his head tilted back a 
little, his eyes closed, his features gone slack with relief. "Oh, gods - Van - I 
thought - "

"Eat," Vanyel growled. "I've told you before this that I understand, even if Savil 
doesn't. The only question I've got is how you think two half-grown, half-trained 
younglings are going to get revenge on people who live a good fortnight away by 
fast horse. I assume you've got an answer for that problem."

Tylendel opened his eyes and nodded soberly, but the spoon was still lying in the 
bowl of soup where he'd left it - and Vanyel was concentrating on the more 
immediate goal of getting him back on his feet. He'd worry about this plan when 
Tylendel was in shape to execute it, and not before.

"Dammit, 'Lendel, if you don't eat, I won't help you!"

Tylendel started guiltily, and leaned forward again to finish his meal.

Vanyel stole his mug long enough to get a sip of wine. His face hurt as badly as it 
looked, and when he'd taken one glance in the mirror, he'd had to look away 
again. His circle of admirers would have little to sigh over at the moment. He 
looked like he was wearing a black-and-blue domino mask and a putty nose. And 
he hurt. Gods, he hurt. The only reason he'd slept at all, once he'd comforted 
Tylendel last night, was because he'd been utterly, utterly exhausted.

"Did I do that?" Tylendel asked softly, finally looking at his face, as he scraped 
the last spoonful of soup from the bottom of the bowl.

Vanyel nodded, seeing no reason to deny it. "You weren't exactly yourself," he 
said, taking the tray away and stretching across Tylendel to put it on the table 
beside the bed.

"Oh, gods - Van, I'm sorry - " The smothered fury faded from Tylendel's eyes for 
a moment, and was replaced by concern as he reached in the direction of Van-
yel's nose. The concern was replaced by hurt as Vanyel winced away.

"Touch me anywhere but there; it hurts bloody awful and it wasn't your fault, all 
right?" To counteract that flash of hurt in Tylendel's eyes, he moved closer, close 
enough to give 'Lendel a quick hug before taking his hand in both his own. "Now 
- you want to talk? I think maybe it's my turn to listen."

The deeply-buried fire returned, warring with anguish in his expression. "That link 
between Staven and me - it was different from what they think. Most of the time 
distance matters in a link like that, distance makes it weaker. It never did, for us. 
But Savil thought it did, and I let her go on thinking that. She would have been on 
me to break it, otherwise." He tensed, and closed his eyes; Vanyel held his hand 
a little more tightly. "All I ever had to do was think about him for him to be with 
me; it was the same for him. They - the Leshara - they ambushed him; killed his 
escort. Killed him. And it wasn't just an assassination, Van. They used magic. "

Vanyel felt his mouth drop open. "They what? How? How could a Herald - "

"It wasn't a Herald. They've hired a mage from outKingdom. They turned some - 
things - loose on the Holding. Magic monsters, maybe from the Pelagirs. Staven 
went after them with an escort; but when he got there, they were gone. He must 
have spent all day trying to track them down, and just exhausting himself, the 
fighters, and their horses. That's when the mage brought them back and 
ambushed Staven with them." Tylendel's eyes were horrible, like he was looking 
into hell. "These tilings, they hurt him before they killed him; hurt him awfully. On 
purpose; on their master's orders. I think on Leshara's orders. I can't tell you - "

He gripped Vanyel's hand so tightly that both their hands went white, and his 
voice quavered.
"He knew I was there with him; he knew it the moment I linked. Thank the gods - 
he knew he wasn't alone. But the last thing, the very last thing he did was to beg 
me, plead with me, to pay them back. " His eyes opened, and they no longer 
smoldered; they flamed with fury and pain. "I promised him, Van. I promised him. 
Those bastards killed Staven - but they won't get away with it."
Vanyel met that fury, and bowed before it. "I told you, 'Lendel," he replied quietly. 
"Just ask."
"Oh, love - " the voice broke on a sob, and Vanyel looked up to see tears trickling 
down Tylendel's cheek. "I shouldn't get you into this - gods, I shouldn't. It isn't 
fair, it isn't right. You've got no stake in this."
"You told me yourself that we're partners, that whatever you had I'd share," 
Vanyel replied, as forcefully as he could. "That means the bad as well as the 
good, by my way of thinking." Now it was his turn to fumble in the drawer of the 
bedside table for a handkerchief. "Here," he said, pressing it into Tylendel's hand. 
"Now, tell me what you want me to do."
Tylendel scrubbed the tears away, his hand shaking. "We can't let Gala know 
what we're doing; she'd try to stop me. I can block her from knowing, I've already 
blocked her from knowing about the link to Staven. I'll - play sick - "
"You are sick; look at your hand shake."
Tylendel looked at the trembling of his hands with a certain amount of surprise. 
"Sicker, then. Too sick to do anything but lie here. What I need you to do is to 
sneak into Savil's room and get me two books. They're proscribed; nobody 
except very high-level Herald-Mages are even supposed to know they exist, and 
Savil is one of only three here at Haven who have copies."
Vanyel felt stirrings of misgiving. "In that case, won't they be locked up?"
The corner of Tylendel's mouth twitched. "Oh, they are. She's got them under 
protections. But the protections don't work against someone with no Mage-Gift.''
"What?" Vanyel's jaw dropped again.
"Margret has to get in there and clean, so Savil only put up a protection against 
someone with a Mage-Gift touching them. That way Margret can handle them 
and put them away if she leaves them out by accident. She figured nobody 
without the Gift would ever know what to look for. So you can get them, even 
though I can't."
"Now?" Vanyel asked dubiously.
Tylendel shook his head. "No, I can't - can't handle much of anything right now. 
Later - " He choked, and whispered, "Oh, gods - Staven - "
His breath caught again, and this time he couldn't control himself. He dissolved 
into hopeless sobbing, and Vanyel turned his attention instantly from plans of 
revenge to comfort.

"You'll have to turn the pages," Tylendel told him, looking down at the plain, 
black-bound book lying on the coverlet between them. "I don't dare touch them."
Vanyel shrugged, and obliged, opening the ordinary-looking book to the first 
page.
The ruse had worked admirably well; Tylendel had feigned a far greater 
weakness than he actually felt, and all Savil had shown was simple concern that 
he rest as much as possible. She hadn't evidenced any signs that she thought 
his recovery was taking overlong; she hadn't even brought in a Healer when 
Vanyel had tentatively suggested (as a test) that Tylendel didn't seem to be 
improving that much.
"Backlash is a nasty thing, lad," she'd said with a sigh. "Takes weeks to bounce 
back from it; months, sometimes. I didn't expect him to come out of this as well 
as he did, and I think perhaps I've got you to thank for it."
Vanyel had blushed, and mumbled something deprecating. Savil had ruffled his 
hair and told him to get back to his charge, and not be an idiot. In a way, he'd felt 
a bit guilty at that moment, knowing what he knew, knowing that they were 
plotting something she wouldn't have permitted.
But she couldn't possibly understand, he told himself for the hundredth time. She 
couldn't possibly. She cut her family ties long ago, and they were never that 
strong to begin with. From time to time the strength of Tylendel's desire for 
revenge frightened him a little, but he told himself that it was Tylendel who was 
within his rights in this.
And when the thought occurred that his lover had grown to be obsessed with his 
revenge, he dismissed the thought as unworthy. Unworthy of 'Lendel, of Staven. 
This wasn't revenge - it was justice. Certainly the Heralds hadn't made any move 
toward dealing with the Leshara.
This afternoon Savil had scheduled Donni and Mardic for the Work Room, and 
threatened murder on anyone who interrupted her this time. With the coast thus 
completely cleared, Vanyel had slipped into her room.
The books, so Tylendel had told him, would be in a small bookcase built into the 
wall beside the door that led to her own work room. He'd felt a chill of 
apprehension when he'd found the two volumes Tylendel wanted on the top 
shelf. He'd reached for them, expecting any moment to be flung across the room 
or fried by a lightning bolt.
But nothing had happened.
He'd returned to the bedroom where Tylendel waited, tucked up in bed with pen 
and paper. He slipped in furtively, clutching the books to his chest and shutting 
the door behind him.
Tylendel's fierce look of joy as he placed the books on the coverlet sent a shiver 
down his spine that he told himself was a thrill of accomplishment.
' 'What are you looking for?'' he asked curiously, turning the pages slowly, 
Tylendel nodding to signal when he should.
"Two spells. We don't use spells a lot, but that doesn't mean they don't work," 
Tylendel said absently. "They do, and they work really well for somebody with a 
Mage-Gift as strong as the one I've got. Savil says I can pull energy out of rocks - 
well, most of us can't, so that's why we don't use spells much. The first one I 
want is something called a 'Gate'; it'll let us cover that distance from here to the 
Leshara lands in under an hour."
"You have got to be joking," Vanyel replied in disbelief. "I've never heard of 
anything like that."
"Herald-Mages would rather that people didn't know they could do that - really, 
only the best of them can; Savil can, and she said once that I should be able to, 
and Mardic and Donni if they ever learn how to work together. Most of the ones 
that can, won't, if they're on their own. That's because to do it, you need a lot of 
energy; it takes everything a mage has, and then what's he going to do when he 
gets where he wants to go?"
"Good point; what are you going to do?"
"I'm going to borrow your energy - if - you'll let me - " Tylendel faltered, and 
looked up from the book in entreaty.
Vanyel firmed his chin. "What do you mean, 'if? Of course you can borrow it, 
what other good am I going to do?"
"Gods - ashke, ashke, I don't deserve you," Tylendel said softly, half-smiling, his 
voice shaking in a way that told Vanyel he was on the verge of tears again.
"It's the other way around, love," Vanyel replied, cutting him off. "Who was it kept 
me from - killing myself by inches? Who showed me what happiness was about? 
Who loves me when nobody else does? Hmm?"
"Who blacked your eyes, broke your nose, and nearly fractured your ankle?"
"Well, that proves it, doesn't it?" Vanyel retorted, trying to make a feeble joke. 
"They say if you don't hurt, you don't love."
Tylendel shook his head. "I - gods, don't let me go all to pieces again. Vsaiyel-
ashke, I could never hope to do this without you. There's no one else that I would 
trust in this that could help me with a Gate-spell - and Van, I should warn you, 
you're going to feel damn seedy afterward; like you've had a case of backlash to 
match mine."
"Can you borrow this stuff?" Vanyel interrupted dubiously. "I mean, I don't have 
any Mage-Gifts or anything."
"Not active; you've got something, you've got the potential, but it's locked. I 
wouldn't have known, but I think we're linking a little, on a deeper level than Savil 
and I have - or even Gala and I. It's more like what I had with my twin; it isn't 
conscious, but - I know you know when I'm - "
" - unhappy," Vanyel finished for him, thoughtfully. "And other things. Uh-huh, I 
think you're right. I thought it might just be because I'm worried about you, but it 
seems to be going farther than that. Like last night, when I woke you up before 
you'd barely started to nightmare."
Tylendel nodded. "So I think we're linking, I think it happened some time between 
when I started the fit and when I came out of the backlash coma. I can feel - 
something - in you.. Something very deep, but very strong. That's when I thought 
about the Gate-spell, and I used OtherSight on you. I sort of felt the link, and then 
I saw you had Mage-energies I could tap into using that link."
"Gods - 'Lendel, don't tell me I'm going to turn into a Herald-Mage," he said, 
alarmed by the very idea.
"If you haven't by now, it isn't too bloody likely," Tylendel replied, to his profound 
relief. "Savil says a lot of people have the potential, but nothing ever triggers it. 
You've just got the potential."
"So don't trigger it," Vanyel replied, shivering with an unexplained drill. "I don't 
want to be a Herald or a Herald-Mage, or anything like them."
Tylendel gave him an odd look, but only said, "I doubt I could, even if you wanted 
it. There's stories that there's a couple of Mage-schools that know how to trigger 
potential, but nobody I know has ever seen it done, so even if it's possible the 
people that can do it are keeping the means a deep secret."
"Good," Vanyel replied, still fighting down his chill of apprehension. "That's 
exactly the way I want it. So - you make this Gate thing. Then what?"
"When we get to the other side of the Gate, we'll be on Leshara land; right on top 
of the keep, if I can manage it. I'll use the other spell I'm looking for - and that will 
be the end of it."
Vanyel suddenly knew, without knowing how he knew, that he did not want to 
know what this "other spell" was.
"Fine," he replied shortly, turning another page. "You keep looking. Just tell me 
when to stop."


Eight

Vanyel stared nervously at his own reflection in the window - a specter, pale and 
indistinct; ghostlike, with dark hollows for eyes. Beyond the glass, night blanketed 
the gardens; a moonless night, a night of wind and cloud and no light at all, not 
even starlight.
Sovvan-night; the night of celebration of the harvest, but also the night set apart 
for remembering the dead of the year past. The night when - so most traditions 
held - the Otherworld was closer than on any other night. A night of profound 
darkness, like the one a moon ago when Staven had been slain.
Savil was with the rest of the Heralds, mourning their dead of the year. Donni and 
Mardic, having no one in need of remembrance, were with some of the other 
trainees at a Palace fete, indulging in a certain amount of the superstitious 
foolery associated with Harvestfest that was also a Jpart of Sovvan-night, at least 
for the young.
Lord Evan Leshara had gone home to Westrel Keep. Presumably well satisfied 
with himself. There was no doubt in Vanyel's mind that Lord Evan had somehow 
extracted enough good information from what had been fed to him to deduce 
exactly what bait would serve best to lure Staven to his death. They had tried to 
use him - and had ended up being used by him.
And that was a blackly bitter thought.
Tylendel and Vanyel had been left alone in the suite - 
Tylendel and Vanyel would not be mewed up in the suite much longer.
"Are you ready?" Tylendel asked from the door behind him.
Vanyel nodded, and pulled the hood of his dark blue cloak up over his head, 
trying not to shiver at his own reflection. With the hood shrouding his face, he 
looked like an image of Death itself. Then Tyiendel moved silently to his side, 
and there were two of the hooded figures reflected in the clouded glass; Death, 
and Death's Shadow.
He shook his head to free it of such ominous thoughts, as Tyiendel opened the 
door and they stepped out into the cold, blustering night.
This morning he had slipped out into Haven and bought a pair of nondescript 
horses from a down-at-the-heels beast-trader, using most of the coin he and 
Tyiendel had managed to scrape together over the past three weeks. He'd taken 
them off into the west end of the city and stabled them at an inn just outside the 
city wall.
Tylendel had told Vanyel that before he worked the spell to take them within 
striking distance of the Leshara holding, he wanted-to be out of the easy sensing 
range of the Herald-Mages. They needed transportation, but it didn't matter how 
broken-down the beasts were; their horses only needed to last long enough to 
get them an hour's ride out of the city. After that it wouldn't matter what became 
of them.
Obviously, riding Gala was totally out of the question. They weren't taking Star or 
"borrowing" any of the true horses from the Palace stables, because if their 
absence were noticed, Tyiendel didn't want any suspicions aroused until it was 
too late to stop them. Vanyel had concurred without an argument; if they couldn't 
force their mounts through Tylendel's Gate - and the trainee had indicated that 
they might not be able to or might not want to - they were going to have to turn 
them loose to fend for themselves. He didn't want to lose Star, and he didn't want 
to be responsible for the loss of anyone else's prized mount, either.
The ice-edged wind caught at their cloaks, finding all the openings and cutting 
right through the heavy wool itself. Vanyel was shivering long before they slipped 
past the Gate Guard at the Palace gates and on out into the streets of the city. 
The Guard was preoccupied with warming himself at the charcoal brazier beside 
the gate; he didn't seem to notice them as they hugged the shadows of the side 
of the gate farthest from him and took to the cobblestoned street beyond.
Now they were out in the wealthiest district of the city. The high buildings on 
either side of them served only to funnel the wind right at them, or so it seemed. 
Tylendel, who was still not entirely steady on his feet, grabbed Vanyel's arm and 
hung on. Vanyel could feel him shivering, partly with cold, but from the way his 
eyes were gleaming in the shadows of his hood, partly also with excitement.
These mansions of the wealthy and highborn were mostly dark tonight; the 
inhabitants were either at Temple services or attending the Harvestfest gathering 
at the Palace. Vanyel had not received an invitation - and although he was 
anything but displeased, he wasn't entirely certain why he had not. His apparent 
about-face with regard to Tylendel had confused not only his own little circle, but 
the trainees and Heralds as well. And no one had enlightened them; Savil had 
reckoned that keeping the rumormongers confused would keep the real story 
from reaching Withen for a while and buy them additional time.
Assuming Lord Evan hadn't told him, just for the pure spite of making things 
difficult for Tylendel and Tylendel's lover. It would suit the man's character.
Vanyel thought briefly of the Sovvan-fete he was missing. It was possible that 
those in charge of the festivities had assumed he would be staying at Tylendel's 
side, especially tonight. It was also possible that they blamed him for Tylendel's 
condition (Mardic had reported several stories to that effect) and were 
"punishing" him for his conduct.
Whatever the reason, this had proved to be too good an opportunity to slip out 
undetected to let pass by.
They turned a corner, and the buildings changed; now they were smaller, 
crowded closer together, and no longer hidden behind walls. Each had candles in 
the otherwise darkened windows - another Sovvan-custom. It was by the light of 
these candles that the two were finding their way; the torches that usually 
illuminated the street by night had long since blown out.
Tylendel had been growing increasingly strange and withdrawn in the past 
several days since Vanyel had purloined Savil's magic books for him. Vanyel 
would wake up in the middle of the night to find him huddled in the chair, studying 
his handwritten copies of the two spells with fanatic and feverish concentration. 
During waking hours he would often stare for hours at nothing, or at a 
candleflame, and his conversation had become monosyllabic. The only time he 
seemed anything like his old self was when he'd begin a nightmare and Vanyel 
would wake him from it; then he would cry for a while on Vanyel's shoulder, and 
afterward talk until they both fell asleep again. Then he sounded like the old 
Tylendel - not afraid to share his grief or his fears with the one he loved. But 
when day arrived, he would be back inside his shell, and nothing Vanyel would 
do or say could seem to crack that barrier.
Vanyel had long since begun to think that he would never be his old self again 
until his revenge had been accomplished, and he had begun to long for that 
moment with a fervor that nearly equaled his lover's.
They reached the sector of shops and inns long before they saw another human 
out on the streets, and that was only the Nightwatch. The patrol of two men gave 
them hardly more than a passing glance; they were obviously unarmed except 
for knives, were too well-dressed to be street-toughs, and not flashy enough to 
be young high-borns out to find some trouble. The two men of the Watch gave 
them nearly simultaneous nods, curt and preoccupied, nods which they returned 
as the light from the Watchlantern in the hands of the rightmost one fell on them. 
Satisfied by what they saw, the Watch passed on, and so did they, bootheels 
clattering on the cobbles.
Here the buildings were only one or two stories tall, and the wind howled and 
ramped about them unimpeded. The quality and state of repair of these buildings 
- mostly shops, inns, lodging-houses and workshops – declined steadily and 
rapidly as they neared the west city-wall of Haven.
The Guards on the great gates of Haven were not in evidence tonight, although 
there was a viewport in the wall, and Vanyel could almost feel eyes on him as 
they passed below it. Obviously the Guards found as little to alarm them in the 
two younglings as the Watch had; they passed out under the wall with no 
challenge whatsoever.
Once outside the west wall, they were in the lowest district in the city. Vanyel led 
the way to the ramshackle inn where he'd left their sorry nags; fighting the wind 
every inch of the way, as it nearly tore the edges of his cloak out of his half-
frozen hands.
The Red Nose Inn was brightly lit and full to bursting with roisterers; Vanyel 
heard their out-of-tune singing and hoarse laughter even over the moaning of the 
wind as they passed by the open door. Smoke and light alike spilled out that 
door, and the wind carried a random puff of the smoke into their eyes as they 
passed, a noisome smudge that made them cough and their eyes water for a 
moment before cleaner air whipped it out of their faces again. They ignored that 
open door and passed around the side of the inn to the dirty courtyard and the 
stabling area.
There was a single, half-drunk groom on duty, slumped on a stack of hay bales 
by the stable door, illuminated by a feebly burning lantern. His head lolled on his 
chest as he snored, smelling, even in this wind, as if he'd fallen into a vat of 
cheap beer. Tylendel waited in the shadows beyond reach of the light from the 
smoking lantern that had been hung in the lee of the stable door, while Vanyel 
shook the man's shoulder until he roused up.
"Eh?" the man grunted, peering into the shadows under Vanyel's hood in an 
unsuccessful attempt to make out his features. His breath was as foul as his 
clothing; his face was filthy and unshaven, and his hair hung around his ears in 
lank, greasy ringlets. "What ye want, then? Where be yer nags?''
"Already here," Vanyel replied, in a tone as adult, brusque, and gruff as he could 
manage. "Here - " He shoved the claim-chits at the groom, together with two 
silver pieces. The man stared stupidly at them for a moment, blinking in surprise, 
as if he were having trouble telling the chits from the coins. Then he grinned in 
sudden comprehension, displaying a mouthful of half-rotten teeth, and nodded.
" 'Muff celebratin', eh, master? Just ye wait, just ye wait right here." He shoved 
the coins and chits together into the pocket in the front of his stained, oily leather 
apron, heaved himself up off his couch of hay bales, and staggered inside the 
stable door. He emerged a great deal sooner than Vanyel would have thought 
possible, leading a pair of scruffy-looking, nondescript brown geldings that were 
already saddled and bridled with patched and worn tack. Vanyel squinted at them 
in the smoky light, trying to make out if they were the same ones he'd bought this 
morning, then realized that it didn't matter if they were or not. It wasn't as if the 
horses he'd purchased were any kind of prize specimens - in fact, if these weren't 
"his" horses, they were likely as not to be an improvement over the ones he'd 
bought!
He took the reins away from the groom without another word, turned, and led 
them across the dirt court to where Tylendel was waiting, huddled against the inn 
wall in a futile attempt to avoid the biting wind. When he looked back over his 
shoulder, he could see that the groom had already flopped down on the straw 
bales and resumed his interrupted nap.
He handed Tylendel the reins of the best of the two mounts, and scrambled into 
his own saddle. His flea-bitten beast skittered sideways in an attempt to avoid 
being mounted, and gave a half-hearted buck as Vanyel settled into his seat. 
Vanyel made a fist and gave it a good rap between the ears; the nag stopped 
trying to rid itself of its rider and settled down.
The spine of his saddle was broken; the horse itself was sway backed, and its 
gait was as rough as he'd ever had the misfortune to encounter. He hoped, as 
Tylendel took the lead and they headed down Exile's Road into the west, that 
they wouldn't be riding for too very long.

* * *

The wind had died down - at least momentarily - when Tylendel finally stopped. It 
was so dark that the only way he really knew that Tylendel had pulled up was 
because the sound of hooves on the hard surface of the road ahead of him 
stopped. They'd trusted to the fact that Exile's Road was lined on either side with 
hedges to keep their sorry beasts on the roadway. He kicked at his own mount 
and forced it forward until he could feel the presence of Tylendel and his horse 
bulking beside him.
There was a flare of light; Vanyel winced away from it - it was quite painful after 
the near-total darkness of the last candlemark or so. When he could bear to look 
again, he saw that Tylendel had dismounted and was leading his horse, a red 
ball of mage-light bobbing along above his head.
He scrambled off of his own mount, glad enough to be out of that excruciatingly 
uncomfortable saddle, snatched the reins of the beast over its head, and 
hastened to catch up.
"Are we far enough away yet?" he asked, longing for even a single word from the 
trainee to break the silence and tension. Tylendel's face was drawn and fey, and 
strained; Tylendel's attention was plainly somewhere else, his whole aspect 
wrapped up in the kind of terrifying concentration that had been all too common 
to him of late.
"Almost," he replied, after a long and unnerving silence. His voice had a strange 
quality to it, as if Tylendel was having to work to get even a single word out past 
whatever it was he was concentrating on. "I'm - looking for something…"
Vanyel shivered, and not from the cold. "What?"
"A place to put the Gate." They came to a break in the hedge. No - not a break. 
When Tylendel stopped and led his horse over to it, Vanyel could see that it was 
the remains of a gated opening in the hedge, long since overgrown. Beyond the 
gap something bulked darkly in the dim illumination provided by the mage-light. 
Tylendel nodded slightly. "I thought I remembered this place," .he muttered. He 
didn't seem to expect a response, so "Vanyel didn't make one.
It was obvious that the horses were not going to be able to force themselves 
through so narrow a passage; Tylendel stripped the bridle from his, hung it on the 
saddlebow, and gave the gelding a tremendous slap on the hip that made it snort 
with surprise and sent it cantering off into the darkness. Vanyel did the same with 
his, not sorry to see it go, and turned away from the road to see that Tylendel 
had already forced his way past the gap in the hedge and was now out of sight. 
Only the reddish glow of the mage-light through the leafless branches of the 
hedgerow showed where he had gone.
Vanyel shoved his way past the branches, cursing as they caught on his cloak 
and scratched at his face. When he emerged, staggering, from the prickly 
embrace of stubborn bushes, he found that he was standing knee-deep in 
weeds, in what had been the yard of a small building. It could have been 
anything from a shop to a cottage, but was now going to pieces; the yard was as 
overgrown as the gate had been. The building seemed to be entirely roofless and 
the door and windows were mere holes in the walls. Tylendel was examining the 
remains of the door with care.
The gap where the door had been was a large one, easily large enough for a 
horse and rider to pass through. Tylendel nodded again, and this time there was 
an expression of dour satisfaction on his face. "This will do," he said softly. "Van, 
think you're ready?"
Vanyel took a deep breath, and tried to relax a little. "As ready as I'm ever likely 
to get," he replied.
Tylendel turned and took both Vanyel's hands in his; he looked searchingly into 
Vanyel's eyes for a long moment. "Van, I'm going to have to force that link 
between us wide open for this to work. I may hurt you. I'll try not to, but I can't 
promise. Are you still willing to help me?"
Vanyel nodded, thinking, I've come this far; it would be stupid to back out at this 
point. Besides - he needs this. How can I not give it to him?
Tylendel closed his eyes; his face froze into as impassive a mask as Vanyel had 
ever worn. Vanyel waited, trembling a little, for something to happen.
For a long while, nothing did. Then - 
Rage flamed up in him; a consuming, obsessive anger that left very little room for 
anything else. One thing mattered: Staven was dead. One goal drove him: deal 
the same painful death to Staven's murderers. There was still a tiny corner of his 
mind that could think for itself and wonder at the overwhelming power of 
Tylendel's fury, but that corner had been locked out of any position of control.
The truism ran "Pain shared is pain halved" - but this pain was doubled on being 
shared.
He turned to face the ancient doorway without any conscious decision to do so, 
Tylendel turning even as he did. He saw Tylendel raise his arms and cast a 
double handful of something powderlike on the ground before the door; heard 
him begin a chant in some strange tongue and hold his now empty hands, palm 
outward, to face that similarly empty gap.
He felt something draining out of him, like blood draining from a wound; and felt 
that it was taking his strength with it.
The edges of the ruined doorway were beginning to glow, the same sullen red as 
the mage-light over Tylendel's head; like the muted red of embers, as if the edge 
of the doorway smoldered. As more and more of Vanyel's energy and strength 
drained from him, the ragged border' brightened, and tiny threads of angry scarlet 
wavered from them into the space where the door had stood. More and more of 
these threads spun out, waving like water-weeds in a current, until two of the 
ends connected across the gap.
There was a surge of force out of him, a surge that nearly caused his knees to 
collapse, as the entire gap filled with a flare of blood-red light - 
Then the light vanished - and the gap framed, not a shadowed blackness, but a 
garden; a formal garden decorated for a festival, and filled with people, light and 
movement.
He had hardly a chance to see this before Tylendel grabbed his arm and pulled 
him, stumbling, across the threshold. There was a moment of total disorientation, 
as though the world had dropped from beneath his feet, then- 
Sound: laughter, music, shouting. He stood, with Tylendel, facing that garden he 
had seen through the ruined doorway, and beyond the garden, a strange keep. 
Lanterns bobbed gaily in the branches of a row of trees that stood between them 
and the gathered people, and trestle tables, spread with food and lanterns, were 
visible on the farther side. Near the trees was a lighted platform on which a band 
of motley musicians stood, playing with a vigor that partially made up for their 
lack of skill. Before the platform a crowd of people were dancing in a ring, 
laughing and singing along with the music.
Vanyel's knees would not hold him; as soon as Tylendel let go of his arm, his 
legs gave way, and he found himself half-kneeling on the ground, dizzy, weak 
and nauseated. Tylendel didn't notice; his attention was on the people dancing.
"They're celebrating," Tylendel whispered, and the anger Vanyel was 
inadvertently sharing surged along the link between them. "Staven's dead, and 
they're celebrating!"
That small, rational corner still left to Vanyel whispered that this was only a 
Harvestfest like any other; that the Leshara weren't particularly gloating over an 
enemy's death. But that logical voice was too faint to be heard over the thunder 
of Tylendel's outrage. A wave of dizziness clouded his sight with a red mist, and 
he could hear his heart pounding in his ears.
When he could see again, Tylendel had stepped away from him, and was 
standing between him and the line of trees with his hands high over his head. 
From Tylendel's upraised hands came twin bolts of the same vermilion lightning 
that had lashed the pine grove a moon ago. Only this lightning was controlled 
and directed; and it cracked across the garden and destroyed the trees standing 
between him and the gathered Leshara-kin in less time than it took to blink.
In the wake of the thunderbolt came startled screams; the music ended in a 
jangle of snapped strings and the squawk of horns. The dancers froze, and 
clutched at each other in clumps of two to five. Tylendel's mage-light was blazing 
like a tiny, scarlet sun above his head; his face was hate-filled and twisted with 
frenzy. Tears streaked his face; his voice cracked as he screamed at them.
"He's dead, you bastards! He's dead, and you're laughing, you're singing! Damn 
you all, I'll teach you to sing a different song! You want magic? Well, here's 
magic for you - ''
Vanyel couldn't move; he seemed tethered to the still-glowing Gate behind him. 
He could only watch, numbly, as Tylendel raised his hands again - and this time 
it was not lightning that crackled from his upraised hands. A glowing sphere 
appeared with a sound of thunder, suspended high above him. About the size of 
a melon, it hung in the air, rotating slowly, a smoky, sickly yellow. It grew as it 
turned, and drifted silently away from Tylendel and toward the huddled Leshara-
folk, descending as it neared them, until it came to earth in the center of the 
blasted, blackened place where the trees had been a moment before.
There it rested; still turning, still growing, until it had swelled to twice the height of 
a man.
Then, between one heartbeat and the next, it burst.
Another wave of disorientation washed over him; Vanyel blinked eyes that didn't 
seem to be focusing properly. Where the globe had rested there seemed to be a 
twisting, twining mass of shadow-shapes, shapes as fluid as ink, as sinuous as 
snakes, shapes that were there and not there at one and the same time.
Then they slid apart, those shapes, separating into five writhing mist-forms. They 
solidified - 
If some mad god had mated a viper and a coursing-hound, and grown the 
resulting offspring to the size of a calf, the result might have looked something 
like the five creatures snarling and flowing lithely around one another in the 
gleaming of Tylendel's mage-light. In color they were a smoky black, with skin 
that gave an impression of smooth scales rather than hair. They had long, long 
necks, too long by far, and arrowhead-shaped heads that were an uncanny 
mingling of snake and greyhound, with yellow, pupilless eyes that glowed in the 
same way and with the same shifting color that the globe that had birthed them 
had glowed. The teeth in those narrow muzzles were needle-sharp, and as long 
as a man's thumb. They had bodies like greyhounds as well, but the legs and 
tails seemed unhealthily stretched and unnaturally boneless.
They regarded Tylendel with unwavering, saffron eyes; they seemed to be 
waiting for something.
He quavered out a single word, his voice breaking on the final, high-pitched 
syllable - and they turned as one entity to face the cowering folk of Leshara, 
mouths gaping in unholy parodies of a dog's foolish grin.
But before they had flowed a single step toward their victims, a shrill scream of 
equine defiance rang out from behind Vanyel.
And Gala thundered through the Gate at his back, pounding past him, then past 
Tylendel, ignoring the trainee completely.
She screamed again, more anger and courage in her cry than Vanyel had ever 
thought possible to hear in a horse's voice, and skidded to a halt halfway 
between Tylendel and the things he had called up. She was glowing, just like she 
had during 'Lenders fit; a pure, blue-white radiance that attracted the eye in the 
same way that the yellow glow of the beasts' eyes repelled. She continued to 
ignore Tylendel's presence entirely, turning her back to him; rearing up to her full 
height and pawing the air with her forehooves, trumpeting a challenge to the five 
creatures before her.
They reversed their positions in an instant as her hooves touched the ground 
again, facing her with silent snarls of anger. She pawed the earth, and bared her 
teeth at them, daring them to try to fight her.
"Gala!" Tylendel cried in anguish, his voice breaking yet again. "Gaia! Don't - "
She turned her head just enough to look him fully in the eyes - and Vanyel heard 
her mental reply as it rang through Tylendel's mind and heart and splintered his 
soul.
:I do not know you: she said coldly, remotely. :You are not my Chosen. :
And with those words, the bond that had been between them vanished. Vanyel 
could feel the emptiness where ithad been - for he was still sharing everything 
Tylendel felt.
Tylendel's rage shattered on the cold of those words.
And when the bond was broken, what took its place was utter desolation.
Vanyel moaned in anguish, sharing Tylendel's agony, and the torment and 
bereavement as he called after Gaia with his mind and received not even the 
echo of a reply. Where there had been warmth and love and support there was 
now - nothing; not even a ghost of what had been.
The link between them surged with loss, and Vanyel's vision darkened.
He heard Tylendel cry out Gala's name in utter despair, and willed his eyes to 
clear.
And to his horror he watched her fling herself at the five fiends, heedless of her 
own safety.
They swarmed over and about her, their darkness extinguishing her light. He 
heard her shriek, but this time in pain, and saw the red splash of blood bloom 
vividly on her white coat.
He tried to stagger to his feet, but had no strength; his ears roared, and he 
blacked out.
He barely felt himself falling again, and only Tylendel's scream of anguish and 
loss penetrated enough to make him fight his way back to consciousness.
He found himself half-sprawled on the cold ground. He shoved himself partially 
erect despite his spinning head, and looked for Gala - 
But there was no Companion, no fight. Only a mutilated corpse, sprawling torn 
and ravaged, throat slashed to ribbons, the light gone from the sapphire eyes. 
Tylendel was on his knees beside her, stroking the ruined head, weeping 
hoarsely.
Beside her lifeless body lay one of the five monstrosities, head a shapeless pulp. 
The others flowed around the Companion's body, as if waiting for the corpse to 
rise again so that they could attack it. Two of the others limped on three legs - 
but two were still unharmed, and given what they had done to Gala in a few 
heartbeats, two would be more than enough to slaughter every man, woman, and 
child of the Leshara.
Finally they left off their mindless, sharklike circling, and turned to face the 
terrified celebrants. They took no more notice of Tylendel than of the dead 
Companion.
A man bolted from the crowd. With a start, Vanyel recognized him for Lord Evan. 
Whether he meant to attack the beasts, or simply to flee, Vanyel couldn't tell. It 
really didn't matter much; one of the beasts that was still unhurt flashed across 
the intervening space and caught him. He did not even have time to cry out as it 
disem-bowled him.
A woman screamed - and that seemed to signal the beasts to move again. They 
began to ooze in a body toward their victims - 
And a bolt of brilliantly white lightning cracked from behind Vanyel to scorch the 
earth before the leader.
There was a pounding of hooves from the Gate. Vanyel was momentarily blinded 
by the light and by another surge of weakness that sent him sagging back to the 
ground.
When his eyes cleared again, there were three whiteclad Heralds and their three 
Companions closing on the fiends, lightning crackling from their upraised hands. 
They were using the lightnings to herd the beasts into a tight little knot and 
barring their path to their prey.
He barely had time to recognize two of the three as Savil and Jaysen before 
battle was joined.
Once again he started to black out, feeling as if something was trying to pull his 
soul out of his body. He fought against unconsciousness, though he felt as if he 
had nothing left to fight with; both the rage and the despair were gone now, 
leaving only an empty place, a void that ached unbearably.
He felt a tiny inflowing of strength; it wasn't much, but it was enough to give him 
the means to fight the blackness away from his eyes, to fight off the vertigo, and 
to finally get a precarious hold on the world again.
The first thing he saw was Tylendel; still on his knees, but no longer weeping. He 
was vacant-eyed, white as bleached linen, and staring at his own blood-smeared 
hands. Where the five creatures had been there was now nothing; only the 
mangled body of Gala and the burned and churned-up earth.
Taking her hand away from his shoulder was Savil - her face an unreadable 
mask.
Savil pulled her attention away from Tylendel, who was slumped in a kind of 
trance of despair beside her, and back to what Vanyel was telling the other two 
Heralds.
"… then she said, 'I don't know you, you aren't my Chosen,' " the boy whispered, 
eyes dull and mirroring his exhaustion, voice colorless. "And she turned her back 
on him, just turned away, and charged those things."
"Buying time for us to get here," Jaysen murmured, his voice betraying the pain 
he would not show. "Oh, gods, the poor, brave thing - if she hadn't bought us 
those moments, we'd have come in on a bloodbath."
"She repudiated him," said Lancir, the Queen's Own, as if he did not believe it. 
"She repudiated him, and then-"
"Suicided," Savil supplied flatly, her own heart in turmoil; aching for Tylendel, for 
the loss of Gala, for all the things she should have seen and hadn't.. "Gods, she 
suicaided. She knew, she had to know that no single Companion could face a 
pack of wyrsa and survive."
Tylendel sat where they had left him; unseeing, unspeaking - all of hell in his 
eyes. Mage-lights of their own creation bobbed overhead, pitilessly illuminating 
everything.
Jaysen contemplated Savil's trainee for a long moment, but said nothing, only 
shook his head slightly. Then he spared a glance for Vanyel, and frowned; Savil 
heard his thought. :The boy is still tied to the Gate, sister. He grows weaker by 
the moment. If you want him undamaged - :
Unspoken, but not unfelt, was the vague thought that perhaps it would be no bad 
thing if Vanyel were to be "forgotten" until it was too late to save him from the 
aftereffects of the Gate-magic. That undercurrent of thought told Savil that 
Jaysen placed all of the blame for this squarely on Vanyel's shoulders.
:It wasn't his fault, Jaysen: she answered, heartsick, and near to weeping, but 
unable to be anything other than honest. :He didn't do anything worse than go 
along with what 'Lendel wanted without telling me. What happened was as much 
due to my negligence as anything he did.:
Jaysen gave a curt nod, but a skeptical one. :In that case, we need to get that 
Gate closed down as soon as possible, or the boy will sicken - or worse.:
No need to ask what that "worse" was; Vanyel was already looking drawn, almost 
transparent, as the Gate pulled more and more of his life-force from him. How 
Tylendel, half-trained, and Vanyel, unGifted, had managed that, Savil had no 
notion - but they dared not break the link until they didn't need the Gate anymore.
:Fine, but what are we going to do about all that mess?: Savil asked, nodding her 
head at the milling crowd, the mangled corpse of the single victim the wyrsa had 
killed, and the pathetic body of the Companion. :Somebody had better take them 
in hand, or no telling what they'll get up to. Go in for a wholesale slaughtering-
party on Tylendel's people, make up some kind of tale about Heralds being in on 
this - : Even a hair away from breaking down into tears, she was still thinking; she 
couldn't help it.
:l'll stay here,: Lancir volunteered. :Elspeth can do without me for a moon or so. 
I'll take care of the Leshara and see to - : his thought faltered. : - Gala.:
:And you'll get home how?: Jaysen asked, concerned. : We're going to shut the 
Gate from the other side as soon as we're through, and you aren't up to Gating 
by yourself these days.:
:Like ordinary mortals,: he replied, with a deathly seriousness. :On our feet.:
:What - what are we going to do about - : Savil's eyes flicked to Tylendel and 
back; the boy was still staring vacantly into space, his face pale and blank, his 
eyes so full of inward-turned torment that she could scarcely bear to look into 
them for fear she would break down and cry.
.I don't know,: Lancir replied bleakly. .I just don't know. There's no precedent. Get 
the boy home; worry about it when you've got time to think about it. Ask your 
Companions; it was one of their number that died. That's all I can think of. But 
you'd better get on with it if you expect to leave the other boy with a mind.:
"Jays, take Tylendel, will you?" Savil said aloud, reaching for Vanyel's arm and 
pulling him to his feet. "Lance-"
"Gods with you, heart-sibs," said the Queen's Own, pity and compassion 
momentarily transforming his homely face into something close to saintly, like 
that of a beautiful carved statue. "You'll need their help. Taver?"
His Companion sidled up to him and held rock-still for Jaysen to help him to 
mount; like the Queen, like Savil, Lancir was feeling his age these autumn days, 
and needed the boost into place that Jaysen gave him. But once in the saddle, 
he resumed the strength and dignity of a much younger Queen's Own - the man 
he had been twenty years ago. Taver tossed his head, and walked with calm and 
quiet steps toward the shocked, confused mob of Leshara at the other end of the 
garden.
Jaysen tugged on Tylendel's arm; the boy rose, but with the automatic 
movements of someone spellbound, his attention still turned within himself. The 
Seneschal's Herald led the way to the Gate, followed closely by his Companion, 
and guiding the boy with a hand at his shoulder.
He cast a look back at Savil. "I don't fancy the notion of the ride we have ahead 
of us - too many things to go wrong on the way. You know more about this spell 
than I do - do you think you can reset this Gate to bring us out at the Palace?"
She wrenched her attention away from the unanswerable problem of what to do 
about the boys, and contemplated the structure of the Gate. The portal at this 
end was an ornamental gazebo in the center of the blasted garden. Through the 
arch of the entrance lay the dark of the ruinous cottage yard.
"I don't see any problem," she replied, after study. "I can bring us out in the 
Grove Temple, if that's all right."
"That should do," Jaysen said, eyeing the sky on the other side of the portal, 
which was flickering with lightnings. "Good gods - why did that blow in? There 
wasn't a storm due."
"Don't look so surprised, Jays," she growled, needed to lash out at something 
and using his absentmindedness to make him the target. "I've told you a dozen 
times that Gating plays merry cob with the weather. That's why I don't like to use 
Gates. It's going to get worse when I reset it, and all hell will break out when I 
collapse it."
He pursed his lips and frowned, but didn't reply, just waved at her with his free 
hand. She let go of Vanyel, who sagged back to his knees, too weakened to stay 
standing without her support. She raised both her hands high above her head, 
and made an intricately weaving little gesture. Filaments of dull red light floated 
from the Gate toward her, and were caught up on her fingers by that complex 
weaving. When she had them fast, she clenched her hands on them and sent her 
will coursing down them in a surge of pure, commanding power, the filaments 
turning from red to white as her will flowed back along them.
When the wave of white reached the Gate, the portal misted over, then flared 
incandescently. When the light died, the scene framed in the gazebo arch was 
that of Companion's Field, seen by the fitful flashes of lightning, as viewed from 
the porch of the Grove Temple.
Savil reached down and caught the fabric of Vanyel's tunic, pulling him to his feet 
again. She dragged him with her as she followed closely on Jaysen's heels. He 
hurried across the Gate threshold, pushing Tylendel before him; she half-ran a 
step behind him, dragging Vanyel with her by main force.
The Gate-crossing hit her with its all-too-familiar, sickening sensation of falling. 
Then - hard, smooth marble was beneath her feet, and they were home.
Lighting struck a nearby tree, and thunder deafened her for a moment. She 
cleared out of the path of the Gate and Kellan and Felar darted across, ears laid 
back, as soon as she and Vanyel were out of the way.
She let go of Vanyel, who stumbled the two steps to one of the pillars and clung 
to it. She turned to face the Gate even as another bolt struck nearby. The Gate 
was going unstable, wavering from red to white and back again, the instability in 
the energy fields mirrored in the increasing fury of the lightning storm overhead. 
She raised her hands and began the dismissal - and encountered unexpected 
resistance.
She tried again, wincing at the crack of thunder directly above her. There was 
something wrong, something very wrong. The Gate was fighting her.
"Jays - " she shouted over the growl of thunder and the whine of the wind. " - I 
need a hand, here."
Jaysen let go of Tylendel to add his strength to hers - their united wills worked at 
the spell-knot, forcing it to unravel faster than it could knit itself back up again.
With a surge of wild power that brought a half-dozen lightning strikes down on 
the Belltower of the Temple itself, the Gate collapsed - 
Then again the unexpected; the Gate-energy, instead of dissipating back into the 
air and ground, flared up, and surged back down the one conduit left to it. The 
force-line that had tied it into Vanyel. Savil Saw it - but not in time to stop it.
Vanyel screamed in agony, convulsing, clutching the pillar as the released power 
arced back into him - and from him, a second, weaker arc leapt to Tylendel.
Tylendel jerked into sudden alertness - and uttered the most painful cry of 
despair Savil had ever heard; it was a cry that would haunt her nightmares for the 
rest of her life.
She pivoted and grabbed for him as quickly as she could as Vanyel collapsed in 
a moaning heap at the foot of the pillar.
But it was too late. No longer held in deceptive docility by his shock, he dodged 
her outstretched hand. She saw his face in another of the lightning flashes; his 
eyes were all pupil, his face a twisted mask of nothing but pain. He looked 
frantically about him with those terrible eyes that held no sanity at all, dodged her 
again, and then dashed past her into the tangled trees of the Grove.
Jaysen gave chase; Savil limped after both of them. Lightning was striking so 
often overhead now that the sky was almost as bright as day. She tried to use 
the line of their shared magic to get at Tylendel's mind as she ran, hoping to 
bring him back to her, but stumbled in shock and fell when she touched his 
thoughts. There was nothing to get a hold on - the boy was a chaotic, aching void 
of grief and loneliness. It was so empty, so unhuman, that for a moment she 
could only crouch in the cold, dry grass and listen to her overworked heart beat in 
panic. It took every ounce of discipline she had to get her own mind back under 
control after touching that terrible, all-consuming sorrow.
Belatedly she thought of Vanyel. If anyone could reach Tylendel, surely he could.
She lurched painfully to her feet and stumbled back toward the Temple. In the 
lightning flashes she could make out the younger boy staggering blindly out of 
the Temple, clutching himself as if he were freezing - saw him stumble and fall on 
his shoulder, without trying to save himself.
Then she saw Tylendel dart out of the tree-shadows to her right and race past 
her, past his fallen lover, and back into the Temple itself.
And her heart went cold with a sudden premonition of disaster.
She forced her exhausted legs into a stumbling parody of a run, but she wasn't 
fast enough.
Just as she reached the place where Vanyel lay, panting and moaning in pain, 
she saw his head snap up as if in response to a call only he could hear. He 
seemed to be looking up at the Tower that held the Death Bell. She heard him 
cry out something unintelligible, and followed his horror-stricken glance - 
 - and saw Tylendel poised against the lighting-filled sky, arms spread as if to fly - 
 - and saw him leap - 
He seemed to hang in the air for a moment, as if he had somehow mastered 
flight.
But only a moment; in the next heartbeat he was falling, falling - she couldn't tell 
if the scream she heard was hers, or Vanyel's or both. It wasn't Tylendels; his 
eyes were closed, and his mouth twisted and jaw clenched in a rictus of pure 
grief.
She felt the impact of his body with the unforgiving ground as if it had been her 
own body that had fallen - 
- and the scream ended.
Jaysen stopped dead beside her, frozen in mid-step.
She whimpered in the back of her throat, and Jaysen walked slowly to the 
crumpled thing lying on the ground, not twenty paces from where she now stood. 
He went to his knees beside it, then looked up, and she saw him shake his head 
slowly, confirming what she already knew.
And at that moment, the Death Bell began solemnly tolling.
She stumbled to Jaysen's side, each step costing her more in pain than she had 
felt in a lifetime of sacrifice to Queen and Circle. She went heavily to her knees, 
and gathered up the limp, pitiable body to her breast.
She held him, cradling him against her shoulder, gently rocking a little as if she 
held a small child. Tears coursed silently down her face to mingle with the rain 
that was pouring from the sky; it seemed that the whole world echoed her grief. 
Jaysen knelt beside her, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking with sobs, as the 
Companions gathered about them and the Death Bell tolled above them.
It was only when the rest of the Heralds arrived to take their burden from them 
that they thought of Vanyel, and sent someone to look for him.
But the boy was gone.


Nine

Vanyel stumbled through the pouring, frigid rain. He was half-blinded with grief, 
with no hope of finding comfort anywhere in this world. There was nothing left for 
him - nothing.
He's dead - oh, gods, he's dead, and it's all my fault - 
His whole body seemed to be on fire, a slow, smoldering pain that was burning 
away at him from the inside the way the ice of his dream had chilled him.
There was no reason to fight ice or fire anymore. Let either or both eat him, he 
couldn't care.
Rain pounded him, hail struck like slung stones. His head reeled and pounded 
with his pulse. He hurt, but he welcomed the pain.
It's all I deserve. It was all my fault - 
He couldn't see where he was going, and he didn't give a damn. He tripped and 
fell any number of times, but bruises and cuts didn't matter; he just picked himself 
back up and kept running in whatever direction he happened to be facing.
His whole universe had collapsed the moment Tylendel had thrown himself off 
that tower. Somewhere down in the depths of his soul was the dim thought that if 
he ran far enough, ran fast enough, he might run off the edge of the world and 
into an oblivion where there would be no more feeling, and no more pain.
He didn't run off the edge of the world, quite. He ran off the bank into the river.
The ground just disappeared under his feet, and he flailed his arms wildly as he 
half-fell, half-tumbled down the bank and somersaulted at the bottom into the icy 
water. It closed over his head, and the cold shocked him into an instant of 
forgetfulness; he lost the desire for oblivion as instinct took over, and he fought 
back to the surface.
He gulped air, shook water out of his eyes, and in a flash of lightning saw an 
oncoming tree limb too late to dodge it. He managed to turn away from it, but it 
hit him across the back of the head and knocked him under again. The second 
time his head broke the surface, he was dazed and unthinking; in another glare 
of lighting he saw the branches of a bush beside him and grabbed at them - 
They were too far away, far out of his frantic reach - 
Then the hush shook violently, and seemed to stretch toward him. He snatched 
at the ends of the branches. He caught them, somehow; they cut into his hand, 
but he managed to pull himself into the shallows.
He had just enough strength left to crawl halfway up into the rain-slick bank, and 
just enough mind left to wonder why he'd bothered to save himself.
He lay facedown in the sodden, dead grass on the bank; chilled and numb, and 
growing colder, and wracked with anguished guilt and mourning.
'Lendel, 'Lendel, it was all my fault - oh, gods, it was all my fault - I should have 
told Savil. I should have tried to stop you.
He sobbed into the rough grass, the damp-smelling earth, longing inarticulately 
for the power of a god to reverse time, to unmake all that had happened.
I'm sorry - oh, please, someone, take it all back! If you have to have someone, 
take me instead! Make it a dream, oh, gods - please - 
But it wasn't a dream; no more than the rain that was diluting his tears, or the icy 
water that tugged at his legs. And no god intervened to unmake the past. The 
wintry cold was closing in on him, chilling the fire along his veins; he was too 
weak to move, and too tired, and far too grief stricken to care. It occurred to him 
then that he might die here, as alone as Tylendel had died.
It was no less than his deserts, and he changed his prayers. Please - he asked, 
desperately, of powers that were not answering. Please - let me die.
He thought of every mistake he had made, every wrong turning, and moaned. I 
deserve to die, he thought in anguish, closing his eyes. I want to die.
:No.: The mind-voice was bright, bright as a flame, and sharp as steel, piercing 
his dark hope for death. :No, you must not. You must live, Chosen.:
He raised his head a little, but couldn't get his eyes open, and really didn't want 
to. :You don't know,: he thought bleakly back at the intruder. :Let me alone. No 
one wants me, nobody should want me; I kill everything I care for. :
But someone grabbed him by the back of the collar and half-dragged him up the 
bank. He tried to twist away, but his body wouldn't work right anymore, and all he 
did was thrash feebly. Heartbeats later the rain was no longer pounding his back, 
and the green-smelling, soft moss under his weakly moving hands was dry; he'd 
been pulled into some kind of shelter. Whatever had him let go of his collar, after 
lowering him gently down onto the moss; he managed to get his eyes open, but 
with the lightning fading off in the distance, he could see nothing but darkness.
Something warm and large lay down beside him with a sigh. A soft nose nuzzled 
his cheek - 
 - like Gala had - 
The sensation brought up memories that cut him into little shreds. He brought his 
knees up under his chest and curled up on himself, sobbing uncontrollably, 
driven to the edge of sanity by grief and loneliness.
: - but I am here - :
He brought his head up a little, and looked for the speaker with vision blurred by 
tears - and in a last glare of the lightning met a pair of glowing sapphire eyes-
eyes so full of compassion and love that he knew their owner would forgive him 
anything. That love reached out for him, and flowed over into him. It couldn't 
erase his loss, but it could share the pain - and it didn't blame him for what had 
happened.
He uncurled, and groped for the smooth white neck and shoulder the way he had 
seized on the branches of the bush to keep from drowning.
He sobbed himself into exhaustion on that shoulder, wept until he hadn't the 
strength to shed another tear, and into a kind of fevered half-sleep. And all the 
while, that bright voice murmured, like a litany, over and over, into his mind - 
:I am here, my Chosen. I love you. I will never leave you. :

"Savil, we found him." Mardic burst into the room that had been Vanyel's and 
Tylendel's, dripping from head to toe, and shivering in the draft from the door 
behind him.
As he turned to close the door, Savil dredged up energy she hadn't dreamed she 
still possessed, and started to rise. Jaysen and Healer Andrel simultaneously 
seized her shoulders and pushed her back down into her chair.
"Where?" she demanded, in a voice hoarsened by weeping. "Who found him? Is 
he all right?"
"I dunno, the Companions found him; Yfandes did, anyway," Mardic replied 
vaguely, swaying with weariness, looking colorless with exhaustion in the yellow 
candlelight. "She found him on the garden side of the river and dragged him into 
a grotto. Tantras thinks he's sick, something like backlash, but he can't tell for 
sure. He's trying to persuade her to let him bring Van back here so Andrel can 
take care of him."
Savil shook her head, trying to make sense of his words. "Mardic, what are you 
trying to tell me? What has Yfandes got to do with anything?''
"She won't let anyone lay a finger on him, Savil," Mardic replied, blinking, and still 
shivering despite the warmth of the room. "She's adamant about it; damned near 
took Tantras' hand off when he tried to get at Van. She told my Fortin that she 
doesn't trust us to protect him and keep him under shield properly - that we won't 
understand what we've got - that he's hurt, all torn up inside his mind, and we 
can't begin to help him - "
"Mardic," Jaysen said, slowly, "are you saying that Yfandes Chose Vanyel? The 
only full-grown Companion in the Field that hasn't Chosen - the Companion that 
hasn't Chosen for over ten years - and now she's Chosen Vanyel?"
"She didn't come out and say so, but I guess she did," Mardic said, fatigue 
slurring his words as he slumped against the doorframe. "I dunno why in hell 
she'd be curled up around him like he was her foal otherwise, and not letting us 
near him. We think he's unconscious; he isn't moving, and he isn't responding 
when we talk to him, but Yfandes won't let anyone close enough to get a good 
look at him."
Savil exchanged startled looks with the Seneschal's Herald, but it was Healer 
Andrel who put their thoughts into words.
"By the Lady Bright," he murmured, green eyes gone round with consternation, 
"what in the Havens is this going to mean?"

Vanyel swam up out of a feverish, fitful nightmare, prodded by an insistent voice 
in his head. He moaned, and opened dry, hot eyes that ached and burned. His 
head still pounded, and moving it even a little made his vision blur. He felt as if 
his whole body was a hot, tight, painfully constrictive garment; it felt like it didn't 
belong to him.
Sunlight gleamed weakly in through a rocky opening; he could see the river 
gurgling by just a few paces beyond it. It looked as if he were in a cave, but there 
were pink marble benches beside the entrance. Caves didn't have pink marble 
benches. They didn't have cultivated, moss-covered floors, either.
Then he recognized the place for what it was - one of the garden grottoes set into 
the riverbank. They were popular with courting couples or people seeking a 
moment of solitude from the Court. Tylendel had often wistfully expressed the 
wish that they dared to use one - 
Tylendel. Grief closed around his throat and stopped his breath.
:No, Vanyel, Chosen. Not now. Mourn later; now get up.:
Without knowing quite how he had gotten there, Vanyel found himself on his feet, 
leaning heavily on the silky shoulder of a Companion.
His Companion. Yfandes.
He tried to make sense of that, but his head spun too much and he couldn't get a 
good grip on any of the thoughts that half-formed and then blew away.
:You are ill,: said the worried voice inside his mind. .I cannot care for you. I did 
not wish to let you away from my protection, but I cannot help you. You have 
fever, you need a Healer. Move your foot. One step. Another - :
He discovered that he was shaking, and clung a little tighter to the Companion's 
back. Obedient to that voice in his head, he put one hesitant foot in front of the 
other, learning quickly that he had to rest most of his weight on the arm clinging 
to Yfandes' shoulder. He had to close his eyes after the first couple of steps and 
trust to her to guide him; he was so dizzy and nauseated he couldn't make any 
sense out of what he was seeing.
They emerged into sunlight that was far too much for his eyes; he opened them 
once, and shut them again, quickly. The Companion suddenly stepped away 
from him, and he literally fell into the arms of a strange Herald; and once out of 
contact with Yfandes there were dozens of voices in his head, all of them 
clamorous, all of them confusing. He whimpered, tried to pull away, and hid his 
head in his arms. They hurt, they hurt, and he couldn't make out which were his 
own thoughts and which belonged to someone else.
:Tell your fool Chosen to shield him, Delian!:
That voice he recognized, although Yfandes had never spoken that sharply to 
him. The stranger bit off a curse and touched Vanyel's forehead, and the voices 
cut off. Vanyel opened his eyes again, and wished he hadn't; the world was 
spinning around with him as the center of the chaos. He shut them immediately, 
vowing not to reopen them.
"Let me, Tantras." The soft voice was that of yet another stranger.
Two cool hands rested lightly on his head, and brought with them the promise of 
comfort and the peace of sleep.

He took what they offered, falling into oblivion gratefully. With any luck, he'd 
never wake up.
The bed looked far too big for the boy; never tall, he seemed to have collapsed in 
on himself. He was as pale as the sheets and - it might have been his dark hair 
and naturally fair complexion, but it seemed to her that he looked worse than 
Tylendel had after his fit. That was something Savil had not thought possible until 
now.
Tylendel. Oh, my 'Lendel, my poor, poor, 'Lendel.
Unshed tears made a hard knot in her throat and misted her eyes. So she 
missed the moment that Andrel took his hand away from the boy's forehead and 
sagged back into his chair with a sigh of weariness, his graying red hair damp 
with sweat, his freckles twice as evident with his skin so washed out and pale.
It was that sigh that brought her back to the urgent present.
"Andrel?" she said softly. "Can you tell me anything?"
"I did what I could for him - and more, I've got a line established," the Green-
robed Healer to the Heralds replied, without looking up. "I want you to follow it - 
or if you feel you can't, find me a Herald-Mage your equal. I don't believe what I 
Saw, to be frank, and I want a confirmation."
Savil tightened her jaw, and told herself again that none of this had been 
Vanyel's fault. Besides, she was the only Herald-Mage at the Palace who was 
likely to have any feelings of charity toward the boy.
"I'll follow it. Have you got more to say, or - "
"I want you in there first. What I have to say is going to depend on whether you 
think I've gone over the edge or not."
Savil raised one eyebrow in surprise, but moved in to stand beside the Healer. 
She reached out for Andrel's soothing Presence as easily as she could have 
reached for his hand; they'd been lovers, once, and had worked together often, 
both before and since.
They meshed auras exactly as hand would close on hand, and Savil followed the 
"line" the Healer had established down past the churning chaos of Vanyel's 
sleeping surface mind to the dark, grief-stricken core of him. The measure of that 
grief would have reconciled her to him even had she felt him blameworthy; she'd 
known the depth of Tylendel's feelings, but it seemed as if Vanyel's had run at 
least as deep. Certainly his grief and loss were as profound as her own. More - 
Oh, gods - it's just what I warned 'Lendel against. He's lost, he's utterly lost 
without 'Lendel - 
But that was not what rocked her back onto her heels with real shock.
Savil had spent most of the past twenty years of her life as the one Herald-Mage 
most intimately involved in training young Herald-Mages, and the one most often 
set to identify youngsters with active Gifts and the potential of being Chosen. She 
had seen children with one, two, or (most commonly) no Gifts. Tylendel had been 
unusual in having Mindspeech, Fetching, Empathy and the Mage-Gift, all at near-
equal strength. Most Heralds or Herald-Mages ftad one or two strong Gifts - and 
few had as many as three.
Vanyel had them all. Each channel she tested - with the sole exception of 
Healing - was open; most of them had been forced open to their widest extent. 
The boy had Mindspeech, Fetching, FarSight, Foresight, as much Empathy as 
Tylendel had shown, even enough Fire-starting to ensure he'd never need to use 
a tinderbox again, and the all-important Mage-Gift. His Mindspeech was even of 
both types, Thought-sensing and Projecting.
And - irony of ironies - as if the gods were taking with one hand and offering a 
pittance as compensation - the Bardic Gift.
This boy had more Gifts than any five full Heralds - and all of them had come into 
full activity in less than a day.
To her horror she could See that all the channels were as raw and sensitive as 
so many open wounds. The channels had not been "opened," they'd been 
blasted open. It was a wonder the boy wasn't mad with the pain alone.
Savil came up out of Vanyel's mind with a rush like a startled fish jumping out of 
a stream, and looked from the boy to the Healer and back in a state of surprise 
that closely resembled shock.
"Great good gods," she said, "What the hell happened to do that?"
Andrel shook his head. "Your guess would be better than mine. I never cared 
much where our powers came from, I was just concerned with learning to use 
them effectively. But do you see what I'm up against with this boy?"
"I think so," Savil replied, groping for the bedpost and sitting down carefully on 
the foot of the bed. "Let me add this up. You've got backlash trauma from when 
the Gate-energy got pulled from him, and more trauma from when we sent it 
back into him; you've got the problems inherent when you wake Gifts late or 
early. You've got the problems with them being at full power from the moment 
they woke. Worst of all, you've got channels that were burned open or torn open 
instead of opening of themselves."
"That, and more mundane emotional trauma and physical shock. I hope to the 
Havens that he doesn't come down with pneumonia on top of it all. I already 
fought off one fever, one his own body produced when it couldn't handle the 
energy-overload." Andrel touched the back of his hand to the boy's waxen cheek, 
checking his temperature. "So far, so good, but it's a real possibility. And I'm 
fighting off the effects of exposure, too. Savil, the child is a mess."
"Lover, you have a talent for understatement." Savil contemplated Vanyel's 
pinched, grief-twisted face.
Even in sleep he doesn't lose his pain.
"Now I see why Yfandes was so reluctant to let him out of her care. Until she gets 
him firmly bonded to her, he's going to have to be in physical contact with her for 
her to protect him. But what can we do? I can't fit her in here, I can't put him in 
the stables, not with the weather being what it is."
"Try, and I'll call you up on charges," Andrel replied, and Savil could tell that he 
was not joking. "Do that in this chill, and you'll kill him. It's going to be touchy 
enough with him tucked up in a warm bed."
"Well, how in hell do I protect him from his own powers?"
"Put your own shields on him, and hope nothing gets through."
"I can't keep them up forever," Savil reminded him acidly. "I'm fairly well fagged 
out myself. A couple of hours is about all I can manage at this point.''
"Then go order -two graves, dammit!" the Healer snarled in sudden frustration. 
"Because you're going to lose this one, too, if you don't do everything right with 
him!"
Savil pulled back, taken very much aback by the sudden explosion of temper. "I," 
she faltered, then as his words penetrated, and she thought of what was lying in 
the Grove Temple at this moment, lost her own precarious hold on calm.
She got up, stumbling a little; turned away from him and leaned against the 
doorframe, her shoulders shaking with her'silent weeping.
"Savil - "
Strong but trembling hands on her shoulders turned her back to face the room, 
and pulled her into an embrace against a bony chest covered in soft, green wool. 
"Savil, I'm sorry," Andrel murmured into her hair. "I shouldn't have said that. 
You're exhausted, I'm exhausted, and neither of us are up to facing the problem 
this boy represents. Is there anyone you can turn him over to, for a day, at least? 
Long enough for you to get some rest and a chance to think?''
A white square of linen appeared just when she needed it. She mopped at her 
eyes with the handkerchief he offered, and blew her nose. "Under any other 
circumstances I'd just let any of the others spell me - but I don't know, Andy. A lot 
of them still think he's responsible for all this. Even if they shield - with Gifts like 
his, what's he going to pick up? You of all people should know how leaky we all 
are to a new, raw Gift, even when we aren't stressed."
Andrel sighed. "Dearheart, I don't think you have a real choice. You'll just have to 
hope that if surface thoughts leak past, he won't be able to understand them yet. 
If you don't get some rest, you're going to collapse, and even a novice Healer 
would be able to tell you that." She bowed her head, feeling the weight of all her 
years and all her sorrows falling on her back. "All right," she said, acting against 
her better judgment, but unable to see any other option open to her. "See if you 
can round up Tantras for me, will you? At least he didn't know poor 'Lendel all 
that well."
Vanyel woke from a dream in which Tylendel was alive again, and had teased 
him gently about how much he had been grieving. For a confused moment after 
waking, he wasn't certain which had been the dream, and which the reality.
Then he opened his eyes, and found that he was in his own bed, and his own 
room, now illuminated by carefully shaded candle-lanterns. And there was 
something odd about the room.
After a long moment, he finally figured out what it was. The feeling of "Tylendel," 
the sense of his being there even when he wasn't physically present, was 
missing.
That told him. He swallowed a moan of despair, and closed his eyes against the 
resurgence of tears - and just in time, for the door opened softly and closed 
again, and he felt a new presence in the room with him.
He froze for a moment, then sighed, as if in sleep, and turned onto his side, 
hiding his face away from the light.
He was hearing things - like someone talking to himself, only - only, inside his 
head, the way Yfandes' voice had been inside his head. It hurt to listen, but he 
couldn't stop the words from coming in. And from the feel of that mind-voice, he 
knew who it was that was sitting by his bedside, too; it was one of the Heralds 
that had been with Savil, the one called Jaysen.
And Jaysen did not in the least care for Vanyel.
: - gods - : Vanyel heard, a little garbled by the pain that came with the words. : - 
trade this arrogant little toad for Tylendel. Damn poor bargain.:
Vanyel could feel brooding eyes on him, and the words in his head came clearer, 
more focused. :No matter what Savil said, I'll never believe he didn't have 
something to do with the boy's death. If they'd been all that close, Tylendel would 
have listened to him, and even if 'Lendel was crazed on revenge, this one wasn't. 
'Lendel may have loved him, but he could never have cared for the lad in the 
same way, or he'd have stopped him. 'Lendel was just one more little addition to 
his stable of admirers. If he'd left 'Lendel alone, if he hadn't played on his - 
weaknesses - :
Vanyel cringed beneath the pitiless words, and the vision of himself that came 
with them; arrogant, self-centered, self-serving. Using Tylendel, not caring for 
him. And worse; worse than that, feeding him what he craved, like feeding a 
perpetual drunk the liquor he shouldn't have.
Without thinking about it, he reached beyond his room; it was a little like straining 
his ears to hear a conversation in the distance, and the pain that came with the 
effort felt like muscles pulling against a broken bone, but he found he could catch 
other snatches of - it must be thoughts - that touched on him.
They could have been echoes of Jaysen's thoughts.
He pulled his awareness back, as a child pulls its singed hand from the fire that 
has burned it. There were only two creatures in all the world that he could be 
certain cared for him despite what he was; Tylendel and Yfandes. Neither were 
to be trusted to know the truth about him. The second was besotted by whatever 
magic had made her Choose him; the first was - 
The first was dead. And it was his fault. Jaysen was right; if he'd really cared for 
'Lendel, he'd have stopped him. It wouldn't even have been hard; if he hadn't 
agreed to get those books, if he hadn't agreed to help with that spell, Tylendel 
would be alive at this moment. And if he hadn't seduced 'Lendel with his own 
needs, none of this ever would have happened.
Bad on top of worst; now he was a burden on the Heralds, who hated him, but 
felt honor-bound to take him in Tylendel's place. And he could never replace 
Tylendel, not ever; even he knew that. He had none of Tylendel's virtues, and all 
of his vices and more.
He listened to the mind-voice of the one beside him with all his strength, ignoring 
the pain it cost, hoping beyond hope that the Herald would somehow give him 
the chance to get away - get away and do something to make this right. If the 
Herald would just - go away for a moment, or - or better yet, fall asleep - 
Jaysen was tired; though he'd done less magic than Savil, and had more time to 
rest, he was still very weary. He'd set himself up in the room's really comfortable 
chair; the one Tylendel had sometimes fallen asleep in. Vanyel could feel 
Jaysen's mind drifting over into slumber, and held his breath, hoping he'd drift all 
the way.
Because he'd gleaned something else from those minds out there - 
Because the Death Bell had rung for him, despite what he'd done, Tylendel was 
being accounted a full Herald and tomorrow would be buried with all the honors.
Tomorrow. But tonight - he was in the Temple in the Grove. And if he could get 
that far, Vanyel was going to try to right the wrongs he had done to all of them, 
atoning with the only thing he had left to give.
Jaysen's thoughts slipped into the vague mumbles of sleep, and in the next 
moment a gentle snore from the chair beside the bed told Vanyel that he was 
completely gone.
Vanyel turned over, deliberately making noise.
Jaysen continued to snore, undisturbed.
Vanyel sat up, slowly, taking stock of himself and his surroundings.
About a candlemark later, he was dressed; even if he had not needed to move 
slowly for fear of waking the Herald, he would have had to for weakness. He had 
even needed to hold onto the furniture at first, because his legs were so 
unsteady. Even now his legs trembled with every step he took, but at least he 
was moving a bit more surely.
He stole soundlessly across the floor and unlatched the door, opened it just 
enough to squeeze himself through, and shut it again. It was dark out here, a still, 
cloudless night. He wouldn't be seen, but it was a long way to the Grove.
He steeled himself and stepped shakily onto the graveled path that ran from his 
door through the moonlit garden.
But someone had been waiting for him.
Yfandes glided out of the darkness to his side almost before he had made five 
steps along that path.
:No - : she said, sternly, barring his way. :You are ill; you should be in bed.:
For a moment he was ready to collapse right where he stood.
 - gods, she's going to stop me - 
Then he saw a way to get Yfandes to help him - without her knowing she was 
doing so.
-.Please - : He directed everything he could on part of the truth. He couldn't lie 
mind-to-mind, he knew that, but he didn't have to reveal everything unless 
Yfandes should ask a direct question about it. And besides that, the link to her 
was fading in and out (and it hurt, like everything else) and he would bet she 
wouldn't want to force anything. -.Pleased, Yfandes, I have to - : he faltered.: - to 
say - good-bye.:
She bowed her head almost to the earth as he let his grief pour out over her. -
.Very well,: he heard, the mind-voice heavy with reluctance. .I will help you. But 
you must rest, after.:
:I will,: he promised, meaning it, though not in the way she had intended.
She went to her knees so that he could mount; he, once the best rider at Forst 
Reach, could not drag himself onto her back without that help. His arms and legs 
trembled with weakness as he clung to her back, and if it had not been that she 
could have balanced a toddler there and not let it fall, he would have lost his seat 
within the first few moments.
He concentrated on his weariness, on how physically miserable he was feeling, 
and spent not so much as an eyeblink on his real intentions. He closed his eyes, 
both to concentrate, and because seeing the ground move by so fast in the 
moonlight was making him nauseated and disoriented again.
He had had no notion of how fast the Companions could travel at a so-called 
walk. She was stepping carefully up to the porch of the Grove Temple long 
before he had expected her to get there; the clear ringing of her hooves on the 
marble surprised him into opening his eyes.
:We are here,: she said, and knelt for him to dismount.
The marble of the Temple porch glistened wetly in the moonlight, and he could 
see candlelight shining under the door. He slid from Yfandes' back, and "listened" 
with this new, mental ear for other minds within the Temple.
None.
He shivered in the cold wind; he'd dressed carefully, in the black silk tunic and 
breeches Tylendel had thought he looked best in, and once off Yfandes' warm, 
broad back the wind cut right through his clothing.
:Not for long,: she admonished, as he clung to the doorframe and negotiated 
unlatching the door into the Temple itself.
:No, Yfandes,: he said, sincerely. :Not for long.:
He got the door open and closed again - then, as quietly as he could, locked it.
There was no clamor from the opposite side, so he assumed she had not heard 
the bolt shoot home. He turned, bracing himself for what he was about to do, and 
faced the altar.
The Temple itself was tiny; hardly bigger than the common room of their suite. It 
had been built all of white marble, within and without. The walls took up the 
candlelight, and reflected it until they fairly glowed. There were only two benches 
in it, and the altar. Behind the altar were stands thick with candles; behind the 
candles, the wall had been carved into a delicate bas-relief; swirling clouds, the 
moon, stars and the sun - and in the clouds, suggestions of male and female 
faces, whose expressions changed with the flickering of the candles.
Before the altar stood the bier.
Vanyel's legs trembled with every step; he made his way unsteadily to that white-
draped platform, and looked down on the occupant.
They'd dressed Tylendel in full Whites; his eyes were closed, and there was no 
trace of his grief or his madness in that handsome, peaceful face. His hands 
were folded across his waist, those graceful, strong hands that had held so much 
of comfort for his beloved. He looked almost exactly as he had so many 
mornings when Vanyel had awakened first. His long, golden curls were spread 
against the white of the pallet, a few of them tumbled a little untidily over his right 
temple; long, dark-gold lashes lay against his cheeks. Only the pose was wrong. 
Tylendel had never, in all the time Vanyel had known him, slept in anything other 
than a sprawl.
Vanyel reached out, hesitantly, to touch that smooth cheek - almost believing, 
even now, that he had only to touch him to awaken him.
But the cheek was cold, as cold as the marble of the altar, and the eyes did not 
flutter open at his touch. This was no child's tale, where the sleeping one would 
wake again at the magic touch of the one who loved him.
"Please, 'Lendel, forgive me," he whispered to the quiet face, and took the knife 
from the white sheath on Tylendel's belt. "I - I'm going to try to - pay for all of 
what I did to you."
His hands shook, but his determination remained firm.
Quickly, before he could lose his courage, he bent and kissed the cold lips - 
hoping that this, too, would be forgiven, and caught in a grief too deep for tears. 
Then he knelt on the icy white marble of the floor beside the bier, and braced the 
hilt of the dagger between his knees, clasping his hands with the dagger between 
his wrists, resting them on either side of the blade-edge.
" 'Lendel, there's nothing without you. Forgive me - if you can," he whispered 
again, both to Tylendel and the brooding Faces behind the altar.
And before he could begin to be afraid, he pulled both wrists up along the knife-
edges, slashing them simultaneously.
The dagger was as sharp as he had hoped - sharper than he had expected. He 
cut both wrists almost to the bone; gasped as pain shot up his arms, and the 
knife fell clattering to the marble, released when his legs jerked involuntarily.
He sagged with sudden dizziness, and fell forward over his bent knees; his head 
bowed over his hands, his arms lying limp on the marble floor. Blood began to 
spread on the white marble; pooled before him under his slashed wrists. He 
stared at it in morbid fascination. Red on white. Like blood on the snowIt was 
only at that moment that Yfandes seemed to realize what it was he was doing. 
She screamed, and began kicking at the door. But it was far too late; his eyes 
were no longer focusing properly anymore, and his wrists didn't even hurt. But he 
was feeling so cold, so very cold. :I'm sorry,: he thought muzzily at the frantic 
Companion, beginning to black out, and feeling himself falling over sideways. : 
Yfandes, I'm sorry… you'll find someone… better than me. Worthy of you.:

"Gone?" Savil's voice broke. "What the hell do you mean, gone?"
"Savil, I swear to you, the boy was asleep. I dozed off for a breath or two, and 
when I woke up he was gone," Jaysen answered, one hand clutched at the side 
of his head on a fistful of hair, his expression frantic and guilt-ridden. "I thought 
maybe he'd gone to the privy or something, but I can't find him anywhere."
Savil swung her legs out of the bed and rubbed her eyes, trying to think. Where 
would Vanyel have gone, and in the name of the gods, why?
But in a heartbeat she had her answer - the frightened, frantic scream of a 
Companion rang across the river, and her Kellan's voice shrilled into her head.
:Savil - the boy - : and an image of where he was and what he had done.
From the stricken look on Jaysen's face, his own Felar had given him the same 
information.
"Gods!" Savil snatched her cloak from the chair beside her bed and ran out in her 
bare feet, through the common room, and headed for the door of Vanyel's room, 
Jaysen breathing down her neck.
She hit the garden door at a dead run, and it was a damned good thing that it 
wasn't locked, because if it had been, she'd have broken it off the hinges. The 
cold of the night slapped her in the face like an impious hand; that stopped her 
for a moment, but only a moment. In the next instant Felar and Kellan pounded 
up at a gallop. Felar skidded around in a tight pivot, presenting his hindquarters 
to his Chosen, who leapfrogged up into his seat with an acrobatic skill that would 
have had Savil muttering about "show-offs" had the situation been less 
precarious. Instead, she waited for Kellan to come to a dead halt, and clambered 
onto her back anyhow, her bedgown rucked up around her legs. Kellan launched 
herself into a full, frantic gallop as Savil clung on as best she could.
Now Savil was a breath behind Jaysen, as the young Seneschal's Herald led the 
way across the nearest bridge and up the Field to the Temple of the Grove. Nor 
were they the only two summoned by the frantic screaming, mind and voice, of 
Yfandes. Heralds and trainees were boiling out of the Palace like aroused fire 
ants, rendezvousing with their Companions, and heading across the river at 
breakneck speed.
But Jaysen and Savil were the first two on the scene; it was their dubious 
privilege to see Yfandes trying to batter down the solid bronze door of the 
Temple single-handedly, and not budging it by so much as a thumbs'-breadth. 
Her hooves were screeching across the metal, leaving showers of sparks in their 
wake, and her anguished screams were far too like a human's for comfort.
Jaysen vaulted off Felar's back and hit the ground at a run, ducking fearlessly 
under Yfandes' flying hooves to make a trial of the door himself.
"It's locked from the inside," he shouted unnecessarily, as Savil slid from Kellan's 
back to limp to his side. He put his shoulder against the door, and rammed it, 
with no more luck than Yfandes had had.
"Vanyel!" Savil put her mouth up against the crack between door and frame, and 
shouted through it. "Van, lad, let us in!"
She put her ear to the crack and listened, but heard nothing. :Kellan - :
:Yfandes says he's still alive, but unconscious and weakening,: came the grim 
reply, as Yfandes danced in place, her sapphire eyes gone nearly black with 
anguish.
"Somebody get me a mage-light on that damned tower!''
It was Mardic; he had his hands on Donni's shoulders and was staring up at the 
tower. Donni was holding a crossbow with a bulky missile cocked and ready.
Savil responded first, running far enough back from the door that she could see 
the top of the Belltower. It was glowing faintly, but obviously too faintly for Donni 
to make out a target. Savil raised her hands, and sent up such a burst of power 
that the entire top of the tower flowered with light.
While Mardic closed his eyes and scowled in concentration, Donni raised the 
crossbow, squinted carefully along it, and fired.
The oddly-shaped arrow flew strangely, and slowly, trailing something light 
colored behind it - and in a moment, Savil realized why and what it was. Donni 
had been a bright little apprentice-thief when she'd been Chosen; this was a 
grapnel-arrow, meant to carry a light, but strong line through an open window 
and catch on the sill. Mardic had a very weak, but usable Fetching-Gift; he had 
invoked it to help the arrow carry something heavier than a light line. A climbing-
rope.
It lobbed through the loop of the Bell-house, clanging ominously off the Death 
Bell itself. Savil felt a chill, and made a warding-gesture, nor was she the only 
one. She could see most of the others shivering at the least, and Yfandes 
moaned like a dying thing at the sound of the Bell.
Donni, normally mobile face gone blank, was paying no attention to anything 
other than her arrow and line; all her concentration was on the task in her hand. 
She drew the rope to her with agonizing slowness; Savil fought down the urge to 
shout at her to hurry. Finally Donni's careful pulling met resistance; she tugged, 
then pulled harder, then yanked on the rope with all her might.
Then, before Savil had time to blink, she was swarming up it like a squirrel.
One or two of the trainees gave a ragged cheer; Donni ignored them. She 
reached the opening and squeezed through, and Savil saw to her surprise that 
Mardic was following her. She'd been so intent on Donni's progress that she'd 
missed seeing him altogether until he got into the glow of the mage-light.
Savil sprinted back for the door - the crowd there parted to let her through - and 
waited, trembling with impatience, with the rest.
:Hang on, Savil,: she heard Mardic's mind-voice, in Broadsend-mode. :He's alive; 
thank the gods he didn't know the right way to slit his wrists. Donni's got the 
blood stopped, but we II need a Healer, fast. 'Fandes warped the door pounding 
on it; it's going to take a bit of work to get it open. :
A tall figure in Healer's Greens pushed through to Savil's side as Mardic began 
pounding on the door, forcing the bolt back thumb-length by thumb-length; Andrel 
opened his arms and wrapped Savil inside the warmth of his fur-lined cloak with 
him.
Finally the door creaked open; Andrel deserted her, leaving her suddenly in sole 
possession of the heavy cloak. She followed inside, hard on his heels.
Donni knelt in front of the bier; there was a frighteningly wide scarlet stain on the 
marble of the floor, and her hands looked as if she had dipped them in vermilion 
dye. She was holding Vanyel's wrists; the boy was sprawled on the floor beside 
her at the foot of the bier, his face as transparently white as the marble under his 
head, and sickly unconscious. Andrel was just beginning to kneel in the pool of 
blood on the other side of the boy, heedless of his robes, and as Savil limped 
across the floor toward them, followed by the rest of the would-be rescuers, he 
reached out and set his hands firmly over Donni's bloodstained ones.
His face was fixed in a mask of absolute concentration, and Savil could feel the 
power beginning to flow from him. But he'd been hard-pressed today, and had 
little time to rest. And she knew that his few reserves were not going to be 
enough - 
She ran the last few steps and placed her hands on his shoulders as he began to 
falter, sending energy coursing down into his center. And in a moment, she felt 
herself joined by Jaysen - then Mardic - then Donni. The four of them meshed in 
a union that was as nearly perfect as any magic she'd ever witnessed, and sent 
Andrel all he needed and more, in a steady, steadfast, stream.
Finally the Healer sighed, and lifted his hands away from Donni's; the other three 
disengaged with something that was a little like reluctance. It wasn't often that 
even Heralds experienced the peace that came with a perfect Healing-meld; it 
was nearly a mystical experience, and as close to the peace of the Havens as 
Savil ever wanted to get until she was Called.
Donni lifted her hands away from Vanyel's wrists, and Savil could see that the 
skin, veins, and tendons beneath were whole again. For a moment the wrists 
were marred by angry red scars, then gradually those scars faded to thin white 
lines.
Jaysen moved swiftly to gather the unconscious boy in his arms; blood from the 
boy's sleeves stained the front of his Whites, but Jaysen didn't seem to notice.
Vanyel's head sagged against the Herald's chest. Despite being moved, he 
showed no signs of reviving.
Savil helped Andrel to rise and go to him. The Healer reached out a hand that 
shook uncontrollably and checked the pulse at the hinge of Vanyel's jaw, lifted an 
eyelid, then shook his head.
"Nearer than I like, and he lost too much blood, given what he's been through," 
Andrel said, grimacing. "Jays, can you and Felar get him back into his bed as of 
a candlemark ago?"
"No," Savil interrupted. "No, you leave that to me and Yfandes. Jays, give him to 
me as soon as I get mounted."
She pushed her way through the silent, shocked crowd and found Yfandes 
waiting as close to the open door as she could get. The Companion looked 
deeply into Savil's eyes, her own eyes back to a quiet, depthless sapphire, then 
went to her knees for the Herald to mount.
Savil mounted, and Yfandes rose gracefully to her feet, not in the least unsteady 
on the smooth marble. Savil held out her arms, amazed by her own calm, and 
Jaysen lifted the limp form of Vanyel up into place before her. She cradled the 
boy against her shoulder, wrapping Andrel's cloak about both of them; he was no 
burden at all, really - almost too light a weight for the ease of her heart and 
conscience.
Oh, lad, lad - she sighed, nudging Yfandes lightly with her heels to tell her to go 
on. Poor little lad - we've made a right "mess of your life, haven't we? And all for 
lack of listening to you. I don't know who is guiltier, me or Withen.
She held him a bit tighter as Yfandes headed at a gentle walk toward the 
beckoning beacon of the open door of her suite. He was all the legacy Tylendel 
had left to her, and she pledged the silent sleeper in the Temple behind her that 
she would take better care of him from this moment on.
And the first task is to put you back together, my poor, bewildered, heart-broken 
lostling. If ever I can.


Ten

Years later - or so it seemed - Savil finally crawled into some clothing. She 
wanted, she needed, to collapse somewhere; wanted rest as a starving man 
wants bread, but dared not leave Vanyel alone. She finally dragged the chair 
Jaysen had been using close to the bedside and wrapped herself in the first 
warm thing that came to hand (which turned out to be Andrel's fur-lined cloak), 
intending, despite her exhaustion, to stay awake as long as possible.
But she dozed off, some time around dawn, and woke at the sound of a strangled 
sob.
She fought her way out of the tangled embrace of the cloak; when she got her 
head free of the folds of the hood, the first things she saw were Vanyel's silver 
eyes looking at her with a kind of accusative sorrow.
"Why?" he whispered mournfully. "Why did you stop me?"
Savil finally untangled the rest of her, sat up in her chair, and took a quick look 
around. As she'd ordered, Mardic was still standing weary guard over the door to 
the rest of the suite, and Donni was drowsing, slumped against the door to the 
garden. Vanyel was not going to give them the slip a second time, however 
unlikely the prospect seemed. It hadn't seemed possible the last time.
She gave Mardic a jerk of her head and a Mindsent order; :Out, love, this needs 
privacy,: and woke Donni with a quick Mindtouch. Donni came completely awake 
as soon as Savil touched her, a talent the Herald-Mage envied. She pulled 
herself to her feet with the help of the doorframe at her back. Then both of them 
left for their own quarters, closing the door into the common room of the suite 
behind them.
Savil got up stiffly, every joint aching, and sat on the side of the bed, taking both 
of Vanyel's hands in her own. They were like ice, and bloodless-looking. "I 
stopped you because had to," she replied. "Because - Vanyel, self-destruction is 
no answer. Because we've already lost one we loved - and I couldn't lose you, 
too, now - "
"But I deserve to die - " His voice was weak, and broke on the last word.
And he wouldn't look her in the eyes.
Oh, gods - what was going through that head of his? What had he convinced 
himself of? "For what?" she asked, her voice sounding rough-edged even to her. 
"Because you made some mistakes? Gods, if that was worthy of a death 
sentence, I should have been sharing that knife!"
His hands were chilling hers; she tried to warm them, chafing them as gently as 
she could. "Listen to me, Vanyel - this whole wretched mess was one mistake 
piled on top of another. I made mistakes; I should have watched 'Lendel more 
carefully, I should have insisted he talk to Lancir when his brother was killed. 
That's one of Lancir's jobs; to keep our heads clear and our minds able to think 
straight. Dammit, I knew what 'Lendel was capable of where Staven was 
concerned! And he would not have been able to hide that obsession from a 
MindHealer! 'Lendel made mistakes - the gods themselves know that. He should 
have thought before he acted; I'd been trying to get him to do that. We - the 
Heralds - accept mental evidence! All he had to do was ask for a hearing, and 
we'd have had the material we needed from his own mind to put the Leshara 
down. You made mistakes, yes, but you made them out of love. He needed help, 
asked you for it, and you tried to help him the only way anyone had ever taught 
you was right. And, gods, even Gala made mistakes!"
Her voice was harsh with tears, and with her own guilt, and she was not 
ashamed to let him hear it. "Van, Van, we're only simple, fallible mortals - we 
aren't saints, we aren't angels - we fall on our faces and make errors and 
sometimes people die of them - sometimes people we love dearly - "
She choked on a sob, and bowed her head.
He freed a hand and touched her cheek hesitantly; his fingers were still snow-
cold. She caught and held it, and looked back up into his eyes, seeing worse 
than grief there before he dropped them.
"You thought the world would be better with you out of it, is that it?"
He nodded, dumbly, and his hands trembled in hers.
"Did you stop to think how I would feel? You were 'Lendel's love. Didn't you think 
I'd come to care for you at least a bit, if only for his sake?"
How was she to reach him - when she'd never been good with words? "I've 
buried him today. Did you think I'd be indifferent about burying you as well? What 
about Jaysen? I'd left him to watch you. How do you think he feeis right now 
about his carelessness? What do you think he'd have felt if you'd died? And - 
gods help us - what did you think Yfandes would do?"
I "I thought - I thought she'd find somebody better," he faltered, his voice 
quavering a bit.
"She'd die, lad; Companions very seldom outlive their Chosen. And she Chose 
you. If you die, she dies; she'd probably pine herself to death, and she does not 
deserve that."
He shrank into himself, pulling even farther away from her, and she cursed her 
clumsy words, her inability to tell him what she really meant without hurting him 
further. "Van - oh, hell - I'm not saying any of this the way I wanted to. Listen to 
me; you're sick, you need to rest and get well. We'll deal with this later, all right? 
Just - don't take yourself out of this world right now, there are folks who'll have 
holes in their lives if you go. And I'm one of them."
He nodded; he didn't look convinced, but now she had exhausted what little 
eloquence she possessed, and didn't know what else to say to him.
So she tried one last tactic. Let me just keep him alive - if I can do that, maybe 
we can help him.
"Will you promise me, on your word of honor, that you won't try to do yourself in 
again? If you will, I'll trust you, and I won't leave guards on your doors."
He swallowed, pulled his hands out of hers, and whispered, haltingly, "I - 
promise. Word of honor." He still wouldn't look her in the face, but she trusted 
that sworn word.
She nodded. "Accepted. Now is there anything, anything at all, that I can do for 
you?" Maybe - "Need to talk?"
He shook his head, and she sensed his complete withdrawal, and cursed again. 
Dammit, just when I need Lance the most, he's not here.
"Sure?" She persisted, even in the face of defeat; that was her nature. "Vanyel - 
Vanyel, you're the only person I've got who knew 'Lendel from the inside the way 
I did. If - if you need somebody to mourn with…"
He shook his head again, avoiding her eyes altogether, and she sighed, giving 
up. "If you change your mind-well, rest, lad. Get better. Call, if you need anything 
- mind or voice, either, I'll hear you."
He nodded slightly, and closed his eyes again, leaning back and turning his face 
to the wall. That face was as white as the pillows beneath it, and it made her hurt 
all over again to see that lost look of his. She waited for another response or a 
request of some kind, but he slipped right back into an uneasy, shallow slumber. 
Finally she eased off the bed, gathered up Andrel's cloak from the chair, and left 
him alone.
Andrel arrived at sunset in response to her invitation to fetch his cloak and share 
food and thoughts. They'd had more than one intimate little supper in their lives, 
many of them in this very room, but none so gloom-ridden. Mardic and Donni had 
gone off to cautiously interview some of Vanyel's circle of admirers, to see if 
there was someone else they could contact that might help to bring him out of 
this mental abyss.
Savil's Hawkbrother masks on the wall behind Andrel's left shoulder gazed at her 
from dispassionate and empty eyeholes. Candles flickered on the table between 
them.
Neither of them had much interest in food at the moment; both their minds were 
on the boy sleeping behind the closed door behind Savil's chair. "What we need," 
she told Andrel glumly, eating a dinner she did not taste, "is Lancir. We need his 
MindHealing; the boy's pulling farther away from touching with every moment 
he's awake, and I cannot get him to let me inside. He's barricading himself again; 
a different kind of barricade than that old arrogance, but it's there all the same. 
And Lance bloody would be out of touch right now.''
He sighed, his breath making the candleflame flutter, and pushed his own food 
around on his plate with his fork. "I have to agree with you. Is there no chance 
you can get Lance back via Gate?''
She shook her head, shoving her frustration back down out of her way. She'd 
already been over this with Jaysen. "Not without knowing where he is, and he's 
not a strong enough Thought-senser to read a Broadcast-sending. And we don't 
know what route he's taking home; could be one of half a dozen. If something 
were wrong with Elspeth we could afford to send out half-a-dozen Heralds to look 
for him, but - Vanyel just is not that important." Her tone turned acid. "Or so I've 
been told."
Andrel frowned, and his eyebrows met. "He may become that important; I'm 
shielding him as much as I can, but his trauma is still leaking through. Half the 
trainees are depressed to the point of tears right now, Gifted Bardic, Healer, and 
Herald, and it's all due to Vanyel's leakage."
"Well what do you expect?" she countered, letting him see her very real anger. 
"You saw the strength and depth of his Gifts. Even with raw channels he's Broad-
sending without knowing it, and he has no more notion of how to shield than how 
to fly! And it's not every day you've got one half of a lifebonded pair left after the 
other half suicides. If he were trained, he'd be leaking. But nobody else believes 
how strong he is; they all think I'm letting my affection for Tylendel magnify 
everything that was connected with him out of all proportion to reality."
"Gods!" he looked up from his plate with the expression of a stunned sheep. 
"Vanyel and Tylendel - lifebonded?"
She nodded unhappily. "I'm pretty damned sure of it; what's more, so are Mardic 
and Donni, and if anyone would recognize a bonding, it would be another bonded 
pair. I expected grief, mourning; the natural responses for a youngster who's lost 
his first love under rotten bad circumstances - I did not expect to find the kind of 
gaping emotional wounds I saw before he started shutting me out today. I've 
never seen that depth of feeling before in anyone, Herald, or no, except Mardic 
and Donni. So tell me; what the hell do I do about a broken lifebond?"
He shook his head, obviously at a loss. "I can't tell you; I don't know. I don't Heal 
minds, I Heal bodies. And I don't know of anyone who Heals hearts."
She sighed, and looked down at her congealing dinner. "That's what I was afraid 
you'd tell me. I have more bad news; the relationship between them was one 
where 'Lendel was the leader and Van the follower. Van had gotten totally 
dependent on 'Lendel for all his emotional needs. I tried to warn 'Lendel, but - " 
She shrugged. "And to put the snow on the mountain, Van's got some guilt he's 
hiding from me, and all I can think is that he's convinced he cursed 'Lendel 
because he seduced Tylendel. Mind you, he didn't; from all I know I'm positive 
the seduction, if seduction it was, was mutual, but - there it is."
"Jaysen," Andrel said positively.
She nodded. "Good bet, my friend. Jays has got all those Kleimar prejudices 
about same-sex pairings. He accepted 'Lendel, but mostly after I rammed his 
prejudices right up in his face. But Vanyel? Vanyel wasn't even a Herald-
candidate when he and 'Lendel paired. Jays hasn't said a word, but you can bet 
on what he was thinking when he was keeping watch on him. Resentment that 
Van is alive and 'Lendel dead would be the least of it."
"And Vanyel picked it up," Andrel said sadly.
"Probably." She took a bite, found it catch in her throat, and gave up trying to eat, 
shoving the plate away. "From what I can tell, he's sensitive enough to pick up 
things you've forgotten for years and do it right through your shielding. Ah, gods."
She rested both elbows on the table, and covered her sore eyes with her hands. 
A moment later she felt one of Andrel's hands stroking her hair, and dropped her 
own back on the table, giving him a good long look across the candleflames. His 
deeply green eyes were fixed on her face, reflecting a profound concern.
"And what about you?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
"I am trying to reach out to him," she said, feeling old and tired and about ready 
to give up. "I think I've convinced myself that none of this was any more his fault 
than it was anyone else's. I bloody well hope so, or he's going to be getting 
knives in the gut from me, too. And he doesn't deserve that. The rest - gods, I 
don't know what to do."
"That isn't what I meant," he replied, taking his hand away from her hair, and 
reaching for her wrist. "I want to know how you're weathering this. Need a 
shoulder?"
"Want the truth?" She tensed all over, trying to keep from bawling like a little 
child. "Yes, I need a shoulder, and no, I am not taking this well. I want 'Lendel 
back, Andy - he was my soul-son, and I loved him, and I want him back with me."
Her voice cracked; she lost her veneer of calm, and just dissolved into tears. 
Andrel got up, gracefully, and without letting go of her wrist; he moved around the 
table, and pulled her to her feet, then led her over to the couch and gave her that 
shoulder she needed so badly.
The peaceful night rocked; Vanyel convulsed, wailing - 
His cry sounded like something in its death agonies, and made Savil's hair stand 
on end.
The room trembled; literally. The walls shook as Vanyel's muscles spasmed.
His eyes were wide open, but saw nothing, and his pupils dilated with fear. He 
convulsed again, and the very foundation of the Palace rocked. The bed shook 
as if it were alive. His lute fell from the wall, landing with a sickening crack that 
surely meant it was broken past all repair; his armor-stand crashed over and 
scattered his equipment across the floor, and Savil was tossed from his bedside 
to the floor before she realized it.
She picked herself up off the floor beside his bed without thinking about safety or 
bruises, and flung herself at him again.
He thrashed beneath her, fighting her with a paranormal strength; he couldn't 
know where he was or who she was. All she could read from him was terrible 
agony - and beneath the pain, confusion, panic, entrapment. She caught his 
wrists and tried to pinion them against the pillows; then tried to pin him down with 
the blankets. His chest arched against hers, he screamed, and the walls shook 
again.
Mardic lay in the corner behind her, quite unconscious; Donni had his head in her 
lap and she was trying to protect him from falling objects with her own body. 
Vanyel had thrown him against the wall when this nightmare - or whatever it was 
- had started, and Mardic had made the mistake of trying to touch his mind to 
wake him.
:Donni - : Savil used a moment of lull to Mindtouch her pupil, taking a tiny 
fragment of her attention from the attempt - attempt, for it wasn't succeeding - to 
shield Vanyel, to get him under some kind of control. : - Donni, how's Mardic?:
:He's all right, just stunned,: came the reassuring reply. : - I can spare you 
something. Catch this, quick - :
The girl "threw" her a mental line, and began sending additional, sorely-needed 
energy down it as soon as Savil "caught" it.
It helped to keep Savil from blacking out as Vanyel lashed out with his mind, but 
that was about all.
Jaysen was coming on the run; Savil could Feel him reaching out to find out what 
the hell was going on, and Felt the panic in his mind when he realized they had a 
powerful Gifted trapped in a pain-loop and hallucination. He all but broke down 
the door, trying to get in, and flung himself into the affray without a second 
thought.
"Shield him, dammit," he shouted, throwing himself across Vanyel's legs, as the 
walls (but, thank the gods, not the foundations again) shook.
"I'm trying, " she snapped back, giving up on the uneven struggle to pin Vanyel 
down, and settling for securing his arms. "He breaks them as fast as I get them 
up!"
Jaysen succeeded in getting Vanyel physically restrained where she, being 
lighter, had failed. He added his strength to Savil's and Donni's on the crumbling 
shields they were trying to get on the boy. But it wasn't even stalemate; they 
were losing him to his own nightmares.
Andrel appeared. Savil didn't even see or Sense him run in; he was just there all 
in an instant. But instead of flinging himself into the melee, he grabbed their arms 
and pulled both of them off the boy.
Then he reached down for something at his feet, and came up with a bucket of 
icy water. He doused the boy, bed and all, without a heartbeat of hesitation.
The convulsions stopped as Vanyel came abruptly awake.
He sat up - stared - then he suddenly went limp.
The room stopped shaking.
"Savil, get me a blanket," Andrel ordered quietly. "Jays, help me get him out of 
that wet bed before he goes into shock, then get the bedding stripped before the 
mattress gets soaked."
By the time Savil returned with the goosedown comforter from her bed, the two 
men had pulled the half-stunned boy from the tangled mess of water-soaked 
bedcoverings, and the bedding was piled on the floor. Andrel was carefully 
shaking the boy's shoulders while Jaysen supported him.
Behind them, Mardic was groggily climbing to his knees, Donni steadying him, 
but the two of them waved Savil off when she made a half-step in their direction.
:.We're all right,: Donni Mindspoke. ;I'II get Mardic into bed myself, and then I'll 
come make up the bed in here again.:
Savil turned her attention back to the boy, knowing she could trust Donni to deal 
with the situation if she had said she could.
"Come on, Vanyel," Andrel was saying, coaxingly. "Come on, lad, come back to 
us. Wake up, come out of it."
Vanyel blinked, blinked again, and sense came back into his eyes. He looked 
about him, momentarily confused, then the destruction about him seemed to 
register on him. He closed his eyes, a soft, hardly audible moan coming from the 
back of his throat.
And for one instant, Savil was nearly flattened beneath an overwhelming load of 
blackest despair, terrible guilt, and a grief so heavy she felt her knees start to 
give way beneath the weight of it.
Then it was gone; absolutely cut off, and so completely that for a moment even 
she doubted that she had felt it.
But one look at Andrel and Jaysen convinced her otherwise; the former was 
deeply shaken, and the latter white-lipped.
She expected tenderness and concern from Andrel - but strangely enough, it was 
Jaysen who carefully got the boy into a chair, wrapped in the comforter; and from 
the chair back into the bed when Donni had stripped it of the wet coverings and 
remade it. It was Jaysen who stayed beside him, leaving Savil free to see to it 
that Mardic was truly all right. Savil wasn't in a mood to ask questions about his 
apparent change of heart.
Mardic was fine, and relatively cheerful. "I'll have a godsawful headache," he told 
her; "Poor Van thought I was going to kill him, took me for an enemy in his 
dream. When he realized it was a dream, he pulled most of it - "
"Most of it?" Savil choked. "He flattened you, and he pulled most of it?"
"Near as I can tell." Mardic put both hands to his temples and massaged a little. 
"Well when he pulled the blow, the energy overflowed into those raw channels 
and hurt him, and he went over the edge; couldn't control anything. Then - I think 
- he lost his center and got lost in his own pain. Andrel had the right notion; 
physical shock is what gave him something to home in on."
"But you are going to be all right?"
He gave her half a grin. "If you'll let me get some sleep."
Savil took the statement as an unsubtle request and made a hasty exit.
She got back just in time to see Andrel give Vanyel some kind of sedative to 
drink. But it was Jaysen who sat with the boy until Andrel's sedative took effect. 
And it was Jaysen who righted the armor-stand, and picked up the broken-
backed lute from the floor with a wince at seeing the fine instrument so ruined.
"I'll see to getting this fixed, if it can be," he said, when he saw Savil watching him 
before she knelt to put out the fire. They daren't have a fire here while Vanyel 
was asleep, nor candles burning, either - not unless Andrel could do something 
to keep him from going into another fit.
"Jays, what am I going to do with him?" she asked, quietly, standing up with a 
wince as a pulled muscle in her back told her what a fool she'd been. He 
motioned that she should precede him out the door, and she half turned to see 
his face as she walked past him. "He's sick with backlash, and he's getting 
sicker, not better. His channels are all raw; you can't Mindtouch him without 
doing that to him, throwing him into convulsions. That was what set all this off, 
Mardic trying to soothe him out of a bad dream. What am I going to do the next 
time he has a nightmare?"
Jaysen shrugged helplessly, and shut the door behind her. She made a circuit of 
the common room, setting candles erect and lighting them. "If you don't know, be 
damned if I do. Andy, can we keep him sedated long enough to heal?''
Andrel grimaced, looking as if he'd swallowed something sour. "With any other 
patient I'd tell you where to put that question - what I just gave the boy was 
argonel."
Jaysen and Savil both started with surprise, and in Savil's case the surprise was 
not unmixed with shock. "Great good gods, Andy!"
"Ease up; he's safe enough," Andrel interrupted her, throwing himself down on 
the couch with his usual lack of concern for the furniture. He groaned, stretched, 
and then raised an eyebrow at the Seneschal's Herald. "Jaysen, may I mention 
that you have lovely legs?"
Jaysen, who was attired only in shirt and hose and only just now really realized 
this, blushed a furious scarlet, but refused to be distracted. "Argonel, Andy - " he 
began, taking a chair and crossing his legs primly.
"He's burning it off at a respectable rate, or I wouldn't have given it to him," 
Andrel replied. "The benefit of it is that it's a muscle relaxant and a sedative; he 
won't be able to go into convulsions again even if you Mindtouch him. I won't 
speak for him tossing the Palace around, but he won't go into physical 
convulsions. As for him healing, well that depends entirely on what you mean."
Savil took another chair, flopping down into it with a tired thud as loud as the one 
Andrel had made connecting with the couch cushions.
"Physically," she said, flatly. "Pure physical healing. Backlash symptoms, 
exhaustion, blood loss. I'll worry about raw channels later."
"Yes, I can keep him sedated long enough for the effects of backlash to wear off, 
for his physical energy to recover and for him to replace the blood he lost. I can 
combine the argonel with jervain, and dull out all the Gift-senses enough so that 
they aren't so sensitive. That might let the channels heal. I don't know for sure; 
I've never seen nor read of anything like this, Gifts being blasted open like his 
were."
"Mentally?" Jaysen prodded, frowning. "Emotionally?"
"At this point I don't think even Lance can help him," Andrel replied sadly. "You 
both felt - "
Jaysen nodded, ruefully. "That's - I think perhaps I picked up something more 
than either of you," he said, a shadow of guilt crossing his face. "He - he thinks 
that everything he touches is doomed, cursed. Because of - what he and 'Lendel 
were. And I know exactly where he got that particularly poisonous little thought. 
Only it isn't a 'little thought' anymore. It's as much an obsession as Tylendel's 
was."
He hung his head, and wouldn't look at her. "I never thought - " he faltered. "I 
never guessed - I thought he was just a user - "
Savil was not feeling charitable just now. "Damn right, you never thought," she 
snapped. "You never thought at all! You and your damned provincial - "
"Savil," Andrel said, warningly, his head turned slightly to the side, nodding at the 
door to Vanyel's room.
She subsided. If she got angry, Van might pick it up; it might set him off again. 
"Sorry, Jays," she finally said grudgingly, not feeling sorry at all.
"At least you didn't send somebody out to cut their wrists," he answered 
unhappily.
She winced. "No - I just - hell, this isn't getting us anywhere. Andy, you think you 
can get him physically recovered, right?"
Candlelight reflected in his eyes, which had gone inward-looking. "I would say 
yes, cautiously."
"Let's worry about that, then, for a couple of days. I have a germ of an idea, but 
whether or not I can pull it off is going to depend very strongly on whether or not 
you can get Vanyel fit to ride.''
"If I can't get him to that point in the next couple of weeks or so, it's never going 
to happen," Andrel replied.
"What's the chance we can do something about the way he's barricading himself 
- or even help him get some of his power under his own control?''
He pondered her question while the fire crackled beside him. "Why don't you ask 
your Companions? He may be able to barricade against you, but I doubt he can 
do much against Yfandes."
She pressed her hand to her eyes and shook her head. "Gods, why in hell didn't I 
think of that?" And at the same time, Mindsent :Kellan?: knowing that Jaysen was 
doing the same with Felar.
-.Here,: came the reply, immediately.
She sent their dilemma in a complicated thought-burst, and waited while Kellan 
digested the information, and possibly conferred with Felar and Yfandes.
:Yfandes says that the bonding is weak,: came the reply, flavored with the acid 
tang of concern. :It fades in and out - and it hurts the boy, sometimes, to speak 
with her.:
:Can we do anything about that?: Jaysen fell into the rapport, and if there was 
anything other than genuine distress there on Vanyel's behalf, Savil couldn't feel 
it. Through him, she could Hear Felar.
:Physical contact,: Felar said shortly.
Kellan agreed. :As much as possible. That is what strengthens the bonding; now 
she cannot help him to get control of what he does.:
:And if the bond is strengthened?: Jaysen asked.
:Perhaps,: said Felar.
:A hope,: added Kellan.
Jaysen looked into Savil's eyes from across the room, and nodded, a little grimly. 
At this point they would accept even a hope, however tenuous.
Nothing hurt much, now, not since he'd drunk that fiery stuff the red-haired 
Healer had given him. Those places inside him, the mind-things, that had burned 
so - they still burned, but remotely, as if the hurting belonged to somebody else. 
He couldn't concentrate on much of anything for very long, and none of it really 
seemed to matter.
Only the empty place in him was pretty much the same; only that continued to 
ache in a way the Healer's potions couldn't seem to touch. The place where 
Tylendel had been - and now - 
But the potions let him sleep, a sleep without dreams. And he'd had the snow-
dreams again - that was what had thrown him into that fit.
Oh, gods - he'd thought - he'd thought they'd never come again. He'd thought 
'Lendel had driven them away.
But they weren't the dreams about being walled in by ice, so maybe 'Lendel had - 
Maybe not. He couldn't tell. It was the other dream, anyway. Clear, vivid as no 
other dream he'd dreamed had ever been, and much more detailed than the last 
time he'd had it.
He'd been in a canyon, a narrow mountain pass with walls that were peculiarly 
smooth. He'd known, in the dream, that this was no real pass - that this passage 
had been created, cut armlength by armlength, by magic.
He'd known, too, that the magic had been wrong, skewed. It had an aura of pain 
and death about it, as if every thumblength of that canyon had been paid for in 
spilled blood.
It had been night; cloudy, with a smell of snow on the wind. Where he stood the 
canyon had narrowed momentarily, choked by avalanches on either side. He'd 
been very cold, despite the heavy weight of a fur cloak on his shoulders; his feet 
had been like blocks of the ice that edged the canyon walls.
He had felt a feeling of grim satisfaction, when he'd seen that at this one point the 
passage was wide enough for two men, but no more. And he knew that he had 
somehow caused those blockages, to create a place where one man could, 
conceivably, hold off an army.
Because an army was what was coming down that canyon.
He'd sent for help, sent Yfandes and Tylendel - 
Tylendel? But Tylendel was dead - 
 - but he'd also known that help was unlikely to arrive in time.
He had waited until they were almost on him, suspecting nothing, and knowing 
that they could not see him yet because he willed it so. Then he had raised his 
right hand high over his head, and a mage-light had flared on it; so bright that the 
front ranks of that terrible army winced back, and their shadows fell black as the 
heart of night on the snow behind them. He had said nothing; nothing needed to 
be said. He barred the way; that was all the challenge required.
They were heavily armored, those fighters; armor of some dull, black stuff, and 
helms of the same. They carried the weight of that armor as easily as Vanyel 
wore his own white fur cloak. They bore unornamented round shields, again of 
the same dull, black material, and carried long broadswords. For the rest, what 
could be seen of their clothing under the armor and their cloaks over it, they were 
a motley lot. But they moved with a kind of sensitivity to the presence of the next-
in-line that had told Vanyel in the dream that they had been drilled together by a 
hand more merciless than ever Jervis had been.
They stared at him, and none of them moved for a very long time - 
Until the front ranks parted, and the wizard stepped through.
Wizard he was, and no doubt; Vanyel could feel the Power heavy within him. But 
it was Power of the same kind as that which had cut this canyon; paid for in 
agony. And when it was gone, there would be no more until the wizard could 
torture and kill again. Vanyel had all the power of life itself behind him; the power 
of the sleeping earth, of the living forest - 
He spread his arms, and the life-energy flowed from him, creating a barricade 
across the valley - 
 - like the barricade across his heart - 
 - and a shield behind which he could shelter. He faced the wizard, head held 
high, defiance in the slightest movement, daring him to try and pass.
But the ranks of the fighters parted again, and the first wizard was joined by a 
second, and a third. And Vanyel felt his heart sinking, seeing his own death 
sentence written in those three-to-one odds.
Still, he had stood his ground - 
Until Mardic touched his mind.
It had hurt, that touch; salt on raw flesh. He'd interpreted it as an attack of the 
wizards, and had struck back, struck to kill, and only as he'd made his strike had 
realized that - 
 - a dream, oh, gods - it's a dream, it isn't real, and that's Mardic - 
And had tried to pull the blow; had pulled the blow, but that sent the aborted 
power coursing back down places that burned in agony when it touched them. 
And he'd tried to stop the flow, but that had only twisted things up inside him, until 
he was a thrashing knot of anguish and he didn't know where he was or what he 
was doing. It all hurt, everything hurt, everything burned, and he was trapped in 
the pain, in the torment, crying out and knowing no one could hear him, and lost - 
he couldn't feel his body anymore, couldn't hear or see; he was foundering in a 
sea of agony - 
Then a shock - like being struck - 
He found himself gasping for breath, frozen to his teeth, but back in a normal 
body that hurt in a normal way.
Then he had blacked out for a moment; came to with the Healer shaking him, 
talking to him.
He was soaking wet, and shivering.
Mardic? What about Mardic?
The Herald Jaysen was holding him upright, more than half supporting him - 
Tylendel, dead, crumpled at Jaysen's feet. My fault, oh, gods, my fault - 
The grieving came down on him, full force; but somewhere at the back of his 
mind he knew that they were feeling what he was feeling and he clamped down 
on it - closed that line off - 
In the stunned, mental silence he heard Jaysen's anguished thoughts, as clearly 
and intimately as if he was speaking them into Vanyel's ear.
:Gods - oh, gods, I didn't know, I didn't guess - I thought he was playing with the 
boy, I thought he was - oh, gods, what have I done?:
He shuddered away from the unwanted sympathy, from the mind-words that 
were like acid in his wounds, and blocked that line just as ruthlessly.
Then had come the potions - and the numbness. The blessed unfeeling. He 
drifted, nothing to hold him, not even his worry for Mardic. It was pitchy dark, they 
hadn't left a single flame in the room, which under the circumstances was 
probably wise. Scraps of what he now knew were thoughts drifted over to him; 
now Savil's mind-voice, now Jaysen's (dark with guilt, and Vanyel wondered 
why), now Mardic's.
If he had been on his feet, he would have staggered with relief at hearing that 
last. I didn't kill him - thank the gods, I didn't kill him.
He drifted farther, until he couldn't hear anything anymore. Until he lost even his 
own thoughts. Until there was nothing left but sleep, and the sorrow that never, 
ever left him.
Savil stood beside the garden door with one hand on the frame, and prayed. She 
didn't pray often; most Heralds didn't. Praying usually meant asking for 
something - and the kind of person that became a Herald tended to be the kind 
that didn't look outside of himself for help until the last hope had been exhausted.
For Savil, at least, it had gotten to that point.
Just beyond the window, bundled in quilts and blankets and half-lying against 
Yfandes' side, Vanyel dozed in the sun, still kept in a sleepy half-daze by 
Andrel's potions. Jaysen had carried him out there, with his own mind so tightly 
shielded against leaking his thoughts that Savil fair Saw him quivering under the 
strain. Jaysen would be back for the boy in another two candlemarks, which was 
all Andrel would allow in this cold. This was the third day of the routine; there had 
been no real repetition of the crisis that had precipitated it, but Savil more than 
half expected one every night.
Vanyel sighed in sleep, and one arm stole out of the blankets to circle around 
Yfandes' neck. The Companion nuzzled his ear, and instead of pulling away, he 
cuddled closer to her.
But before Savil had a chance to really take in this first, positive sign that the 
Herald-Companion bond was taking root in the boy, someone pounded on her 
outer door. She half-turned, and heard Donni pattering across the common room 
to answer it. There was a murmur too indistinct to make but.
The voice from outside the door strengthened. "Please, I'm Van's sister - let me 
at least talk to my aunt - "
Savil started, and strode quickly across Vanyel's room, pulling open the door. 
There could only be one of Vanyel's sisters likely to show up on her doorstep at 
this point, the one that had fostered out in hopes of a career in the Guard.
"Let her in, Donni," Savil said - and blinked in surprise. The girl in the doorway 
could have been herself at seventeen or eighteen.
God help her - no wonder she went for the Guard, Savil thought irrelevantly. 
She's got that damned Ashkevron nose.
Evidently the same thought was running through the girl's mind. "You must be my 
Aunt Savil," she said forthrightly, standing at what was almost "attention" in the 
doorway. "You have the nose. I'm Lissa. Can I help?"
Savil decided that she liked this blunt girl. "Perhaps, I don't know yet," she 
replied. "First, Lissa, come in and tell me what you've heard."
Lissa turned away from the garden door with a shudder. "He looks like he's been 
dragged through the nine hells facedown," she said.
"And at that he looks better than he did three days ago," Savil replied. She would 
have said more, but there was another pounding on the suite door and a voice 
she knew only too well rumbled angrily when Donni answered it.
"Like bloody hell she's too busy," Lord Withen Ashkevron snarled. "I didn't bloody 
ride my best horse to foundering to be put off with a'too damned busy!' Now 
where in hell is she?"
Savil, with Lissa at her side, strode across to the door, flung it open, and stood 
facing Withen with her back poker-straight, feet slightly apart, arms crossed over 
her chest.
"What do you want, Withen?" she asked flatly, narrowing her eyes in mingled 
annoyance and apprehension.
"What the hell do you think I want?" he growled, ignoring Lissa and Donni as if 
they weren't there, placing his fists on his hips, and taking an aggressive, wide-
legged stance. "I want to know what the hell you've been doing with the boy I 
sent you! I sent him down here for you to make a man out of him, not turn him 
into a perverted little catamite!" His face darkened and his voice rose with every 
word. "I - "
"I think that's more than enough, Withen," she snapped, cutting him off before he 
could build up to whatever climax he had in mind. "I, I, I - dammit, you blustering 
peabrain, is that all you ever think of? Yourself? Vanyel almost died four days 
ago, he almost died again three days ago, and he could die or go mad in the next 
candlemark, and all you can think of is that he did something your back-country 
prejudices don't approve of! Gods above and below, you can'i even call him by 
his bloody name, just 'the boy'!"
She advanced on him with such anger in her face that he actually fell back a 
pace, alarm and surprise chasing themselves across his eyes. Lissa moved with 
her, and stood beside her with every muscle tensed, and her fists clenched into 
hard knots.
"You come storming in here when we've maybe - maybe - got him stable, without 
so much as a 'please' or a 'may I,' you don't even ask if he's in any shape to put 
two words together in a sensible fashion! Oh, no, all you can do is scream that I 
've made him into a catamite when you sent him to be made into a man. A man!" 
She laughed, a harsh cawing sound that clawed its way up out of her throat. "My 
gods - what the hell did you think he was? Tell me, Withcn, what kind of a man 
would send his son into strange hands just because the poor thing didn't happen 
to fit his image of masculinity?"
Savil ran out of things to say - but Lissa hadn't.
"What kind of a man would let a brutal bully break his son's arm for no damned 
reason?" the girl snarled. "What kind of a man would drive his son into becoming 
an emotional eunuch because every damned time the boy looked for a little bit of 
paternal love he got slapped in the face? What kind of a man would take 
anyone's word over his son's with no cause to ever think the boy was a liar?'' 
Lissa faced down her father as if he had become her enemy. "You tell me, 
Father! What right do you have to demand anything of him? What did you ever 
give him but scorn? When did you ever give him a single thing he really needed 
or wanted? When did you ever tell him he'd done well? When did you ever say 
you loved him?"
Withen backed up another two paces, his back against the wall beside the door, 
his expression that of someone who has just been poleaxed.
Savil found her tongue again. "A man - may all the gods give you what you 
deserve, you fathead! What kind of a man would care more for his own 
reputation than his son's life?'' She was backing him into the corner now, 
unleashing on Withen all the pain and frustration and anger she'd been keeping 
bottled up inside her over the past week. He had gone pale - and started to try to 
say something, but she cut him off.
"Let me tell you this, Withen," she hissed. "Everything that Vanyel's become, you 
had a hand in making - and mostly because you didn't want a son, you just 
wanted a little toy copy of yourself to parade around so that people could 
congratulate you on your bedroom prowess. You helped make him what he is - 
gave him a set of values so distorted it's a wonder he even recognized love when 
he saw it, and taught him that he had to keep everything he felt secret because 
adults couldn't be trusted. And now I have one boy dead, and one a hair from 
dying, and all you care about is that somebody might think you weren't manly 
enough to father manly sons! Oh, get out of here, get out of my sight - "
She turned away from him before he could see the tears in her eyes. Lissa put a 
steadying hand on her shoulder and glared at her father as if she would be 
perfectly happy to take a piece out of him if he said one wrong word.
"S-s-savil - I - I - " he stammered. "They said - but I didn't believe - is Vanyel - "
"One wrong word, one wrong move, and he will die, Withen," she said flatly, her 
eyes shut tightly as she reestablished control over herself. "One wrong thought 
almost killed him. He slit his wrists because he discovered that someone he 
trusted believed that his love was the reason Tylendel died. Are you pleased with 
what you made? It was certainly the honorable thing for him to do, wasn't it?"
"I - I - "
"I am very gratified to be able to tell you that he isn't yours anymore, Withen, he's 
mine. He's been Chosen - if he lives that long, he'll be a Herald-trainee, and as 
such, he is my charge. You've forfeited any claim on him. So you can have what 
you've always wanted - little Mekeal can be your heir-designate, and you can 
wash your hands of Vanyel with a clear conscience."
Withen flinched at her pitilessly accurate words, and seemed to almost shrink in 
size.
"Savil - I didn't mean - I didn't want - "
"You didn't?" She raised an ironic eyebrow.
He winced. "Savil, can I - see him? I won't hurt him, I - dammit, he's still my son!"
"Lissa, do you think we should?"
Lissa looked at her father as one looks at a not-particularly-trustworthy stranger. 
"I don't know that he can behave himself.''
Withen's face darkened. "You ungrateful little - "
Lissa shrugged, and said to Savil, "See what I mean?"
Savil nodded. "I see - but he has a point. Maybe he ought to see his handiwork." 
She nodded toward the door to Vanyel's room. "Follow me, Withen. And keep a 
rein on that mouth of yours, or I'll have you thrown out."
He stopped dead at the garden door, and pressed his hands and face against the 
glass in stunned disbelief. "My gods - " he gasped. "They said - but I didn't 
believe them. Savil, I've seen men dead a week that looked better than that!"
Lissa snorted. Savil pushed him away from the door impatiently, and opened it, 
flinching a bit as the cold air hit her. She looked back at him; he'd made no move 
to follow. "Are you coming, or not?" she asked, keeping her voice low so as not 
to startle Vanyel.
He swallowed, his own face set and very white, and followed her with slow, 
hesitant steps. She walked quickly to the patch of sheltered, sun-gilded brown 
grass where the boy was lying with Yfandes; he hadn't moved since she'd left. 
He didn't seem to notice she was there as she knelt in the harsh, dry grass that 
prickled her knees through the cloth of her breeches and hose.
"Van - Van, wake up a little, can you?" she said softly, not touching him at all, 
either with hand or mind. "Van?"
He moved his head a little, and blinked in a kind of half-dazed parody of 
sleepiness. "A-aunt?" he murmured.
"Your father's here - Withen - he wants to see you. Vanyel, he can't take you 
home, he has no power over you now that you're Chosen. You don't have to see 
him if you don't want to."
Vanyel blinked again, showing a little more alertness. "N-no. S'all right. 'Fandes 
says s'all right; says I should."
Savil rose quickly and returned to where Withen waited uncertainly on the worn 
path, halfway between the door and where the boy lay. "Go ahead," she said 
roughly. "Don't raise your voice, and speak slowly. We've got him pretty heavily 
drugged, so keep that in mind. You might trigger more than you want to hear if 
you aren't careful."
She followed a few steps behind him, with Lissa behind her, and remained within 
earshot as he knelt heavily in the dry grass and started to reach out to touch 
Vanyel's shoulder. She very nearly snapped at him, but Vanyel roused a bit 
more, and waved the blunt fingers away.
"Vanyel - " the man said, seeming at a complete loss for words. "Vanyel, I - I 
heard you were sick - "
Vanyel gave a pitiful little croak of a laugh. "You h-heard I was playin' ewe t' 
'Lenden's ram, y'mean. Don' lie t' me, Father. You lied t' me all m'life an' I couldn' 
prove it, but I know when people lie t'me now."
Withen flushed, but Vanyel wasn't through yet.
"Y're thinkin' now that - I - I'm perv'rt'd, unclean or somethin', an' that I - I'm just 
bad an' ungrateful an' I n-never p-p-pleased you an' - dammit, all I ev' wanted 
was f'r you t' tell me I did somethin' right! Just once, Father, j-j-just one time! An' 
all you ever d-d-did was let J-J-Jervis knock me flat, an' then kick me y'rself! 
'Lendel loved me, an' I loved him an' you can stop thinkin' those - god - damned - 
rotten - things - ''
Withen pulled back and started to his feet - opened his mouth like he was about 
to roar at his son - 
But that was as far as he got. Vanyel's eyes blazed; his face went masklike with 
rage. And before Withen could utter a single syllable, Vanyel surged up out of his 
cocoon of blankets and knocked Withen head over heels into the bushes with the 
untrained, half-drugged power of his mind alone.
Withen struggled up. Vanyel knocked him flat. Lissa made as if to go to one or 
the other of them, but Savil caught her arm.
"Look at Yfandes," she said. "She's calm, she hasn't even moved. Let them have 
this out. Between us I think Yfandes and I could keep the lad from killing his 
father, but that isn't what he wants to do."
Twice more Withen tried to get his feet, and twice more Vanyel flung him back. 
He was crying now, silent, unnoticed tears streaking his white cheeks. "How's it 
feel, Father? Am I strong enough now? How's it feel t' get knocked down an' 
stepped on by somethin' you can't reason with an' can't fight? You happy? I'm as 
big a bully as J-J-Jervis now - does that make you bloody happy?"
Withen's mouth worked, but no sound came out of it.
Vanyel stared at him, then the angry light faded from his eyes and was replaced 
by a disgusted bitterness. "It doesn't make me happy, Father," he said, quietly, 
and clearly; the last of the drug-haze gone from his speech. "Knowing I can do 
this to you just makes me sick. Nothing makes me happy anymore. Nothing ever 
will again."
He sank back down to the ground, pulled his blankets around himself, and turned 
his face into Yfandes' shoulder. "Go away, Father," he said, voice muffled. "Just 
go away.''
Withen got slowly and awkwardly to his feet. He stood; shaken and pale, looking 
down at his son for a long time.
"Would it make any difference if I said I was sorry?" he asked, finally; from the 
bewildered expression on his face, acutely troubled - and more than that, vaguely 
aware that he had just had his entire world knocked head-over-heels, and was 
entirely uncertain of what to do or say or even be next.
"Maybe - someday," came the voice, thickened with tears. "Not now. Go away, 
Father. Please - leave me alone."

Dear Withen: I think you are right for once in your life. The boy is not a boy 
anymore. He never was the boy you thought he was. If you can adapt yourself to 
treating him as an adult and an acquaintance rather than your offspring, I think 
you can come to some kind of a reconciliation with him eventually.
"Savil?"
Savil looked up. Mardic peeked around Savil's half-open door, uncertainty in his 
very posture.
Huh. I'm getting better at reading people.
She gave a quick glance out her window. Vanyel was sitting on the bench just 
outside it, talking with Lissa, Yfandes hovering over both of them.
Bless the child; I don't know what I'd do without her.
For a moment she forgot Mardic; a terrible weariness bowed down her shoulders 
like a too-heavy cloak.
Gods. What am I going to do? He's not getting better, just a little stronger. He 
keeps trying to make me or Liss into a substitute for 'Lendel, into someone else 
to follow. I can't let him do that. It 'II just make things ultimately worse. But when 
we try and push him into standing on his own feet, he goes into a sulk. She 
sighed. It makes me so angry at him that I want to slap him into next week. And 
he's had too much of that already. He doesn't really deserve it, either. Hellfires, 
those sulks are the closest he's ever gotten to normal behavior! Oh, gods - 
Mardic cleared his throat, and she jumped. "I'm sorry, lad, I'm woolgathering. 
Must be getting old. Come on in."
He edged into the room, crabwise. "Savil, Donni and I want to ask you 
something," he faltered, hands behind his back, rubbing his left foot against his 
right ankle. "We - Savil, you're the best there is, but - Vanyel needs you more 
than we do."
"Gods," she sighed, rubbing her right temple. "I have been shorting you two - I 
am sorry - "
"No, really, we don't mind," Donni interrupted, poking her curly head past the 
edge of the door just behind Mardic's shoulder.
"I was wondering when you'd put in your silver-worth," Savil replied.
"We do come as a set," she pointed out. "No, Savil, you haven't been shorting us. 
It's more that we're afraid you're going to split yourself in half, trying to do too 
many things. Vanyel needs you; we've finally got what we needed from you - 
there wasn't anybody else likely to be able to teach us to work in concert, but 
look - "
Mardic moved farther into the room; Donni stayed by the door. They reached out 
to one another, arms extended, and hands not quite touching, and - 
Where there had been two auras there was now one; a golden-green flow over 
and around them that was seamless - and considerably more than either aura 
had been alone. Savil blinked in surprise. "Just when did you two start to do 
that?" she asked.
"The night - when we had to get the Temple open," Mardic supplied. "When we 
had to get the arrow up, and then even more when we meshed in the Healing-
meld. That's when what you'd been showing us sort of fell into place. So, well, 
now any Herald-Mage could teach us, and really, given what we do together, it 
probably ought to be Jaysen, or Lancir. But Jaysen hasn't got anyone right now.''
"Piffle. You'd make a three-hour tale of a limerick," Donni sniffed. "Savil, we 
asked Jaysen; he said he'd take us if you allow it.''
Savil put down her pen, and closed her gaping mouth. "I think I may kiss you 
both," she replied, as Donni gave Mardic an "I told you so" grin. "I was trying to 
think of a way to get you another mentor and coming up blank because I 'm the 
only one who knows how to teach concert work. Bless you, loves."
She rose and took both of them in her arms; they returned the embrace; their 
support as much mental as physical.
"Savil," Donni said quietly, as she released them with real reluctance. "What are 
you going to do with Vanyel? He's - he's still so broken - and everything here has 
just got to keep reminding him of 'Lendel. It's too bad you can't take him 
somewhere really different."
"Gods, that's only too true," she replied.
 - really different - gods - oh, gods, thank you for bright little proteges!
"Donni," she said slowly, "I think you may just have found my answer for me. 
Now I'm even more grateful to you for finding yourselves a new teacher.''
"You've got an idea?"
Savil nodded. "And kill two birds with one stone. Those things the Leshara had 
brought in - they had to be from the Pelagirs, just like what 'Lendel conjured in 
retribution. I'd have had to go out there anyway, to find out who's been 
tampering. So - what I'm going to do is take Vanyel there to some friends of 
mine, the Hawkbrothers. They're self-appointed guardians of the Pelagirs, so 
they should be told if there's been a mage tampering with their creatures. And 
they follow a different discipline; maybe they can help Van. And if they can't, I 
know they can at least contain him."
"But you really think they can help him?" Donni asked hopefully.
"Well, I can't; I know for a fact that Starwind is better than I am. Besides, if we 
keep Van drugged much longer, Andrel is afraid he'll become addicted, but if we 
take him off - "
"He could wreck the Palace." Mardic nodded solemnly. "When are you taking 
him?"
"When - within the next few days, I think. The sooner the better." She looked over 
his head, to the Wingsister talisman on her wall. "The only problem is that to find 
Starwind k'Treva and Moondance k'Treva I'll have to go to them - because they 
don't ever come out of the Pelagirs. That means two things. I'll have to build a 
Gate, and I'll have to hope that I still know how to find them."


Eleven

"Gods, I hate Gating," Savil muttered to Andrel, squinting against the glare of sun 
on snow as she scanned the sky for even a hint of cloud.
"Why? Other than the recent rotten associations - "
"It's damned dangerous at the best of times. It plays fast and loose with local 
weather systems, for one thing; it's a spell that sets up a local energy field, a kind 
that disrupts any kind of high-energy weather pattern that's around it. Usually for 
the worse." She closed her eyes, centered and grounded, and extended her 
Mage-Gift sense up and out, looking farther afield for anything that might move in 
while she had the Gate up. To her vast relief there didn't seem to be anything of 
consequence anywhere nearby; the only energy-patterns she could read were a 
few rising air currents over warm spots, too small to be any hazard.
She sighed. "Well, the weather's not going to cause any problems. How was the 
lad?"
"Drugged to his teeth, and I would stake my arm that he won't be able to count to 
one before some time tonight. And I am damned glad you told me that you were 
planning on Gating out of here." Andrel tucked his long, sensitive hands inside 
his cloak, and peered across the open Field through the sunlight. "Since it was 
Gate-energy that blew his channels open - "
"Probably," Savil interrupted.
"All right, probably blew his channels open - he's going to be doubly sensitive to it 
for the rest of his life. He'll likely know when someone's opening a Gate within a 
league of him. And actually going through one may touch off another fit. Which is 
why - "
" - you drugged him to the teeth. I have no objection; it's a little awkward, but 
that's why we have the kind of saddles for our Companions that we do."
They crunched their way across Companion's Field, now covered with the first 
snowfall of the season. Savil repeated a quieting exercise for every step she 
made, for she knew she needed to establish absolute calm within herself; she 
would be Gating to her absolute physical limits (in terms of the distance she 
planned to cover) and that would take every reserve she had.
In light of that, she had turned everything (other than establishing the Gate itself) 
over to the hands of others. Mardic and Donni had done all her packing, Lissa 
had taken care of Vanyel's, and Lissa had taken charge of the boy once Andrel 
was finished with him. They were all waiting at the Grove Temple at this very 
moment.
"So why else don't you like Gating?" Andrel asked, while the Field around them 
glowed under the sun.
"Because when I get there, I'm going to be pretty damned worthless," she replied 
dryly, "And I'd better hope the Talisman performs the way Starwind claimed it 
was supposed to, or we'll be a pretty pathetically helpless pair, Vanyel and I."
"Why don't you do what Tylendel did, use someone else's energy?"
"Because I don't really know what he did," she said, after a long pause that was 
punctuated only by the sound of their footsteps breaking through the light crust of 
snow. "None of us do. That may be why we ended up feeding the energy back 
through poor Van instead of grounding and dissipating it. I personally do not care 
to take the chance of doing that to another living soul and neither do any of the 
others. Vanyel lived through it; someone else might not. And it may well be that 
you have to have a lifebound pair to carry it off at all. So," she shrugged, "we do 
this the hard way, and I fall on my nose on the other side."
They entered the Grove, the leafless trees making a lacework of dark branches 
against the bright blue sky.

The peace of the Grove never left it, no matter what the season was. That was 
one reason why Savil had chosen to set up the Gate here. The other was that it 
was the safest place on the Palace grounds that she could put a Gate; no one 
but Heralds ever came here without invitation. There should be no accidents 
caused by a stranger wandering by at the wrong moment.
The group waiting by the Temple, which looked today as if it had been newly-
made of the same pure snow that covered the ground around it, was a small one. 
Jaysen, Donni and Mardic, and Lissa. There were only two Companions there; 
Kellan and Yfandes. Companions tended to avoid the Grove except when a 
Herald died. Vanyel was slumped over in Yfandes' saddle, wrapped in the 
warmest cloak Savil could find and strapped down securely enough that his 
Companion could fight or flee without losing him.
Avert - Savil thought, a little superstitiously. Let there be no reason for her to 
have to fight. We've had enough bad fortune without that.
She went first to his side; his hands had been loosely tied together at the wrist 
and the bindings were hooked over the pommel of the saddle. The stirrup-irons 
were gone, probably stored in one of the packs bundled behind his saddle; the 
stirrup-leathers had been turned into straps binding his calves to the saddle itself. 
He was belted twice at the waist; once to the pommel, once to the high cantle, 
using rings on the saddle meant for exactly that purpose. He was not going to 
come off.
Andrel reached her side; he reached up and pried open one of Vanyel's eyelids. 
The boy didn't react at all, and his pupils were mere pinpoints. The Healer's eye 
unfocused for a moment as he "read" the boy; then he nodded with satisfaction.
"He should be all right, Savil. No more drugs, though, after this. Not even if those 
friends of yours - "
Savil shook her head. "They don't like this kind of drug. Not for any reason. 
Drugs like you've been giving him are too easy to abuse."
"I don't like them either, but there are times you've got no other choice, and this 
was one of them." Andrel touched the boy's hand; his green eyes darkened as he 
brooded for a moment. "Gods. I hope you're right about these people. His 
channels haven't healed at all, not really."
"If they can't help us, no one can." Savil turned her back on her semi-conscious 
charge and faced the door of the Temple, and put herself into the right mindset to 
invoke her spell.
To build a Gate - 
It was the most personal of spells. Only one person could build a Gate, because 
only one mind could direct the energy needed to build it. The spell-wielder had to 
have a very exact notion of where the Gate was to exit, and no two people ever 
had precisely the same mental image of a place. In any event, only Savil had 
ever been in the k'Treva territory of the Pelagirs. She couldn't be "fed" by another 
Herald-Mage, since she would need every bit of her attention for the Gate itself 
and would have none to spare to channel incoming energy. Lastly, because the 
energy had to be so intimately directed, it could come from only one place - 
From within the builder of the Gate. Or - perhaps - one soul-bound to the builder 
of the Gate? A lifebond was at such a deep level that it wasn't conscious, so 
perhaps that was why Tylendel had succeeded in using Vanyel as his source of 
energy.
The kind of power needed to build a Gate was the kind that could be stored, 
could be planned for. But like a vessel that could only hold so much liquid, a 
mage could only hold so much energy within himself. Savil had prepared for this; 
she could replenish herself within a day when the spell was completed and the 
Gate dismissed. But for that critical period of twenty-four candlemarks she would 
be exhausted - physically, mentally, and magically.
No time to think of that. Get to it, woman. First, the Portal, then the Weaving.
The Temple door had been used so many times before as one end of a Gate that 
it needed no special preparation. She needed only to - reach - 
She raised her hands, closed her eyes, and centered herself so exactly that 
everything about her vanished from her attention. There was only the power 
within her, and the place where the Gate would begin.
I call upon the Portal - 
She molded the power into a frame upon the physical frame of the doorway; 
building it layer upon layer until it was strong enough to act as an anchor to hold 
this place when she warped space back upon itself.
Then she began spinning out threads of energy from the framework; they drifted 
outward, seeking.
This is the place, she told them, silently willing them to find the real-world 
counterpart of the image in her mind. Where the rocks are so and the trees grow 
thus and the feel of the earth is in this manner - 
They spun out, longer, finer, more attenuated. When they weakened, she fed 
them from within herself, spinning her own substance out and feeling it drawn out 
of her.
Now she was losing strength; it felt exactly as if she were bleeding from an open 
wound. And the power was not merely draining from her anymore, it was being 
pulled from her by the Gate itself. This was the point of greatest danger for a 
Herald-Mage; she was having to fight the Gate to keep from being drained right 
down to unconsciousness.
Then one of those questing power-threads caught on something, out beyond the 
farthest range of her sensing; another followed - 
There was a silent explosion of light that she could see even through her closed 
lids, and the Gate Wove itself in an instant into a temporary, but stable, whole.
She dropped her hands, opened her eyes, and swayed with uttermost 
exhaustion; Kellan was there beside her in time for her to catch the pommel of 
her saddle to keep from falling.
The door of the Temple was no longer within the doorframe. Instead, the white 
marble - glowing now, even in the bright sunlight - framed a strange and twisted 
bit of landscape.
"That's where you're going?" Jaysen said doubtfully, looking at the weird shapes 
of rock, snow and sand that lay beyond the portal. It was snowing there, from 
black, lowering clouds; fat flakes drifting down through still, dark air. Savil 
nodded.
"That's it; that's the edge of the Pelagirs near Star-wind's territory. The other end 
is a cave entrance, so we'll have some shelter on the other side until Starwind 
and Moondance get there."
"And if they don't?" Jaysen asked. "Savil, I don't like to think of you two alone out 
in a place like that. The boy is next to useless, and you're exhausted."
"Jays, it's quite possible that they'd take one look at you and kill you if they didn't 
see me right there with you," she said, clinging to the saddle and trying to muster 
enough strength to climb into it. "They're unbelievably territorial and secretive, 
and for good reasons - think for a minute, will you? They have to have known 
someone was tampering, stealing creatures they thought safely locked up. If they 
see a stranger and Sense he's Mage-Gifted, they're likely to strike first and ask 
questions of the corpse. And I mean that literally. I'm taking enough risk bringing 
the boy in, and he's plainly in need of help, and branded as mine. "
She gave up trying to be self-sufficient. "Boost me up, will you?" she asked 
humbly.
Jaysen went her one better; with the help of Andrel he lifted her into place. "Have 
you got everything you need?"
"I think so." In actual fact, she was too tired to think; it was all she could do to 
keep her mind on the next step of the journey. "Toss the firewood through."
Four heavy bundles of dry, seasoned wood went through the Gate to land in the 
snow on the other side.
Vanyel whimpered beside her; she could see his face was creased with lines of 
pain. He's feeling it, like Andy thought he might. Better hurry.
"Mardic - " she said quietly. "Donni - "
Savil's proteges came solemnly to her stirrup; she held out her hands to them, 
and shared a moment of mind-melded intimacy with them that was more than 
"farewell"; it was a sharing of gifts. Her pride in them and love and blessing - and 
their love and well-wishing for her.
"Lissa - "
The girl came to stand beside her students.
"I can't begin to thank you," Savil began, awkward, as ever, with words.
"Thank me by bringing Van home well," Lissa replied earnestly. "That's all I 
want." She reached up and squeezed Savil's hand once, then backed away.
The youngsters moved out of the way, and Jaysen and Andrel came to take their 
place without any prompting. She gave a hand to each, closing her eyes again, 
and opening herself to them in a melding even more intimate than she had 
shared with her students, for there were no secrets among the three of them, and 
nothing held back. What she had not told Mardic and Donni was that there might 
be no returning from this journey. If she failed with Vanyel, he might well destroy 
both of them, his Gifts were that powerful. Even now he moaned again in his 
drug-induced slumber, feeling the Gate energies despite a dose of narcotic that 
would have rendered a less sensitive Gifted unconscious for a week.
For a moment, she was angry. He could kill us, and do it without knowing what 
he was doing. Oh, gods. Gods, you owe him, dammit! You've taken his love - at 
the least give him something in return.
But she was too tired, too depleted to sustain even her anger at Fate or the gods 
or - whatever. Especially when this might really be farewell.
So this was a moment when she asked forgiveness of her friends for anything 
she might have done in the past - and they asked for and received the same from 
her.
When she raised her heavy, weary head, the two pairs of eyes, green and gray, 
that met hers were bright with tears that would not be shed - at least not now. 
She squeezed their hands, and let go; they stepped away from her as she 
straightened in her saddle, took a deep breath, and faced the Gate and the gray 
landscape beyond it. It looked no more welcoming now than it had before, and 
dallying wasn't going to make the leaving easier.
:All right, Kellan,: she Mindspoke. -.Let's go.:
And they rode into the stomach-churning vertigo she had come to hate.
Savil huddled beside the fire with her legs curled under her, forcing herself to 
stay awake. There was, thank the gods, no wind; the cave was warming fairly 
quickly. It smelled of damp, though, and of the musty taint of the half-rotten 
leaves that had blown in here with the autumn winds. That damp meant that if 
she let the fire die, it would chill down very quickly, a chill that would penetrate 
even their thick wool cloaks.
Once she'd taken the Gate down, she'd had just enough strength to lay the fire, 
and start it with the coal she'd brought in a fire-safe. After that she'd sunk to the 
sand next to it, pulling Vanyel close in beside her. He was curled up against her 
now, bundled with her inside her cloak, his head in her lap; he shook like a reed 
in the wind. From time to time he moaned and his hand groped for something 
that seemed to elude him; she soothed him back into sleep, stroking his hair until 
he finally recognized that she was still with him and calmed a little.
The Gate-crossing had been hard on him, as hard as she'd feared. When she'd 
gone to take him from Yfandes' back, he'd been half-roused out of his drugged 
daze; his eyes had been wide open, his jaws clenched. He had been held 
paralyzed, not by the drugs, but by unfocused and overwhelming terror and pain. 
It had taken a candlemark to get him soothed down again.
Somewhere just outside were Kellan and Yfandes, standing a watchful guard in 
the falling snow. Still in their tack, poor things - she'd barely been able to get 
Vanyel unstrapped from the saddle before collapsing beside him. She had nearly 
forgotten to activate the Wing-sister Talisman. It had taken Kellan's sharp 
reminder to shake her out of her fog of exhaustion long enough to stab her finger 
and let the prescribed three drops of her blood fall on it.
Memory came, then, as sharply defined as if she had bid farewell to the 
Hawkbrothers scant days ago instead of years.

* * *

"Blood calls to blood, and heart to heart," Starwind told her gravely, his ice-blue 
eyes focused inward. He held his slashed palm above the Wingsister Talisman of 
silver wire and crystals, and his blood dripped onto the heart-stone of the piece, 
dyeing the clear crystal a vivid ruby.
Savil watched, silently, feeling the power flowing and weaving itself into the 
intricate design of rainbow crystal and silver wire.
This was nothing like the kind of magic she was used to using; it really wasn't 
much like that the Hawkbrothers had taught her, either. This was older magic, 
much older, dating, perhaps, from the times of the Mage Wars, the wars that had 
wrecked the world and left the Pelagirs a twisted, magic-riddled ruin. She 
shivered a little, and Starwind looked up, one of his brief and infrequent smiles 
lighting his face for a moment.
He closed his hand; Moondance touched the back of it, and he opened it again. 
The slash in his palm had been Healed with the speed of a thought. At eighteen 
the young outlander now calling himself "Moondance" was well on his way to 
becoming that rarest of mages, a Healer-Adept.
Starwind fixed the Talisman in its place on the mask of feathers and crystal 
beads; it resembled a palm-sized diadem perched on the brow of the mask 
above the eye-slits. He handed the whole mask to her, and nodded at the 
Talisman. "When you need us again, come to us, and let three drops of your own 
blood fall upon the heart-stone. I shall know, and come to you."
In all those years since, the heart-stone's bright scarlet had not faded. She only 
hoped that the set-spell had not faded either. It did seem to her that the heart-
stone began pulsing with a dim, inner light from the moment that her blood 
touched it. But that could have been the flickering of the fire, or the wavering of 
her own vision; she was too spent to tell, and too drained to begin to sense 
power even if it was moving under her own nose.
Vanyel stirred at her side, curling his knees tighter against his chest. She shifted 
a bit, glad that the floor of the cave was covered in several inches of dry, soft 
sand.
Poor child, she thought, her mind dark with despair. I'm at a loss for what to do 
with you. You keep reaching out to me for support, and I want to give it to you, 
and I can't, I mustn't. If I do, you'II just fall right back into the pattern you danced 
with poor 'Lendel. She stroked the fine, silky hair beneath her hand, and her 
heart ached for him. You don't know what to think anymore, do you? You're 
afraid to touch again, afraid to open yourself, you're full of such fear and such 
pain - gods, when you told Withen that nothing would ever make you happy 
again - 
She swallowed the lump in her throat that threatened to choke her, and blinked at 
the dancing flames, then closed her stinging eyes and felt tears bead up on her 
lashes. Starwind, old friend, she thought desperately, where are you? I'm out of 
my depth; I don't know what to do. I need your help - 
:And you have it, sister-of-my-heart.:
She started. There was a swirl of snow at the cave entrance, white-gold and 
shadow in the dancing firelight. There had been no alert from either Companion-
But when the snow settled and cleared, he was there.
He hadn't changed, not at all.
The sword of ice, she had called him when she'd first seen him. Flowing silver 
hair still reached past his waist when he put back,the hood of his white cloak and 
let the silky mass of it tumble free. There still were no wrinkles in his face, not 
even around the obliquely-slanting, ice-blue eyes; he was still tall and unbent, still 
slender as a boy. Only the cool deeps of his eyes showed his age, and the aura 
of power that pulsed about him. No mage would ever have any doubts that this 
was an Adept, and a powerful one.
He smiled at her, and held out his hands. "Welcome, heart-sister, Wingsister 
Savil," he said in the liquid Tay-ledras tongue, gliding to her to take the hands 
she held up to him in his own. "Always welcome, and well come thou art."
"Starwind, shaydra," her sight darkened for a momerit, and when it cleared, the 
Tayledras Adept was kneeling at her side, holding her upright.
"Savil, you stubborn, headstrong woman," he chided, as she felt an inrushing of 
energy from his center to hers. She swayed a little, and he held her upright. 
"What need could possibly have been so great that you drain yourself to a wraith 
to Gate yourself here?''
"This need - " She pulled back her cloak to show him the boy curled against her 
side, his face taut with pain.
"God of my fathers - " He reached out with his free hand and barely touched 
Vanyel's brow. He pulled back his hand as if it had been burned. "Goddess of my 
mothers! What have you brought me, sister?"
"I don't know," she said, slumping wearily against him. "He's been blasted open, 
and he can't heal - more than that - I'm too tired to tell you right now. So much 
has happened, and to both of us - I just can't think what to do anymore. All I know 
is that he's hurting, and I can't help him, and if I'd left him where he was he'd 
have destroyed himself at the best, and half the capital at the worst."
"There is nothing wrong with your judgment, I pledge you that," Starwind replied, 
sitting back on his heels and regarding the boy dubiously. "There is such 
potential there - he frightens me. And such darkness of the soul-no, Wingsister, 
not evil; there is nothing evil in him. Just - darkness. Despair is a part of it, but - 
denial of what he is and must become is another. Self-willed darkness; he wills 
himself not to see, I think."
"You see more than I do," she told him, rubbing her aching forehead. "I haven't 
the right to ask it of you, but - will you help me with him? Can you help me?"
The firelight turned the ice of his eyes to blue-gold flame. "You have the right, 
sister to brother, to ask what you will of me. Did you not gift me with the greatest 
of all gifts, in the person of my shay'kreth'ashke? "
She had to smile a little at that. Bringing Starwind another boy long ago had been 
one of the few unalloyed good things she'd ever done. "Where is Moondance, 
anyway?''
:Moondance stands in the snow, defending his head and his lifeblood. Telling the 
,stranger-lasha'Kaladra not to eat me,: came the laughter-flavored reply. I 
frightened her. She does not trust me, I think. :
:Kellan - : Savil Mindspoke tiredly.
:He popped up right under Yfandes' nose and scared the liver out of her, 
Chosen,: Kellan replied apologetically. :She went for him before we knew who it 
was. It's all right now, he's just making amends.:
:Bright Havens, Kelt, you know him, at least!: she snapped, her tiredness making 
her impatient.
:Not anymore - :
"I fear I have greatly changed, Wingsister," Moon-dance said contritely from the 
entrance. "And I also fear I had forgotten the fact."
Savil looked over Starwind's shoulder and felt her mouth gaping. Starwind put 
one finger beneath her chin, and shut it for her with a chuckle.
"Great good gods!" she said after a moment of stunned silence. "You have 
changed!"
The Moondance she had known - he hadn't had the name "Moondance" for long 
at that point - had been brown-haired and brown-eyed and as ordinary as a 
peasant hut. Not surprising for one of peasant stock. But now - now the hair was 
as long and as silver and the eyes as ice-blue as Starwind's. The lines of his face 
were still the same; square to Starwind's triangle, but the cheekbones were far 
more prominent than Savil remembered, and the body had grown out of 
adolescent gawkiness and into a slender grace so like Starwind's that they could 
have been brothers by birth instead of by blood.
:He even smells different,: Kellan complained.
"How did you do that?" Savil demanded.
Moondance made a fluid shrug, and tossed the sides of his white cape over his 
shoulders, showing that he wore only thin gray breeches and a sleeveless gray 
leather jerkin with matching boots. Savil shivered at this reminder that the 
Tayledras never seemed to notice the cold. "It's the magic we use," he said. "It 
makes us into what it wants us to be. I think."
"As always, an oversimplification," Starwind correcled him fondly. ' 'Ka'sheeleth. 
Savil has brought us a problem. Come look at this boy - "
Moondance drifted over to Savil's other side, sat on his heels beside her, and 
studied Vanyel's face for several breaths.
"Hai'yasha, "he breathed. "Shay'a'chern, hmm? And Lovelost? No, it goes deeper 
than that." He reached out as Starwind had, and touched Vanyel's forehead, but 
unlike Starwind, did not pull away. "Ai'she'va - Holiest Mothers! The pain!" His 
jaw tightened and the pupils of his eyes contracted to pinpoints. "Reft and bereft 
of shay 'kreth 'ashke.'' His face took on the tranquillity of a statue. "Pawn he is 
now - pawn he has been - " he said, his tone flat, his voice dropping half an 
octave. "Pawn to what he is and what he wills not to be. But will or no, the pawn 
is in play - and the play is a trial - "
"And what of the game?" Starwind asked in a whisper.
Moondance hesitated, then life came back to his face as he shrugged again, and 
his pupils went back to normal. "No way of knowing," he replied, slowly taking his 
hand from Vanyel's forehead. "That depends entirely upon whether he is willing 
to become more than a pawn. But yours to be the Teaching, I think," he said, 
looking up sharply at the Adept. "It is like your powers that he holds. As for 
Healing, I think that half of it will be his doing - if he Heals at all - "
"And the other half yours," the Adept stated with an ironic smile.
Moondance turned Vanyel's wrist up, showing the scar across it - then turned 
over his own hand, and the firelight picked out the scar that ran from the gold-
skinned hand halfway to the elbow, a scar that followed the course of the blue 
vein pulsing beneath the skin. "Who better?" he asked. "We have something in 
common, I think."
Savil swayed again, caught in a sudden dizziness, and Starwind took hold of her 
shoulders to steady her. "You need rest," he said in concern. "Will you have it 
here, or can you ride?''
Savil thought longingly of just lying down where she was, and then reflected on 
being able to do so in a bed.
And also on the Companions, out there in the snow and cold, and still in their 
harnesses.
"The Companions can and will carry double," she sighed, feeling just about ready 
to fade away. "If you're willing to ride them. Or strap us in, I don't much care 
which. But I'd like them in the warm."
"Then we ride," Starwind said, as Moondance scooped Vanyel up in his arms as 
if he weighed next to nothing. The older Adept rose to his feet and offered her his 
hand, and it took every scrap of will she had left to her to stumble erect. "It is not 
far, Wingsister."
"I hope not," she told him earnestly, staggering out into the snow, while 
Moondance put the fire out with a single backward glance. "Because if it isn't, 
you're going to be carrying me as well as the boy.''

First there was darkness, and the peace that came with being so drugged that 
there was no thought at all. It was the only time he felt anything like peace, these 
days, and he welcomed the drugs and the red-haired Healer who brought them. 
There were times without counting when he hoped that this time the Healer had 
miscalculated - that this time he wouldn't wake.
Then there was pain; unfocused, but somewhere near at hand. Like the touch of 
sun on skin already reddened and burned. It got past the drugs, somehow; he 
tried to push it away, but it continued to throb in those half-healed places in his 
mind, promising him more pain to come.
Then - nothing but pain; fire in his veins and under his skin, flames dancing along 
his nerves and scorching his mind. Gate-fire, Gate-energy - it was unmistakable, 
and unbearable, and yet it continued long past the moment he thought his sanity 
would shatter or his heart stop. He screamed, or thought he did. He was lost in it, 
and there was no way out - not even death, for the pain would not let him die.
Then it was gone. But it left him aching, all the channels burned raw again, and 
worse, all the memories replaying themselves over and over - Gala dying, 
Tylendel throwing himself from the Tower, Tylendel lying in state in the Temple - 
Then, without warning, the Dream.
He stood blocking the way, a one-mage barricade across Crook-Back Pass. 
Mage-light from his upraised hand reflected from the impassive faces and hollow, 
empty eyes of the three wizards who opposed him.
This was not like the old dream - the dream of being alone in the ice. This was - 
something else. He could sense things, shards of meaning, just under the 
surface of it, but couldn't seem to bring them out to where he could read them.
But it felt - real. Fearfully real.
"Why do you bother with this nonsense?"
The voice from behind the wizards was sweet, lilting. One more figure paced 
forward as the ranks of the army backing the wizards parted to let him pass.
"You are quite alone, Herald-Mage Vanyel. " One of the wizards stepped two 
paces to the side to allow the newcomer through to the center, to face Vanyel.
He was beautiful; there was no other word for him. A perfectly sculptured face 
and body, hair and eyes of twilight shadow, a confidence, poise and power so 
complete they were works of art.
Except for the dark eyes, he could have been Vanyel's brother; except that he 
was too perfect, he could almost have been a younger Vanyel.
He was clad in dull black armor, like his soldiers, but carried no weapon. He 
didn't need one; he was a weapon. He was a weapon with no other purpose than 
the destruction and death he molded into his power. Unlike the knife which could 
cut to heal or harm, this weapon would never serve any other purpose than pain. 
Vanyel knew that as well as he knew himself.
"You are, "the beautiful young man repeated; smiling, choosing his words to hurt, 
' 'quite alone.''
Vanyel nodded. ' 'You tell me nothing I was not already aware of. I know you. 
You are Leareth." The word meant - 
' 'Darkness.'' Leareth laughed. ' 'I am. Darkness. And these are my servants. A 
quaint conceit, don't you think?"
Vanyel said nothing. Every moment he kept Leareth here was one more moment 
speeding Yfandes down the road with Tylendel - 
 - but Tylendel was dead - 
"You need not remain alone," Leareth continued, moistening his lips with his 
tongue, sensuously. "You have only to stretch out your hand to me, Vanyel, and 
take my Darkness to you - and you would never be alone again. We could 
accomplish much together, we two. Or if you wish - I could even - '' he stepped 
forward a pace; two. ' I could even bring back your long-lost love to you. Think of 
him, Vanyel. Think of Tylendel - alive, and once more at your side. ''
"NO!"
He struck at the terrible, beautiful face, struck with all the power at his command 
- and wept as he struck.
:Dreams, young Vanyel.: A blue-green voice froze him in mid-strike. :Nothing but 
dreams. They vanish into mist if you will it.:
The army, the pass, Leareth, all whirled away from him into another kind of 
darkness; this was a darkness that soothed, and he embraced it as eagerly as he 
had repudiated the other.
Cool, green-gold music threaded into the darkness; not dispelling it, but 
complementing it. It wound its way into his mind, and wherever it went, it left 
healing behind it; in all the raw, bleeding places, in all the burning channels. It 
flowed through him and he sank into it, drifting, drifting, and content to drift. It 
surrounded him, bathed him in balm, until there was nothing left of hurt in him - 
 - except the place Tylendel had left behind - the place that still ached so emptily 
- 
The green-gold music was joined by another, a blue-green harmony like the 
voice that had spoken to dispel the dream. And this music was no longer letting 
him drift aimlessly. It was leading him; it had wound around his soul and he had 
no choice but to follow where it wanted him to go.
The blue-green music took the melody, the green-gold faded to a descant, and 
the voice spoke in his dreams again. :Look; you wish control - here is your center 
- so to center and so to ground - :
The music led him in a dance wherein he found a balance he hadn't known he 
craved until he found it. The music spun him around; he spun with it, and he 
knew that having found this point of equilibrium he would not lose it again.
:So, so, so, exactly so,: the music chuckled. :Now, you would protect yourself - 
thus the barrier, see? Dense, and it keeps all out, flexible to your will. Always 
your will, young Vanyel, it is will and nothing less - 
It spun him walls to keep others out of his mind; he saw the way of it and spun 
them thicker, harder - then raveled them again down to the thinnest of 
barricades, knowing he could build them up again when he wanted to.
Then the blue-green music faded, leaving the green-gold to carry the melody 
alone. It sang to him then, sang of rest, sang of peace, and he dreamed. 
Dreamed of waking, moving to another's will, to drink and care for himself and 
sleep again. But no more dreams that hurt, only dreams full of the verdant music.
Then he woke - truly woke, not dreams of waking - to the sound of it; breathy, 
haunting notes that wandered into and out of melodies that he half recognized, 
but couldn't identify. There was a scent of ferns; a smell of growing things, a whiff 
of freshly-turned earth, and a hint of something metallic. Behind the music, he 
heard the sound of gently falling water.
He was no longer drugged. And the mind-channels within him no longer burned 
and tormented him.
He opened his eyes, slowly.
He thought for one mad moment that he was somehow suspended in a tree. He 
was surrounded on all sides by greenery, and luxuriantly-leaved branches hung 
over his head. Then he saw that while the branches were real, and the leaves, 
they were not the same organism. The branches supported huge ferns whose 
fronds draped down like a living canopy over his bed, and the greenery about 
him was a curtaining of multi-layered, multi-shaded green fabric hung from a 
framework of more branches, each layer as light and transparent as a spiderweb, 
and cut to resemble a cascade of leaf shapes. He had never in his life imagined 
that there could be so many colors of green.
Weak beams of sunlight threaded past the fern fronds. The blankets - if that was 
what they were - were a darker green, like moss, and felt as soft as velvet, but 
were thick and heavy.
He tried to sit up, and discovered that he couldn't. He was absolutely spent, with 
no strength left at all.
The music beyond the curtains finished with a breathless, upward-spiraling run, 
and a few moments later, the curtains parted.
Vanyel blinked in surprise at the young man who stood there, framed by the 
green of the curtain material; he knew he was staring, and rudely, but he couldn't 
help himself. He'd never seen anyone who looked like this - 
A young man - silver-haired as any oldster, with hair longer than most women 
had, and with eyes of light blue that measured and weighed him, full of secrets 
and thoughts that Vanyel couldn't begin to read. He wore a sleeveless green 
jerkin, and breeches of a darker green, and in the hand that held back the 
curtains there was a white flute that looked as if it had been carved from 
luminescent, opaque crystal.
Vanyel suddenly realized that, indeed, he couldn't read the young man's 
thoughts; there was presence there, but nothing spilling over into his own mind.
He stammered out the first things in his mind - not terribly clever, and certainly 
not original but - "W-w-where am I? W-w-who are you?"
The young man tilted his head to one side a little, and Vanyel saw a faint hint of 
smile as he replied, very slowly and with a strange accent, "Well. 'Where am I?' 
you ask me - better than I had feared. I had half dreaded hearing "who am I?' 
young Vanyel." He tilted his head the other way, and this time the smile was 
definite. "You are in k'Treva territory in the Pelagir Hills, and before you ask, your 
aunt, our Wingsister Savil, brought you here. We are her friends; she asked us to 
help her with your troubles. I am Moondance k'Treva; I am Tayledras, and I have 
been your Healer. That is my bed you are lying in. Do you like it? Starwind says it 
is a foolish piece of conceit, but I think that this is only because he did not think of 
it first."
Vanyel could only blink at him in bewilderment.
Moondance shook his head, ruefully. "I go too fast for you. Simple things first. 
Are you hungry? Thirsty? Would you like to bathe?"
All at once he was hungry - and thirsty - and disgustingly aware that his skin was 
crawling with the need for a bath.
"All three," he said, a little hesitantly.
"Then we remedy all three." Moondance pulled the curtains back to the foot and 
the head of the bed, and - 
 - and reached to pull off the blankets. At which point Vanyel realized that he was 
quite nude beneath the bed-coverings. He flushed, and clutched at the blanket.
Moondance gave him an amused look. "Who do you think it was that undressed 
you and put you where you are?" he asked. "I pledge you, it was not the Eastern 
Wind."
Vanyel flushed again, but did not release the blanket.
"So, so - here, my modest one - " Moondance reached up to one side among the 
hangings, and detached something which he tossed onto the blankets. Vanyel 
reached for it - a wrap-robe of something green and silken that was, thankfully, 
much more substantial than the hangings. As Moondance pointedly turned his 
back, he eased out of the bed and wrapped it around himself.
And reached for one of the bed-supports as dizziness made the room spin 
around him.
"That will never do." There was a cool touch between his eyes, and the room 
steadied.
"Come," Moondance was just in front of him, holding out his hands 
encouragingly. "Keep your eyes on me - yes. A step. Another. You have been 
long abed, young Vanyel, you must almost learn to walk again."
The Tayledras Healer walked backward, slowly, as Vanyel followed, looking only 
at his eyes. But he did not move to give the boy support in any way, except the 
one time Vanyel stumbled and nearly fell. Then Moondance caught him; held him 
until he could find his balance again, and only when Vanyel was standing firmly 
again did he draw away.
Vanyel was vaguely aware that they had crossed a threshold into another room, 
but just walking was costing him so much sweating, concentrated effort he didn't 
dare look around any. It seemed to take years before Moondance stopped, 
caught his elbow, and guided him to a seat on a smooth rock ledge that rimmed 
a raised pool of water so hot that it steamed.
"Now, look about you." Moondance waved at the pool and the rest of the room. 
"This is the pool for washing. Here is soap. When you are clean, go there, the 
pool for resting."
Though the pool Vanyel was sitting beside was deep, it was quite small. Next to 
the "pool for washing" was another, much larger, much deeper, and slightly 
above it, with an opening in the side that spilled hot water down into this pool. 
Both pools looked natural; rock-sided and sandy-bottomed.
"I think even weak as you are, you shall be able to find your way there. I shall 
return with food and drink." The young man hesitated a moment - then with the 
swiftness of a stooping hawk, leaned over and kissed Vanyel full on the lips. "You 
are very welcome, young Vanyel," he said, before Vanyel had a chance to get 
over his surprise. "We are pleased to have you, Starwind and I, and not just for 
the sake of Wingsister Savil."
He vanished before Vanyel had a chance to react.
Vanyel found that if he moved slowly and carefully he didn't exhaust himself. He 
shed the robe and eased himself into the water with a sigh, and soaped and 
rinsed until he finally felt clean again. His pool emptied itself over the side and 
down a channel in the floor - and where the water went from there he couldn't 
say. He had figured by now that this was some kind of hot spring, which 
accounted for the metallic tang in the air.
With Moondance gone, he had a chance to get a good look around while trying to 
sort himself out. There didn't appear to be any "doors" as such in this dwelling; 
just doorways. This bathing room was multileveled; highest level was the "pool 
for resting" which cascaded to the next level and the "pool for washing," which in 
turn was above the "floor" and the channel carrying the water away that was cut 
into it. There were no windows in the walls of natural rock; the whole was lit by a 
skylight taking up the entire ceiling, and there were green and flowering plants 
and ferns standing and hanging everywhere. There was only one entrance into 
this room - that led back to the bedroom, also rock-walled and roofed with a 
skylight, from what Vanyel could see of it.
The ledge between the pools was not that high, though it took far more of 
Vanyel's strength to get over it than he would have believed. Once in the larger 
pool he discovered that his surmise was right; crystalline hot water bubbled up 
from the sand in the center of the pool; someone had improved on nature by 
forming the rock of the pool sides below the waterline into smooth benches.
It was wonderful; the water was about as hot as was comfortable, and was 
forcing him to relax whether or not he wanted to. He closed his eyes and sat 
back, deliberately thinking of absolutely nothing, and only opened them again 
when he heard light footsteps crossing the stone floor below him.
It was, as he expected, Moondance, who had brought with him an earthenware 
beaker of what proved to be cider and a plate of sliced bread and cheeses and 
fruit.
"Eat lightly," the young man warned, climbing to Vanyel's level and setting his 
burdens down on the rim of the pool at Vanyel's right hand. "You have been 
three weeks without true food, and spent more than one of those days drugged."
"Three weeks?"
Moondance shrugged. "You needed Healing, of a kind your good Healer Andrel 
could not give you. I think perhaps no Healer among your folk could have given 
you such Healing; they know nothing of the Healing of hurts caused by magic, 
only of illness and wounding. That is a study only a few have made, and most of 
those few Tayledras. Eat, young Vanyel. There are herbs in the bread and the 
drink to strengthen you."
"Where - where is Savil?" he asked, suddenly a little worried at being alone with 
a stranger.
"With Starwind. She was very weary, both in body and in soul. This - thing that 
has happened. It has been a deep grief to her, as well to you. Her heart is as 
sore, I think. They are old friends, my shay'kreth'ashke and Savil, and there are 
no secrets between them, and much love. She has need of such love. Perhaps 
more than you, for she has had no one to lend her support."
Vanyel had looked up at him sharply at that - with the word ashke striking him 
with the force of a cold slap in the face, making his heart pound painfully.
Moondance looked down at him, something speculative in his glance. He 
weighed Vanyel for a moment, then cleared his throat and looked away, 
deliberately. "I have a thing to say to you, a thing I wish you to think upon."
Vanyel put down his cider, and waited, apprehensively, to hear the rest.
"I have shared your thoughts; I know more of you than anyone, except, perhaps, 
your shay'kreth'ashke."
Moondance changed his position so that he was sitting with his back to the pool, 
leaning his weight against his hands and staring up at the clouds visible through 
the skylight. He was being very careful not to look at Vanyel.
"As you have guessed from my words," he said, "I am shay'a'chern. As is 
Starwind. As you." Now he gave Vanyel a very brief, sidelong glance. "I am a 
Healer-Adept and I Heal more than people - I Heal places. I know the natural 
world as only one who wishes to restore it to its rightful balances can. This is the 
thing I wish to tell you; in all the world, there are more creatures than just man 
that make lifetime matings. Among them, some of the noblest - wolves, swans, 
geese, the great raptors-all creatures man could do worse than emulate, in 
many, many ways. And with all of them, all, there are those pairings, from time to 
time, within the same gender. Not often, but not unheard of either."
Vanyel found himself unable to move, and unable to anticipate the direction this 
was taking.
Now Moondance dropped his eyes to catch and hold Vanyel's in a joining of 
glances and wills that was unbreakable.
"There is in you a fear, a shame, placed there by your own doubts and the 
thoughts of one who knew no better. I tell you to think on this: the shay 'a 'chern 
pairing occurs in nature. How then, 'unnatural'? Usual, no; and not desirable for 
the species, else it would die out for lack of offspring. But not unnatural. The 
beasts of the fields are innocent as man can never be, who has the knowledge of 
good and evil and the choice between, and they do not cast out of their ranks the 
shay 'a 'chern. There was between you and your shay 'kreth 'ashke much love - 
only love. There is no shame in loving."
Vanyel couldn't breathe; he could only see those ice-blue eyes.
"This I think I have learned: where there is love, the form does not matter, and 
the gods are pleased. This I have observed: what occurs in nature, comes by the 
hand of nature, and if the gods did not approve, it would not be there. I give you 
these things as food for your heart and mind."
Once again, before Vanyel could move, he bent deliberately and kissed him, but 
this time on the forehead.
"I leave you for a moment with both kinds of nourishment." He smiled, and gave 
Vanyel a slow wink. "Since you are not to stay in the pool forever, I must needs 
find you clothing. I would not mind, but your aunt grows anxious and wishes to 
see you awake and aware, and we would not wish to put her to the blush, hmm?"
And with that, he jumped down from the pool ledge to the floor, and vanished 
again.


Twelve

"Here." Moondance, a crease of worry between his brows, was back in a few 
moments with a towel and what looked like folded clothing; green, like his own. 
"You shall have to care for yourself, I fear. There is trouble, and I have been 
called to deal with it. Starwind and Savil will be with you shortly." He hesitated a 
moment, visibly torn. "Forgive me, I must go."
He put his burdens down on the pool edge and ran back out the doorway before 
Vanyel could do more than blink.
Gods - I feel like somebody in a tale, going to sleep and waking up a hundred 
years later. It seems so hard to think - like I'm still half asleep.
He dressed slowly, trying to collect his thoughts, and making heavy work of it. He 
did remember - vaguely - Savil telling him that he was too ill for Andrel to help; 
and he definitely remembered - despite the fog of drugs about the words - being 
told that she was going to take him to some friends of hers. He hadn't much 
cared what was happening at that point. He'd either been too drugged to care, or 
been hurting too much.
Presumably Moondance, and the absent Starwind, were the friends she meant. 
They were fully as strange as those weird masks of beads and feathers that Savil 
had on her wall. As was this place. Wherever it was.
He pulled the deep green tunic over his head, and suddenly realized something. 
He wasn't drugged - and he wasn't hurting, either. Those places in his mind that 
had burned - he could still feel them, but they weren't giving him pain.
Moondance said he Healed me. Is that why it feels like I halfway know him? 
Tayledras. Didn't Aunt Savil tell us stories about them? I thought that was all 
those were - stories. Not real. He looked around at the strange room, half-
structure, half-natural, each half fitting into the other so well he could scarcely tell 
where the hand of nature left off and the hand of man began. Real. Gods, if I 
were to describe this place, nobody would ever believe me. This - II 's all so 
different. I even feel different.
He could sense some kind of barrier around him, around his thoughts. At first it 
made him wary, but he tested it, tentatively, and found that it was a barrier that 
he could control. When he thinned it, he became aware of presences, what must 
be minds, out beyond the limits of this room. Animals, surely, and birds, for their 
thoughts were dim and here-centered. Then two close together - very bright, but 
opaque and unreadable. One "felt" like Savil and the other must be the 
mysterious Starwind. Then two more; just as bright, just as opaque - but one he 
recognized by the "feel" as being Yfandes. Then a scattering of others…
Yfandes. A Companion. My Companion.
So - it was no hallucination, then. He had somehow gotten Herald-Gifts and a 
Companion.
Gifts I never wanted, at a cost I never thought I'd pay. I'd trade them and half my 
life to have - him - back again.
That hit like a blow to the gut. He descended from the level of the uppermost pool 
to the floor and sat heavily on one of the stone benches around the edge of the 
room, too tired and depressed to move.
Oh, 'Lendel… gods, he thought, bleak despair overcoming him. What am I doing 
here? Why didn't they just let me die?
:Do you hate me, Chosen?: said a bright, reproachful voice in his mind, :Do you 
hate me for wishing you to live?:
:Yfandes?: He remembered what Savil had said, about how his Companion 
would pine herself to death if he died, and sagged with guilt. :Oh, gods, Yfandes, 
no - no, I'm sorry - I just - :
He'd been able to not-think about it when he'd been drugged. He'd been able to 
concentrate on nothing more complicated than the next moment. Now - now his 
mind was only too clear. He couldn't ignore the reality of Tylendel being gone, 
and there were no drugs to keep him in a vague fog of forgetting.
:You miss him.: she replied, gently. :You need him, and you miss him. :
:Like my arm. Like my heart. I just can't imagine going on without him. I don't 
know what to do with myself; where to go, what to do next.:
If Yfandes had a reply, he never heard it; just at that moment Savil and a second 
Tayledras, this one in white breeches, soft, low boots and jerkin, entered the 
room. Vanyel started to stand; Savil motioned for him to stay where he was. She 
and the stranger walked slowly across the stone floor and took places on the 
bench beside him.
Vanyel was shocked at her appearance. Although her hair had always been a 
pure silvery white, she'd never looked old before. Now she did; she looked every 
year of her age and more. He recalled what Moondance had said about 
Tylendel's death being as hard on her as it was on Vanyel. Now he believed it.
"Aunt Savil," he said, hesitantly, as she and the stranger arranged themselves 
comfortably beside him. "Are you all right? I mean - "
"Looking particularly haglike, am I?" she asked dryly. "No, don't bother to 
apologize; I've got a mirror. I don't bounce back from strain the way I used to."
He flushed, embarrassed, and feeling guilty.
"Van, this is Starwind k'Treva," she continued. "He and Moondance are the 
Tayledras Adepts I told you younglings about a time or two. This," she waved her 
hand around her, "is his, mostly, being as he's k'Treva Speaker.''
"In so much as any Tayledras can own the land," Star-wind noted with one raised 
eyebrow, his voice calling up images of ancient rocks and deep, still water. "It 
would be as correct, Wingsister, to say that this place owns me."
"Point taken. This is k'Treva's voorthayshen - that's - how would you translate 
that, shayana?"
The Tayledras at her side had a triangular face, and his long hair was arranged 
with two plaits at each temple, instead of one, like Moondance - and he felt older, 
somehow. At least, that was how he felt to Vanyel.
"Clan Keep, I think would be closest," Starwind said, "Although k'Treva is not a 
clan as your people know the meaning of the word. It is closer to the Shin'a'in 
notion of 'Clan.' "
His voice was a little deeper in pitch than Moondance's and after a moment 
Vanyel recognized the "feel" of him as being the same as the "blue-green music" 
in his dreams.
"My lord," Vanyel began hesitantly.
"There are no 'lords,' here, young Vanyel," the Adept replied. "I speak for k'Treva, 
but each k'Treva rises or falls on his own."
Vanyel nodded awkwardly. "Why am I here, sir?" he asked - then added, 
apprehensively, ' 'What did you do to me? I - forgive me for being rude, but I 
know you did something. I feel - different."
"You are here because you have very powerful Mage-Gifts, awakened painfully, 
awakened late, and out of control," the Adept replied. His expression was calm, 
but grave, and held just a hint of worry. "Your aunt decided, and rightly, that there 
was no way in which you could be taught by the Heralds that would not pose a 
danger to you and those about you. Moondance and I are used to containing 
dangerous magics; we do this constantly, it is part of what we do. We can keep 
you contained, and Savil believes we can teach you effectively. And if we cannot 
teach you control, then she knows that we can and will contain you in such a way 
that you will pose no danger to others."
Moondance had not looked like this - so impersonal, so implacable. Vanyel 
shivered at the detached calm in Starwind's eyes; he wasn't certain what the 
Adept meant by "containing" him, but he wasn't eager to find out.
"As to what we have done with you - Moondance Healed your channels, which 
are the conduits through which you direct energy. And I have taught you, a little, 
while you were in Healing trance. I could not teach you a great deal in trance, but 
what I have given you is very important, and will go a great way toward making 
you safe around others. I have taught you where your center is, how to ground 
yourself, and how to shield. So that now, at least, you are no longer out of 
balance, and you may guard yourself against outside thoughts and keep your 
own inside your mind where they belong. And there will be no more shaking of 
the earth because of dreams."
So that was what had happened - with the music, the colors - and this new 
barricade around his mind.
Star wind leaned forward a little, and his expression became far more human; 
concerned, and earnest. "Young Vanyel, we, Moondance and I, we are perfectly 
pleased to have you with us, to help you. But that is all we can do; to help you. 
You must learn control; we cannot force it upon you. You must learn the use of 
your Gifts, or most assuredly they will use you. Magic is that kind of force; I beg 
you to believe me, for I know this to be true. If you do not use it, it will use you. 
And if it begins to use you," his eyes grew very cold, "it must be dealt with."
Vanyel shrank back from that chill.
"But this is neither the place nor the time to speak of such things," Starwind 
concluded, rising. "We have you under shield, and you are too drained to cause 
any problems for the nonce. Youngling, can you walk? If you can, you would do 
well with exercise and air, and I would take you to a vantage to show you our 
home, and tell you a little of what we do here."
Vanyel nodded, not eager to be left to his aching memories again; he found on 
rising that he was feeling considerably stronger than he had thought. He couldn't 
move very fast, but as long as Starwind and Savil stayed at a slow walk, he could 
keep up with them.
They went from the bathing room back through the bedroom; it looked even more 
like a natural grotto than the bathing room had. Vanyel almost couldn't distinguish 
the real foliage from the fabric around the bed, and the "furniture," irregularly 
shaped chairs, benches and tables with thick green cushions and frames of bent 
branches, fitted in with the plants so well as to frequently seem part of them. 
There was a curtained alcove (with more of those leaf-mimicking curtains) that 
seemed to be a wardrobe, for the curtains had been drawn back at one side 
enough to display a bit of clothing.
From there they passed into a third, most peculiar room. There was no furniture, 
and in the center of it, growing up from the stone floor, was the living trunk of a 
tree, one a dozen people could not have encircled with their arms. Attached to 
the trunk was a kind of spiral staircase. They climbed this - Vanyel feeling weak 
at the knees and clinging to the railing for most of the climb-to a kind of covered 
balcony that gave them a vantage point to see all of Starwind's little kingdom.
This was a valley - no, a canyon; the walls were nearly perpendicular - of hot 
springs; Vanyel saw steam rising from the lush growth in more places than he 
could count. Although there was snow rimming the lip of the canyon high above, 
vegetation within the bowl ran riot.
"K'Treva," Starwind said, indicating the entire valley with a wave of his hand. 
"Though mostly only Moondance and I dwell here-below. Beneath, the living-
spaces for the hertasi and those who do not wish the trees."
Vanyel looked over the edge of the balcony; below him was a collection of 
rooms, mostly windowless, but with skylights, the whole too random to be called 
a "house."
"There are other living places above - which is where most of us dwell," Starwind 
continued, with an ironic smile. "Moondance is not Tayledras enough to be 
comfortable above the ground. The hertasi you may or may not see; they serve 
us, we protect them and allow them to dwell here. They are shy of strangers - 
even of Tayledras; really, only Moondance is a friend to all of them. They are 
something like a large lizard, but they are full human in wit. If you should see 
one, I pray you strive not to frighten it. And although you may go where you will 
here-below, pray do not come here-above without invitation."
Vanyel looked up, but couldn't see any sign of these "living places" - only the 
staircase spiraling farther up the trunk and vanishing into the branches. The very 
thought of being up that high was dizzying, and he thought it was likely to take a 
great deal more than an invitation to get him to climb above.
"Tchah - I stand on Moondance's side," Savil replied. "I remember the first time I 
was here, and you made me try to sleep up in one of your perches. Never again, 
my friend."
"You have no sense of adventure," Starwind countered, putting his palms down 
on the rail and leaning forward a little. "The last thing, one that you may sense, 
so that you know it is indeed there - the barrier about the vale. It protects us from 
that which we would not have pass within and it keeps the vale always warm and 
sheltered. So - this is k'Treva. What we do here - two things. Firstly, we make 
places where the magic creatures of the Pelagirs may live in peace. Secondly, 
we take the magic out of those places where they do not live, making the land 
safe for man. We use the magic we take to make boundaries about the places of 
refuge, so that none may pass who do not belong. That is what the k'Varda, the 
Mage-Clans of the Tayledras, do. We guard the Pelagirs from despoilers as our 
cousins, the Shin'a'in, guard the Dhorisha Plains."
"As I keep saying, you're like we are. You guard the Pelagirs as the Heralds 
guard Valdemar," Savil said.
Starwind nodded, his braids swaying. "Aye, save that your Heralds concern 
themselves with the people, and the Tayledras with the land."
"Valdemar is the people; we could pack up and flee again, as we did at the 
founding, and still be Valdemar. I suspect the same would be true of you, if you'd 
only admit it."
"Na, the Tayledras are bound to the land, cannot live outside the Pelagirs; we 
must - " Starwind was interrupted by the scream of a hawk somewhere above his 
head. He threw up his forearm, and a large, white raptor plunged down out of the 
canopy of leaves to land on Starwind's arm. Vanyel winced, then saw that the 
Tayledras wore white leather forearm guards, which served to keep the wicked 
talons from his flesh.
It was a gyrefalcon; its wings beat the air for a moment before it settled, its 
golden eyes fixed on Starwind's face.
The Tayledras smoothed its head with one finger, then stared into the hawk's 
eyes for a long, long time, seeming to be reading something there.
Then, without warning, he flung up his arm, launching it back into the air from his 
wrist. The falcon's wings beat against the thick, damp air, then it gained height 
and vanished back up into the tree branches.
"Bad news?" Savil asked.
"Nay - good. The situation is not so evil as we feared. Moondance is wearied, but 
he shall return by sunrise."
"I'm glad to hear something is going right for someone," Savil replied, sighing.
"Indeed," the Adept replied, turning those strange, unreadable eyes on Vanyel. 
"Indeed. Young Vanyel, I would advise you to walk about, regain your health, eat 
and rest. When Moondance returns and is at full strength, your schooling will 
begin."
So he did as he was told to do; exploring what Starwind called "the vale" from 
one end to the other. It was shaped like a teardrop, and smaller than it seemed; 
there were so many pools and springs, waterfalls and geysers, and all cloaked in 
incredible greenery that effectively hid paths that came within whispering 
distance of each other, that it gave the illusion of being an endless wilderland.
It kept him occupied, at least. The vale was so exotic, so strange, that he could 
lose himself in it for hours - and forget, in watching the brightly colored birds and 
fish, how very much alone he was.
Half of him longed for the time - before Tylendel. The isolation of that dream-
scape. The other half shrank from it. He no longer knew what he wanted, 
anymore, or what he was.
He certainly didn't know what to do about Yfandes; he needed her, he loved her, 
but that very affection was a point of vulnerability, another place waiting to be 
hurt. She seemed to sense his confusion, and kept herself nearby, but not at 
hand, Mindspeaking only when he initiated the contact.
Savil was staying clear of him, which helped. When Moondance finally made an 
appearance, he made some friendly overtures, but didn't go beyond them; 
Vanyel was perfectly content to leave things that way.
When he asked, the younger Tayledras acted as a kind of guide around the vale, 
pointing out things Vanyel had missed, explaining how the mage-barrier kept the 
cold - and other things - out of the vale.
The elusive hertasi never appeared, although their handiwork was everywhere. 
Clothing vanished and returned cleaned and mended, food appeared at regular 
intervals, rooms seemed to sweep themselves.
When the vale became too familiar, Vanyel tried to catch a glimpse of them. 
Anything to keep from thinking.
Then he was given something else to think about.
:You fail,: Starwind said in clear Mindspeech. He was seated cross-legged on the 
rock of the floor beyond the glowing blue-green barrier, imperturbable as a 
glacier. -.Again, youngling. :
:But - : Vanyel protested from the midst of the barrier-circle the Adept had cast 
around him, .I - : He was having a hard time shaping his thoughts into 
Mindspeech.
:You,: Starwind nodded. .-Exactly so. Only you. Until you match your barrier and 
merge it with mine, mine will remain. And while mine remains, you cannot pass it, 
and I will not take you from this room. :
Vanyel drooped with weariness; it seemed that the Tayledras mage had been 
schooling him, without pause or pity, for days, not mere hours. This was the 
seventh - or was it eighth? - such test the Adept had put him to. Starwind would 
go into his head, somehow, show him what was to be done. Once. Then Vanyel 
fumbled his way through whatever it was. As quickly as Vanyel mastered 
something, the Adept sprang a trial of it on him.
There was no sign of exit or entrance in this barren, rock-walled room where he'd 
been taken, and no clue as to where in the complex of ground-level rooms it was. 
There was only Starwind, his pointed face as expressionless as the rock walls.
Vanyel didn't know what to think anymore. These new senses of his - they told 
him things he wasn't sure he wanted to know. For instance - there was 
something in this valley. A power - a living power. It throbbed in his mind, in time 
with his own pulse. He had told Savil, thinking he must be ill and imagining it. 
She had just nodded and told him not to worry about it.
He hadn't asked her much, or gone to her often. If I don't touch, I can't be hurt 
again. The half-unconscious litany was the same, but the meaning was different. 
I'II don't open myself, I won't be open to loss either.
The Tayledras, Starwind and Moondance, alternately frightened and fascinated 
him. They were like no one he'd ever known before, and he couldn't read them. 
Starwind in particular was an enigma. Moondance seemed easier to reach.
But there was always that danger. Don't reach; don't touch, whispered the part of 
him that still hurt. Don't try.
There had been a point back at Haven when he'd tried to reach out, first to Savil, 
then to Lissa. He'd wanted someone to depend on, to tell him what to do, but the 
moment he'd tried to get them to make his decisions for him, they'd pushed him 
gently away.
Now - no more; all he wanted was to be left alone.
It seemed, however, that the Tayledras had other plans.
Savil had come to get him in the morning, after several days of wandering about 
on his own, reminding him of what Starwind had said about being schooled in 
controlling these unwanted powers of his. He'd followed her through three or four 
rooms he hadn't seen before into - 
-	something -
He wasn't sure what it was; it had felt a little like a Gate, but there was no portal, 
just a spot marked on the floor. He'd stumbled across it, whatever it was, and 
found himself on the floor of this room, a room with no doorways.
Savil had appeared behind him, but before he could say anything, she'd just 
given him a troubled look, said to Starwind, "Don't hurt him, shayana," and left. 
Stepped into thin air and was gone. Left him alone with this - this madman. This 
unpredictable creature who'd been forcing him all morning to do things he didn't 
understand, using the powers he hadn't even come to terms with possessing, 
much less comprehending.
"Why are you doing this to me?" he cried, ready to weep with weariness. 
Starwind ignored the words as if they had never been spoken.
:Mindspeech, Chosen,: came Yfandes' calm thought, -.That is part of his testing. 
Use Mindspeech.:
He braced himself, sharpened his thoughts into a kind of dagger, and flung them 
at Starwind's mind.
:Why are you DOING this to me?:
.-Gently,: came the unruffled reply. .-Gently, or I shall not answer you. :
Well, that was more than he'd gotten out of the Adept in hours. :Why?: he 
pleaded.
:You are a heap of dry tinder,: Starwind replied serenely. :You are a danger to 
yourself and those around you. It requires only a spark to send you into an 
uncontrolled blaze. I teach you control, so that the fires in you come when you 
will and where you will.: He stared at Vanyel across the shimmering mage-
barrier. :Would you have this again?:
He flung into Vanyel's face memories that could only have come from Savil - a 
clutch of Herald-trainees weeping hysterically, infected with his grief; Mardic 
flying through the air, hitting the wall, and sliding down it to land in an 
unconscious heap; the very foundations of the Palace shaking - 
:No - : he shuddered.
.-There could be worse - : Starwind showed him what he meant by "worse." A 
vivid picture of Withen dead - crushed like a beetle beneath a boot - by the 
powers Vanyel did not yet comprehend and could not direct.
:NO!: He tried to deny the very possibility that he could do anything of the kind, 
rejecting the image with a violence that - 
 - that made the floor beneath him tremble.
.-You see?: Starwind said, still unperturbed. :You see? Without control, without 
understanding, you can - and will - kill, without ever meaning to. Now - :
Vanyel hung his head, and wearily tried to match the barrier one more time.

Savil ran for the pass-through, in response to Starwind's urgent summons, 
Moondance a bare pace behind her. She hit the permanent set-spell, a kind of 
low-power Gate, at a run; there was the usual eyeblink of vertigo, and she 
stumbled onto the slate floor of Starwind's Work Room and right into the middle 
of a royal mess.
Starwind was only now picking himself up off the floor behind her; there was a 
smell of scorched rock and the acrid taint of ozone in the air. And small wonder; 
the area around all around Vanyel in the center of the Work Room was burned 
black.
Lying sprawled at one side of the burned area was the boy himself, scorched and 
unconscious.
Moondance popped through the pass-through, glanced from one fallen body to 
the other, and made for the boy as needing him the most. That left Starwind to 
Savil.
She gave him her hands and helped him to his feet; he shook his head to clear it, 
then pulled his hair back over his shoulders. "God of my fathers," he said, 
passing his hand over his brow. "I feel as if I have been kicked across a river.''
Savil ran a quick check over him, noted a channel-pulse and cleared it for him. 
"What happened?" she asked urgently, keeping one hand on his elbow to steady 
him. "It looks like a mage-war in here."
"I believe I badly frightened the boy," Starwind said, unhappily, checking his 
hands for damage. "I intended to frighten him a little, but not so badly as I did. He 
was supposed to be calling lightning and he was balking. He plainly refused to 
use the power he had called. I grew impatient with him - and I cast the image of 
wyrsa at him. He panicked; and not only threw his own power, he pulled power 
from the valley-node. Then he realized what he had done and aborted it the only 
way he could at that point, pulling it back on himself." Starwind gave her a 
reproachful glance. "You told me he could sense the node, but you did not tell me 
he could pull from it."
"I didn't know he could, myself. Great good gods - shayana, it was wyrsa that his 
shay 'kreth 'ashke called down on his enemies, didn't I tell you?" Savil's gut went 
cold; she bit her lip, and looked over her shoulder at Moondance and his patient. 
The Healer-Adept was kneeling beside the boy with both hands held just above 
his brow. "Lord and Lady, no wonder he nearly blew the place apart!"
Starwind looked stricken to the heart, as Moondance took his hands away from 
the boy's forehead and put his arm under Vanyel's shoulder to pick him up and 
support him in a half-sitting position. "You told me - but I had forgotten. Goddess 
of my mothers, what did I do to the poor child?"
"Ashke, what did you do?" Moondance called worriedly, one hand now on 
Vanyel's forehead, the other arm holding him. "The child's mind is in shock."
"Only the worst possible," Starwind groaned. "I threw at him an image of the 
things his love called for vengeance."
"Shethka. Well, no help for it; what is done cannot be unmade. Ashke, I will put 
him to bed, and call his Companion, and we will deal with him. We will see what 
comes of this." He picked the boy up, and strode through the pass-through 
without a backward glance.
"Ah, gods - this was going well, until this moment," Starwind mourned. "He was 
gaining true control. Gods, how could I have been so stupid?"
"It happens," Savil sighed, "And with Van more so than with anyone else, it 
seems. He almost seems to attract ill luck. Shayana, why did you throw anything 
at him, much less wyrsa?"
"He finally is willing enough to learn the controls, the defensive exercises, but not 
the offensive." Starwind put his palms to his temples and massaged for a 
moment, a pain-crease between his eyebrows. "And if he does not master the 
offensive - "
"The offensive magics will remain without control," Savil said grimly, the smell of 
scorched rock still strong about her. "Like Tylendel. I couldn't get past his trauma 
to get those magics fully under conscious lock. I should have brought him to 
you."
"Wingsister, hindsight is ever perfect," Starwind spared a moment to send a 
thread of wordless compassion her way, and she smiled wanly. "The thing with 
this boy - I told you, he had the lightnings in his hand, I could see him holding 
them, but he would not cast them. I thought to frighten him into taking the 
offense." He lowered his hands and looked helplessly at Savil. "He is a puzzle to 
me; I cannot fathom why he will not fully utilize his powers."
"Because he still doesn't understand why he should, I suppose," Savil brooded, 
rocking back and forth on her heels. "He can't see any reason to use those 
powers. He doesn't want to help anyone, all he wants now is to be left alone."
Starwind looked aghast. "But - so strong - how can he not - ''
"He hasn't got the hunger yet, shayana, or if he's got it, everything else he's 
feeling has so overwhelmed him that all he can register is his own pain." Savil 
shook her head. "That, mostly, would be my guess. Maybe it's that he hasn't ever 
seen a reason to care for anyone he doesn't personally know. Maybe it's that 
right now he has no energy to care for anyone but himself. Kellan tells me 
Yfandes would go through fire and flood for him, so there has to be something 
there. Maybe Moondance can get through to him."
"Only if he survives what we do to him," Starwind replied, motioning her to 
precede him into the pass-through, and sunk in gloom.

Vanyel woke with an ache in his heart and tears on his face; the image of the 
wyrsa had called up everything he wanted most to forget.
He could tell that he was lying on his bed, still clothed, but his hands and 
forearms felt like they'd been bandaged and the skin of his face hurt and felt hot 
and tight.
The full moon sent silver light down through the skylight above his head. He saw 
the white rondel of it clearly through the fronds of the ferns. His head hurt, and 
his burned hands, but not so much as the empty place inside him, or the guilt - 
the terrible guilt.
'Lendel, 'Lendel - my fault.
He heard someone breathing beside him; a Mindtouch confirmed that it was 
Moondance. He did not want to talk with anyone right now; he just wanted to be 
left aJone. He started to turn his face to the wall, when the soft, oddly young-
sounding voice froze him in place.
"I would tell you of a thing - "
Vanyel wet his lips, and turned his head on the pillow to look at the argent-and-
black figure seated beside him on one of the strange "chairs" he favored.
Moondance might have been a statue; a silvered god sitting with one leg curled 
beneath him, resting his crossed arms on his upraised knee, face tilted up to the 
moon. Moonlight flowed over him in a flood of liquid silver.
"There was a boy," Moondance said, quietly. "His name was Tallo. His parents 
were farmers, simple people, good people in their way, really. Very tied to their 
ways, to their land, to the cycle of the seasons. This Tallo… was not. He felt 
things inside him that were at odds with the life they had. They did not 
understand their son, who wanted more than just the fields and the harvests. 
They did love him, though. They tried to understand. They got him learning, as 
best they could; they tried to interest the priest in him. They didn't know that what 
the boy felt inside himself was something other than a vocation. It was power, but 
power of another sort than the priest's. The boy learned at last from the books 
that the priest found for him that what he had was what was commonly called 
magic, and from those few books and the tales he heard, he tried to learn what to 
do with it. This made him - very different from his former friends, and he began to 
walk alone. His parents did not understand this need for solitude, they did not 
understand the strange paths he had begun to walk, and they tried to force him 
back to the ways of his fathers. There were - arguments. Anger, a great deal of it, 
on both sides. And there was another thing. They wished him to wed and begin a 
family. But the boy Tallo had no yearning toward young women - but young men 
- that was another tale."
Moondance sighed, and in the moonlight Vanyel saw something glittering wetly 
on his eyelashes. "Then, the summer of the worst of the arguments, there came 
a troupe of gleemen to the village. And there was a young man among them, a 
very handsome young man, and the boy Tallo found that he was not the only 
young man in the world who had yearnings for his own sex. They quickly became 
lovers - Tallo thought he had never been so happy. He planned to leave with the 
gleemen, to run away and join them when they left his village, and his lover 
encouraged this. But it happened that they were found together. The parents, the 
priest, the entire village was most wroth, for such a thing as shay'a'chern was 
forbidden even to speak of, much less to be. They - beat Tallo, very badly; they 
beat the young gleeman, then they cast Tallo and his lover out of the village. 
Then it was that the young gleeman spurned Tallo, said in anger and in pain 
what he did not truly mean, that he wanted nothing of him. And Tallo became 
wild with rage. He, too, was in pain; he had suffered for this lover, been cast out 
of home and family for his sake, and now he had been rejected - and he called 
the lightning down with his half-learned magic. He did not mean to do anything 
more than frighten the young man - but that was not what happened. He killed 
him; struck him dead with the power that he could not control."
Moonlight sparkled silver on the tears that slowly crept down Moondance's face.
"Tallo had heard his lover's thoughts, and knew that the young man had not 
meant in truth the hurtful things he had said. Tallo had wanted only for the boy to 
say with words what he had heard in the other's mind. So he called the lightning 
to frighten him, but he learned that the lightning would not obey him when called 
by anger, and not by skill. And he heard the boy crying out his name as he died. 
Crying out in fear and terrible pain, and Tallo unable to save him. Tallo could not 
live with what he had done. With the dagger from his lover's belt, he slashed his 
own wrist and waited to die, for he felt that only with his own death could he 
atone for murdering his love."
Moondance raised his left arm to push some of his heavy hair back from his face, 
and the moon picked out the white scar that ran from his wrist halfway to his 
elbow.
"There was, however, a stranger on the road; an out-lander who had sensed the 
surge of power and read the signs and knew that it was uncontrolled. She came 
as quickly as she could - though not quickly enough to save both. She found the 
young men, one dead, one nearly - she saved the one she could, and brought 
him to a friend who she thought might understand."
Moondance was so silent and for so long, that Vanyel thought he was through 
speaking. He stared up at the moon, eyes and cheeks shining wetly, like a 
marble statue in the rain.
Then he spoke again, and every syllable carried with it a sense of terrible pain. 
"So here is the paradox. If the boy Tallo had not misused his fledgling powers 
and struck down his lover, they would have gone off together, and, in time, 
parted. Tallo would likely have been found by a Mage and taught, or - who 
knows? - gotten as far as Valdemar and been taken by a Companion. Those with 
the power are not left long to themselves. It might even have been that the Mage 
that found him was a dark one, and Tallo might have turned for a time or for all 
time to evil. But that is not what happened. The boy killed - murdered in 
ignorance - and was brought to k'Treva. And in k'Treva he found forgiveness, 
and the learning he needed as the seed needs the spring rain - and one thing 
more. He found his shay'kreth'ashke. In your tongue, that means 'lifebonded.' "
Vanyel started. Moondance nodded without turning to look at him. "You see? 
Paradox. Had things not fallen as they did, Tallo would never have met with 
Starwind. The Tayledras are very secretive and Wingsister Savil is one of the first 
to see one of us, much less to see k'Treva, in years beyond counting. The two 
meant to be life-bonded would never have found each other. There would be no 
Healer-Adept in k'Treva, and much Tayledras work would have gone undone 
because of that. So - much good has come of this, and much love - but it has its 
roots in murder. Murder unintentional, but murder all the same."
Moondance sighed again. "So what is the boy Tallo to think? Starwind's solution 
was to declare the boy Tallo dead by his own hand, a fitting expiation for his guilt, 
and to bring to life a new person altogether, one Moondance k'Treva. So there is 
no more Tallo, and there is one that magic has changed into a man so like 
Tayledras that he might have been born to the blood. But sometimes the boy 
Tallo stirs in the heart of Moondance - and he wonders - and he weeps - and he 
mourns for the wrongs he has done."
He turned his head, then, and held out his hand to Vanyel. "Ke'chara, would you 
share grief with Tallo? Weeping alone brings no comfort, and your heart is as 
sore as mine."
Vanyel started to reach for that hand, then hesitated.
If I don't touch - 
"If you do not touch," said Moondance, as if he read Vanyel's thought, "You do 
not live. If you seal yourself away inside your barriers, you seal out the love with 
the pain. And though love sometimes brings pain, you have no way of knowing if 
the pain you feel now might not bring you to love again."
"Tylendel's dead." There; he'd said it, said it out loud. It was real - and couldn't be 
changed. The tight, burned skin on his face hurt as he held back tears. "Nothing 
is going to bring him back. I'll never be anything but alone."
Moondance nodded, slowly, and left his hand resting on the edge of the bed; 
Vanyel couldn't see his face, shadowed as it was by the white wing of his hair.
"The great love is gone. There are still little loves-friend to friend, brother to 
sister, student to teacher. Will you deny yourself comfort at the hearthfire of a 
cottage because you may no longer sit by the fireplace of a palace? Will you 
deny yourself to those who reach out to you in hopes of warming themselves at 
your hearthfire? That is cruel, and I had not thought you to be cruel, Vanyel. And 
what of Yfandes? She loves you with all her being. Would you lock her out of 
your regard as well? That is something more than cruel."
"Why are you telling me, asking me this?" The words were torn out of him, 
unwilling.
"Because I nearly followed the road you are walking." The Tayledras shifted 
slightly in his chair and Vanyel heard the wood creak a little. "Better, I thought, 
not to touch at all than to touch and bring hurt upon myself and others. Better to 
do nothing than to make a move and have it be the wrong one. But even deciding 
to not touch or to be nothing is a decision, Vanyel, and by deciding not to touch, 
so as to avoid hurt, I then hurt those who tried to touch me." He waited, but 
Vanyel could not bring himself to answer him.
Moondance's expression grew alien, unreadable, and he shrugged again. "It is 
your decision; it is your life. A Healer cannot live so; it may be that you can."
He uncoiled himself from his chair and in a kind of seamless motion was standing 
on his feet, shaking back his hair. The tears were gone from his eyes, and his 
expression was as serene as if they had never been there as he looked down on 
Vanyel. "If you are in pain, Mind-call, and I shall come."
Before Vanyel could blink, he was gone.
Morning came - but the expected summons to Star-wind's Work Room did not. 
The sun rose, he wandered from room to empty room, in the small area that he 
knew, without finding anyone. He began to wonder if his rejection of Moondance 
last night had led them all to abandon him here.
Finally he found a way out into the valley itself, and stood by the rock-arch of the 
doorway, blinking a little at the bright sunlight, unfiltered by the tinted skylight. 
There were ferns the size of a small room, bushes and small trees with leaves he 
could have used as a rain shelter, and the larger trees, while not matching the 
one growing up through the middle of the "house" in girth, were still large enough 
that it would take five people to encircle their trunks with their arms.
:Yfandes?: he Mindcalled tentatively. He wasn't at all sure he'd get a reply.
But he did. :Here,: she said - and a few moments later, she came frisking through 
the undergrowth, tail and spirits held banner-high. She nuzzled his cheek. :Are 
your hands better?:
He had unwrapped them this morning from their bandages, and aside from a little 
soreness, they seemed fine - certainly nothing near as painful as they had been 
last night.
.I think so.: He rested his forehead against her neck. It was incredibly comforting 
just to be in her presence, and hard to remember to barricade himself around 
her. :Where is everybody?:
:Savil is up above, in Starwind's place.: She gave him a mental picture of a kind 
of many-windowed room perched in the limbs of what could only be the tree 
growing up through the center of the "house." :She doesn't much care for it, and 
having her up there makes Kellan nervy, but he was upset over the accident 
yesterday and he feels happier up in the boughs. They're talking.:
.-With the other k'Treva?:
:I think perhaps. :
:Where's Moondance?:
:By himself. Thinking,: Yfandes said.
: 'Fandes - did I - : He swallowed. :Did I do something wrong last night?:
She looked at him reproachfully. :Yes. I think you ought to talk to him. You hurt 
him more deeply last night than he showed. He's never told that story to anyone; 
Savil and Starwind know it, but he never told them. And he's never even told 
Starwind how badly he still feels. It cost him a great deal to tell it to you.:
His first reaction was guilt. His second was anger.
By his own admission, Moondance's tragic affair had been nothing more than 
that - an affair doomed to be brief. How could he even begin to compare his hurt 
with Vanyel's? Moondance wasn't alone - 
Moondance hadn't murdered Starwind - just some stupid gleeman, who would 
have passed out of his life in a few weeks. A common player, and no great love.
Moondance still had Starwind. Would always have Starwind. Vanyel would be 
alone forever. So how could Moondance compare the two of them?
Yfandes seemed to sense something of what was going on in his mind; she 
pulled away from him, a little, and looked - or was it felt? - offended.
That only made him angrier.
Without another word, spoken or thought, he turned on his heel and ran - away 
from her, away from the Tayledras - away from all of them. Ran to a little corner 
at the end of the vale, a sullen grove of dark, fleshy-leaved trees and ferns, 
where very little light ever came. He pushed his way in among them, and curled 
up around his misery and his anger, his stomach churning, his eyes stinging.
They don't give a damn about me - just about what I can do. They don't care how 
much I hurt, all they want is for me to do what I'm told. Savil just wants to see me 
tricked into being a Herald, that's all. They don't any of them understand! They 
don't any of them know how much - I- - 
He began crying silently. 'Lendel, 'Lendel, they don't know how much of me died 
with you. All I want is to be left alone. Why can't they leave me alone? Why can't 
they stop trying to make me do what they want? They're all alike, dammit, they're 
just like Father, the only thing different is what they want out of me! Oh 'Lendel - I 
need you so much - 
He stayed there, crying off and on, until full dark-then crept as silently as he 
could back to the building-part of him hoping to find them waiting for him.
Only to find it as vacant as when he'd left it. In fact, only the night-lamps were 
burning, and those were only left for the benefit of any of the Tayledras who 
might care to come down to the ground during the night. It didn't even look as if 
he'd been missed.
They don't care, he thought forlornly, surveying the empty, ill-lit rooms. They 
really don't care. Oh, gods - 
His stomach knotted up into a hard, squirming ball.
No one cares. No one ever did except 'Lendel. And no one ever will again.
His shoulders slumped, and a second hard lump clogged his throat. He made 
another circuit of the rooms, but they stayed achingly, echoingly empty. No sign 
of anyone. No sign anyone would ever come back.
After pacing through the place until the echoes of his own footsteps were about 
to drive him into tears, he finally crawled into bed.
And cried himself to sleep.


Thirteen

Leareth laughed; his icy laughter echoed off the cliffs as he held up one hand 
and made the simplest of gestures. A mage-storm swirled into being precisely at 
the edge of Vanyel's defenses. Vanyel poured power into his shielding; this was 
the last, the very last of his protections. He was drained, the energy-sources 
were drained, and he himself had taken far more damage in the duel than he 
would allow Leareth to know.
He was no match for the scouring blast that peeled his shields away faster than 
he could replace them. Leareth smiled behind his mage-storm, as if he knew that 
Vanyel was weakening by the moment. Sweat ran into his eyes and started to 
freeze there; he went to his knees, still fighting, and knowing he was going to 
lose. Leareth seemed not even wearied.
A final blast struck down the last of his protections. Vanyel screamed as agony 
such as he'd never known before arced through his body - 
Vanyel woke up; the bed was soaking with sweat, and he was shaking so hard 
the ferns over his head quivered. He was afraid that he had screamed out loud.
But when no one came running into the room, he knew that he hadn't; that 
everything had been in the dream. At least this time he hadn't awakened anyone, 
and hadn't been trapped in the dream.
Dream. Oh, gods, it isn't just a dream. He shivered, despite the warmth of the 
room, and stared up through the fern fronds at the descending moon. The 
nightmare had him in a grasp of iron claws and would not let him go.
This is going to be real, it feels real. It's ForeSight. It has to be. Leareth calls me ' 
'Herald-Mage Vanyel,'' and I'm in Whites. I'm dreaming my own death. This is 
what is going to happen to me, how I'm going to die, if I become a Herald. Alone. 
In terrible pain, and all alone, fighting a doomed battle.
He shivered harder, chilled by the cold of the dream, chilled even more with fear. 
He finally threw the covers back, grabbed his robe, and padded into the room 
with the hot pools, finding his way by moonlight and habit.
For this was not the first time he'd awakened in the middle of the night, dream-
chilled and needing warmth. This was just the first time since he'd arrived here 
that the dream had been clear enough to remember.
He climbed into the uppermost pool, easing himself down into the hot water with 
a sigh and a shiver. Oh, gods. I don't want to die like that. They can't want me to 
have to face that, can they? If they knew about this dream, would they still want 
me to be a Herald? Gods, I know the answer to that - 
He eased a little farther down into the hot water, until it lapped at his chin. He 
was fighting blind, unreasoning panic, and losing. What am I going to do? Oh, 
gods - I can't think - 
I have to get away. I can't stay here. If I do, they 'II try and talk me around. Where 
can I go? I don't even know where "home" is from here. But I can't stay - I'II just 
go, I'll just pack up and go, and hope something turns up, it's all I can do. It 
means leaving Yfandes - 
For a moment that thought was more than he could bear. But - fear was stronger. 
It's lose her, or lose my life. No. I can't. I can't face an end like that. Besides, he 
choked on a sob, she just wants me to be a Herald, too - 
He looked up, judging the hour by the moon. I've got a few hours until dawn. I 
can be out of the valley and well away before they even start looking for me. And 
they might not - Starwind still isn't ready to deal with me again; they might just 
think I've gone off somewhere to be alone, especially if I block Yfandes out now 
and keep her out.
He climbed out of the pool and dried himself with his robe; he knew exactly 
where the clothing he'd arrived in was hung - the far end of Moondance's closet. 
He pulled it on as quickly as he could, taking the heavy cloak and draping it over 
one arm. One of the packs was in there, too, the one with the rest of his winter 
clothes. They were too warm to wear in the valley, so he'd never unpacked them, 
wearing instead Moondance's outgrown things. There was always food out in the 
room beside the one with the staircase; Tayledras sometimes kept odd hours. He 
niched enough bread and cheese to last several days and stuffed it into the pack 
with his clothing.
It took him most of a candlemark to reach the entrance to the valley. If it hadn't 
been snowing, he might have turned back at that moment - but it was, lightly, 
enough to cover his tracks. He swung the heavy cloak over his shoulders, braced 
himself for the shock of the temperature change, and stepped out into the dark 
and cold, remembering just in time to put up a shield so that he could not be 
tracked by his own aura.

"Two steps forward, one step back," Moondance's voice drifted up the ladder - 
Savil refused to call anything that steep a "staircase" - to Starwind's ekele; it was 
a good three breaths before Moondance himself appeared. His head poked 
through the hatchway in the gleaming wooden floor just as a gust of wind made 
the whole tree sway and creak.
Savil gulped, and gripped the arms of her low chair, looking resolutely away from 
the windows and their view of the birds flying by below them. Starwind never 
would tell her what it was they used in those windows instead of glass - which 
wouldn't have lasted ten breaths in a high wind. It was the same thing they used 
for the skylights, only thinner. Some kind of tough, flexible, transparent 
membrane - and Savil could not bring herself to believe that it would hold if you 
fell against it. The ekele creaked again, and she shuddered as she saw the 
window-stuff ripple a little with the warping of the window frames.
"Would you mind explaining that cryptic remark?" she asked, as the rest of 
Moondance emerged from the "entrance."
"Oh, thy pupil, Wingsister," he said, at his most formal, closing the hatchway 
against another gust of chill air. The ladder was sheltered, but not entirely 
enclosed - that would have been impractical - and Starwind couldn't see wasting 
a mage-barrier on the entrance to his "nest" when the hatchway served perfectly 
well most of the time. "Bright the day, Master-ashke. "
"Wind to thy wings," Starwind replied automatically, turning away from the 
window, his gloom brightening a little. "Shay'kreth'ashke, there is no 'Master' here 
for thee."
"Nay, till the day thy wings bear thee upwards, thou'rt my Master.'' Moondance 
glided across the unsteady floor to Starwind's side, as surefooted as a sailor on a 
moving deck.
"Enough, I'm drowning," Savil groaned. "Gods, life-bonded - it's enough to make 
me celibate. What about my pupil? And will you please come away from that 
window? I keep thinking the next gust is going to pitch you out."
"The window would hold. Besides, no Tayledras has fallen from his ekele in 
years beyond counting, Wingsister," Starwind said, turning his back to the 
window and leaning on the ledge.
"So the time is long past for it to happen, and I don't want it to be you, all right?" 
Another gust made the whole tree groan, and she clutched at the arms of the 
chair, her knuckles going white.
"Very well," Starwind was actually smiling as he stepped away from the window 
and folded himself bone-lessly into one of the chairs bolted to the floor of his 
ekele. He got a certain amount of pleasure out of teasing Savil about her 
acrophobia.
Each ekele was something like an elaborate treehouse; there was one for each 
major branch of the King Tree, some twenty in all. Not all were tenanted, and 
they were mostly used for meditation, sleeping, teaching, and recreation. For 
everything else, the "place below" served far better. But when a Tayledras 
needed to think, he frequently retreated to his ekele, sometimes for weeks, 
touching foot to ground only when he needed to.
An ekele consisted of a single windowed room, varying in size, made of polished 
wood so light in color that it was almost white, and furnished at most with a few 
chairs bolted to the floor, a table likewise bolted, and rolled pads stored in one 
corner for sleeping. Starwind's was one of the highest, hence, one of the 
smallest. The view was majestic. It was wasted on Savil.
Moondance took a third chair, and sat in it sideways, legs draped over the arms. 
"Well?" Savil demanded. "Are you going to explain yourself?"
"Your pupil. First, we strive to bring him to not depend upon others. So - then he 
pulls in upon himself, confiding not even in his Companion, hiding his pain within. 
Then I try to bring him to confess the pain, to share it, to reach out - "
"So?"
Moondance shrugged, and Savil sensed he hadn't told everything.
"What did you tell him?"
Moondance's moods could be read from his eyes; they were a murky gray-blue. 
"I - told him of myself. I thought if he could see that he is not the only soul in the 
world that feels pain, he might be brought to share it."
Savil's eyes narrowed; Moondance was unhappy. "Shayana, did he hurt you? If 
he did - "
"Na, the only one who hurt me was myself." His eyes cleared, and he gave her a 
wry smile. "He only pushed me away, is all. So, he hides all day, and this 
morning he is hiding again. His bed is empty, the hertasi say he went to the end 
of the vale, and his Companion says he has blocked her out entirely. To put it 
rudely, Wingsister, he is sulking."
Savil sighed, forgetting to clutch the arms of the chair. "Gods, what are we to do 
with him?"
Starwind's expression sobered again, and he began to answer - but was 
interrupted. Both Tayledras snapped to attention; their heads swung to face the 
window as if a single string had pulled them in that direction.
Two birds shot up from below and hovered there, just outside that window; the 
white gyrefalcon, and a second, of normal plumage. Starwind leaped out of his 
chair and flung the window open; the birds swirled in on the blast of wind that 
entered, and he slammed the window shut again.
Moondance had jumped to his feet, holding both arms out, ready for the birds, 
the moment Starwind went for the window. The falcons homed for him unerringly 
and were settling on the leather guards on his forearms before Starwind had 
finished latching the window closed.
The elder Tayledras held out his arm, and the burl falcon lofted to his forearm 
with a flutter of pinions, settling immediately.
Both Tayledras stared into their birds' eyes in silent communion. Savil kept as still 
as she could; while the bond between Hawkbrother and his birds was a strong 
one, and the magic-bred birds were considerably more than their wild brethren, 
their minds were something less than that of a very young child, perhaps a trifle 
superior to a cat, and it didn't take much to distract them.
The white falcon mantled; the buff cried. The Tayledras' eyes refocused, and 
Savil read "trouble" in the grim lines of their mouths.
"What?" she asked.
"First - tampering, as you had reported it to us, but this time on our grounu and 
not on k'Vala," Starwind said, soothing his bird by stroking its breast-feathers. "A 
clutch of colddrakes, from the look of it. Something has made them move, so 
when we deal with the drakes, we shall have to look farther afield; there are folk 
settled in that direction under k'Treva protection. This is the first time we have 
caught the culprit in the act, and I do not intend to take this lightly.''
"I hope you're counting me in that 'we'; a clutch of drakes needs every mage you 
can muster," she said, getting carefully to her feet and bracing herself against the 
sway of the ekele.
"If you would - you would be welcome." Starwind looked relieved. "But Vanyel - "
"If he's hiding, he'll only come out when he's ready.
He's not going to come to any harm while he's in the vale. How far are these 
monsters, anyway?"
"Haifa day's footpace; perhaps less," Moondance replied, "The which I do not 
like. It speaks for them being harried, or even Gated. In which case, why and 
who?"
"Good questions, both of them," Savil agreed. "Who can we count on?''
"Nothing under an Adept, not with drakes; not even Journeymen should handle 
drake-swarms, at least not to my mind. Shethka. "
"Don't tell me, we're the only three in any shape to take them on, right?"
"Sunsong is still recovering from moving the firebirds to sanctuary, Brightwind is 
too old to travel, Stormwing is pregnant."
"Lord and Lady - lock her up!" Savil exclaimed.
"No fear, she's steadied since she reached Adept. No more headlong races into 
danger just for the thrill. So - Rainstar is out already, with another call from the 
kyree, as is Fireflight. And that is the total of k'Treva Adepts." Starwind grimaced. 
"If this were summer…"
"If this were summer, it wouldn't be colddrakes, ashke, " Moondance reminded 
him. "We work with what we have, and grateful that Wingsister Savil is with us."
"Let's get on with it," Savil said, steadying herself for the long climb down, as the 
Tayledras transferred their birds from forearm to shoulder for the descent. "So far 
as I'm concerned, I'll take a colddrake over your bedamned ladder any time!''

The snow cleared just before dawn, and the sun rose, pale and glorious, shining 
through the bare branches of the trees. The forest was filled with light; with the 
light came a resurgence of Vanyel's good sense.
He sat down on a stump, tired and winded, and suddenly seemed to wake out of 
the hold of his nightmare. What am I doing out here? he thought, panting. I don't 
know where I'm going, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, I have 
no idea where I am! I just - hared off into nowhere, like a complete idiot!
He put his pack down at his feet and scooped up some of the new snow in his 
mitten and ate it; it numbed his tongue, but it didn't do much for his thirst. I can't 
believe I did anything this stupid.
He wrapped his cloak tighter, and tucked his knees up under his chin, staring at 
the delicate tracery of white branches against the painfully blue sky. He began to 
think things through, slowly; one small, painful step at a time.
He flushed with shame. I can't believe I did this. Dammit, I know how much Savil 
loves me, I've felt it - and Yfandes, and - damn, I am a rotten fool. Moondance 
was just trying to say that it's - easier to have other people around who hurt when 
you hurt, not that he thought he hurt worse than me. I hurt him by pushing him 
away.
His blush deepened. Worst of it is, he'll likely forgive me without my asking. They 
didn't abandon me yesterday; they were busy - probably over my welfare. They 
gave me exactly what I wanted; to be left alone. I should have been knocked up 
against a wall.
He brooded, watching the birch branches swaying in the breeze. He was alone, 
completely alone, as he had not been since he left Forst Reach. The only thing 
breaking the silence was the whisper of the breeze and the occasional call of a 
winter bird. It was the kind of solitude he had sought - and not found - in the ice-
dream. And now that he had it, he didn't want it.
Not that this place wasn't peaceful - but a sanctuary, as he had discovered with 
his little hideaway at the keep, could all too easily become a prison.
When you lock things out, he thought slowly, you lock yourself in. I think maybe 
that was what Moondance was trying to tell me.
He stared at the white branches, not seeing them, and not really thinking; just 
letting things turn over in the back of his mind. There was a half-formed thought 
back there, an important one. But it wasn't quite ready to come out yet.
Finally he sighed, and turned his thoughts back to his own stupidity. Even if that 
dream is ForeSight, there's probably ways around it. Nobody's going to force me 
into being a Herald. I could probably stay here if I asked to. There was no reason 
to go running off into the wilderness with nothing but what I could carry and no 
weapons. Gods, what a fool I am!
He swiveled around to look down his backtrail. Even as he watched, the brisk 
breeze was filling in the last of his tracks with the light, powdery snow.
He groaned aloud. Oh, fine. Just fine. I probably won't be able to find my way 
back now! I don't need teachers, I need nursemaids!
Then he blinked, caught in sudden astonishment at the tone of his own thoughts. 
He sat up a little straighter and took stock of himself, and found that he was - 
feeling alive again. Feeling ready to be alive.
It's like I've been sick, fevered, and the fever just broke. Like I've been broken 
inside, somehow, and I'm finally starting to feel healed. I haven't felt this - good - 
since Tylendel - died - 
He closed his eyes, expecting pain at that thought. There was pain, but not the 
debilitating agony of loss it had been.
'Lendel, he thought with a tinge of wonder, I still miss you. It still hurts, you not 
being here. But I guess Moon-dance was right. I have to get on with my life, even 
though you aren't here to share it.
He opened his eyes on the snow-sparkling forest, and actually managed a weak 
smile at his own folly. "I really am an idiot, a right royal moon calf. And you'd 
have been the first to laugh at me, wouldn't you, 'Lendel?" He shook his head at 
himself. "All right, I guess I'd better figure out how to find my way back without a 
trail to follow."
Then the answer came to him, and he laughed at his own stupidity. "Lord and 
Lady, it's a good thing you take care of fools. All I have to do is look for mages. 
It's not like there's too many enclaves of mages out here, after all! The power 
should be there for even a dunderhead like me to see."
He closed his eyes again, and took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air. Center - 
ground - and open - well, just like I figured, there they are - 
The surge of Gate-energy hit him with a shock, knocking him senseless.

* * *

When Vanyel came to again, the sun was high overhead, shining down on his 
cheek; it was noon, or nearly. He was lying where he'd fallen, on his side, braced 
between his pack and the stump. He'd curled up around the pack, and the roots 
from the stump were digging into his side and leg. His ears were ringing - or was 
it his head? Whatever; it felt as if he'd been graced with one of Jervis' better 
efforts.
Gods. He glanced up at the sun, and winced. That was a Gate. Nothing else 
feels like that. Oh, I hurt. It's a good thing I was wrapped up in this cloak when I 
fell over, or I'd have frozen.
He pushed the pack away, and rolled over onto his stomach. That at least got the 
sun out of his eyes. He got his knees under him, and pushed himself up off the 
snow with his arms; he was stiff and cold, but otherwise intact. Only his head 
hurt, and that in the peculiar "inside" way that meant he'd "bruised" those new 
senses of his. He knelt where he was for a moment, then pushed his hood back 
and looked around. It looked as if he'd fallen right over sideways when the shock 
hit him.
Guess I'd better get moving. Before I turn into a snow-statue. He pulled himself to 
his feet with the help of the stump, then stamped around the snow for several 
moments, trying to get his blood moving again.
I hope nobody noticed I'm gone. I hope that Gate wasn't somebody out looking 
for me. I feel enough of a fool as it is.
He hitched his pack over his shoulder, and took his bearings. All right, let's try 
again. Center - and ground - and open - and If I find out that Moondance had 
anything to do with this I'll - 
His head rang again, and he swayed and almost fell, but this time the shock was 
a clear, urgent, and unmistakable wordless cry for help. It sobered him as quickly 
as Andrel's bucket of cold water.
There was no "presence" to the cry, not like any of the Gifted or the Tayledras 
had; it was just simple and desperate. This was no trained mage or Herald. It 
could only be an ordinary person in mortal fear.
Gods! His head swiveled toward the source of the cry as a needle to a lodestone. 
And without any clear notion of why he was doing so, except that it was a cry for 
help, and he had to answer it, Vanyel began stumbling toward the source at a 
clumsy run.
He had been following a game-trail; now he was right off any path. He ran into a 
tangle of bushes, and could find no way around it. Driven nearly frantic by the call 
in his head, he finally shoved his way through it. Then he was in a beech grove; 
there was little or no growth between the straight, white columns of the trunks, 
and he picked up his pace until he was at an all-out run.
But the clear, growth-free area was too soon passed; his breath was burning in 
his lungs as the forest floor became rougher, liberally strewn with tangles of briar 
and rocks, and hillier as well. His cloak kept hanging up on things, no matter how 
hard he tried to keep it close to his body. He tripped; stumbled wildly into the 
trunk of a tree, and picked himself up only to trip a second time and fall flat in the 
snow. The breath was knocked out of him for a moment, but that panicked, 
pleading voice in his "ear within" would not let him give up. He scrambled to his 
feet, pulled his cloak loose from a bramble, and started running again.
He must have tripped and fallen a good dozen times over obstacles hidden in the 
snow, and he surely made enough noise to have warned anything that wasn't 
deaf of his coming.
Anything that wasn't deaf - or very busy.
Winded, floundering blindly, and unable to focus on anything more than a few 
feet ahead of him, he fell over a root just as he reached the crest of a low hill, 
and dropped into a thicket of bushes that crowned it.
He saw the danger before he got up and broke through their protective cover. He 
froze where he was. The "danger" was too intent on its victims to have paid any 
attention to the racket he'd been making. Likely an entire cavalry troupe could 
have come on it unawares.
This was the very edge of the cleared lands of some smallholder; a fertile river-
valley, well-watered, sheltered from the worst of the winter weather and summer 
storms. Arable land like this could well tempt an enterprising farmer out into the 
possible perils of the Pelagirs. There had been a stockade around the house and 
barns to guard against those hazards that could be foreseen.
But the stockade, of whole tree trunks planted in a ring around the buildings, was 
flattened and uprooted. It could not have held more than a few moments against 
what had come at the settlers out of the bright winter morning.
Vanyel had never seen a colddrake, but he knew what it was from descriptions in 
far too many songs and tales to count.
Less like a lizard, and more like a snake with short, stubby legs, it was the largest 
living creature Vanyel had ever seen. From nose to tail it was easily as long as 
six carts placed end-to-end. Its equine head was the size of a wine barrel; it had 
row upon row of silvery needle-sharp spines along its crest and down its back, 
and more spines formed a frill around its neck. It snarled silently, baring teeth as 
long as Vanyel's hand, and white and sharp as icicles. Its wickedly curved claws 
had torn the earth around it. Vanyel knew what those looked like; Moondance 
had a dagger made from one. Those claws were longer than his hand, and as 
sharp as the teeth. Huge, deep-purple eyes, like perfect cabochon amethysts, 
were fixed unwaveringly upon its prey, a young woman and her two children. It 
was a pure silver-white, like the cleanest of snow, and its scales sparkled in the 
sunlight; it was at least as beautiful as it was deadly.
As one mangled body beneath its forefeet testified, the creature knew very well 
how to use its wickedly sharp claws and teeth.
But neither tail nor fangs and claws was what held the terrified woman and her 
two children paralyzed almost within reach. It was the colddrake's primary 
weapon - the hypnotic power of its eyes.
It stared at them in complete silence, a silence so absolute that Vanyel could 
hear the woman panting in fear where he lay. The drake was not moving; it was 
going to bring its prey to within easy reaching distance of it.
Vanyel hadn't reshielded since he'd first been impaled upon that dreadful dagger 
of the woman's fear. He could still sense her thoughts - incoherent, hysteric, and 
hopeless. Her mind wailed and scratched at the walls that the colddrake's violet 
gaze had set up around it. She was trapped, they were trapped, their wills gone, 
their bodies no longer obeying them.
That was how her husband, the children's father, had died; walking right into the 
creature's grasp, his body obedient to its will, not his own. The beast was slow, 
that was the true horror of it - if they could just distract it for a crucial moment, 
break its gaze, they could escape it.
Vanyel could "hear" other minds, too - out there on the opposite side of the 
clearing. The rest of the extended family - there must have been dozens of them 
- had made it past the slow-moving drake to the safety and shelter of the woods. 
Only these four had not; the woman, burdened with her toddlers, and the man, 
staying to protect them. He could "hear" bits of their anguish, like a chorus 
wailing beneath the woman's keening fear.
Vanyel stared at the trapped three, just as paralyzed as they were. His mouth 
was dry, and his heart hammered with fear. He couldn't seem to think; it was as if 
those violet eyes were holding him captive, too.
There was movement at the edge of his field of vision.
No - not all had fled to the woods. From around the corner of the barn came a 
man; limping, painfully, slowly, but moving so quietly that the snow didn't even 
creak beneath his boots. He was stalking the drake. A new set of thoughts 
invaded Vanyel's mind, fragmentary, but enough to tell him what the man was 
about.
: - get close enough to stick 'im - :
It was an old man, a tired, old man; it was the woman's grandfather. He'd been 
caught in the barn when the thing attacked and knocked the stockade flat, and 
he'd seen his granddaughter's husband walk into the thing's jaws. He'd 
recognized the drake for what it was, and he'd armed himself with the only 
weapon he could find. A pitchfork. Ridiculous against a colddrake.
: - get them eyes off 'er an' she kin run fer it - :
The colddrake was paying no attention to anything except the prey right before it. 
The old man crept up behind it without it ever noticing he was there.
The old man knew, with calm certainty, that he was going to die. He knew that 
his attack was never going to do anything more than anger the creature. But it 
would break the thing's concentration; it would make it turn its head away for one 
crucial moment.
His attack was suicidal, but it would give his granddaughter and her children a 
chance to live.
He came within an arm's length of the colddrake - he poised the pitchfork as 
casually as if he were about to stab a haybale - and he struck, burying the 
pitchfork tines in the colddrake's side with a sound like a knife burying itself to the 
hilt in a block of wood.
The drake screamed; its whistling shriek shattered the dreadful silence, and 
nearly shattered Vanyel's eardrums. It whipped its head around on its long, snaky 
neck, and it seized the old man before he even let go of the pitchfork. With a 
snap of its jaws that echoed even above its shrill screeching, it bit the old man's 
head neatly off his shoulders.
Vanyel screamed as he felt the old man die - and the oldster's desperate courage 
proved to be too much of a goad for him to resist.
Anger, fear, other emotions he couldn't even name, all caught him up, raised him 
to his feet, drove him out into the open and exploded out of him with a force that 
dwarfed the explosion he'd caused when Starwind had tried to make him call 
lightning.
He was thinking just enough to throw up a shield around the woman and her 
children with one shouted word. Then he hit the drake with everything he had in 
him. The blast of raw power caught the drake in the side and sent it hurtling up 
over the roof of the house - high into the sky - and held it suspended there for 
one agonizing moment while Vanyel's insides felt as if they were tearing loose.
Then the power ran out, and it fell to the earth, bleeding in a hundred places, 
every bone in its body shattered.
And Vanyel dropped to his knees, then his hands, then collapsed completely, to 
lie spent in the open field under the pale winter sun, gasping for breath and 
wondering what he had done.
Savil surveyed the last of the colddrake carcasses, and turned to Starwind, biting 
her lip in anxiety. "Where's the queen-drake?''
"No sign of her," he replied, shortly, holding to his feet with pure will. He'd taken 
the brunt of the attack, and he was dizzy and weak from the effort of holding the 
center while Savil and Moondance closed the jaws of the trap about the 
colddrake swarm.
"I have not seen her, either," Moondance called up the hill. He was checking 
each carcass in case one should prove to be an immature queen. It was unlikely 
to see a swarm with a juvenile queen, but it wasn't unheard of, either.
Yfandes had consented to carry the Tayledras double - the need to get to the 
place where the drake swarm was before the swarm reached inhabited areas 
was too great for any other consideration. Starwind had then served as the "bait" 
afoot, while Moondance on Yfandes and Savil on Kellan had been the arms of 
the trap.
"No queens," he said, flatly, having checked the sixth and final body.
The fight had stripped the snow from the hilltop, exposing the blackened slope. 
The six drakes lay upon the scorched turf in twisted silver heaps, like the 
baroque silver ornaments of a careless giantess strewn across black velvet.
"Ashke, are you well?" Moondance asked anxiously, leaving the last of the 
bodies and climbing the hill with a certain amount of haste. Starwind looked as if 
his legs were going to give out on him at any moment, and Yfandes had moved 
up to lend him her shoulder as support. He leaned on it with a murmur of 
gratitude as the Healer-Adept reached his side.
"I will do well enough, once I have a chance to breathe," the elder Tayledras 
replied, as Moondance added his support to Yfandes'. "I am more worried that 
we did not find the queen."
"Do you suppose," Savil began - 
Then all three of them felt an incredible surge of raw, wild power - and it had 
Vanyel's "presence" laced through it.
"M'lord?"
Someone was tugging at his shoulder. Vanyel lifted his head from his arms; that 
was just about the limit of his capabilities right now.
"Gods," he said, dazedly, as the stocky young cloak-shrouded woman at his side 
tried to get him to sit up. "Oh, please - just - don't do that right now."
"M'lord? Ye be hurt?" she asked, thick brows knitting with concern. "Ye bain't 
hurt, best ye get inside fore 'nother them things comes."
"Aren't… anymore," he replied heavily, giving in to her urging and hauling himself 
into a sitting position. The sun seemed very bright and and just on the verge of 
being painful to his watering eyes.
Gods, it's one of the holders. She's going to lay into me for not coming sooner, 
he thought, squinting at her, and already wincing in anticipation of harsh words. 
She's going to want to know why I didn't save the old man, or come in time to 
save the young one. What can I tell her? How can I tell her it was because I was 
too scared to move until the old man threw himself at the thing?
"Ye saved us, m'lord," she said, brown eyes wide, the awe in her voice plain 
even to Vanyel's exhausted ears. "Ye came t' save us, I dunno how ye knew, but, 
m'lord, I bain't got no way t' thank ye."
He stared at her in amazement. "But - "
"Be ye with the bird-lords, m'lord? Ye bain't their look, but they be the only mages 
abaht that give a bent nail fer folks' good.''
"Bird-lords?" he repeated stupidly.
"Tchah, Menfree,'tis only a boy an' he's flat paid out!" The newcomer was an 
older woman, a bit wrinkled and weathered, but with a kindly, if careworn, face. 
She bunched her cloak around her arms and bent over him. "Na, lad, ye come in, 
ye get warm an' less a'muddled, an' then ye tell yer tale, hrom?"
She took Vanyel's elbow, and he perforce had to get up, or else pull her down 
beside him. The next thing he knew, he was being guided across the ruts of the 
plowed field, past the carcass of the colddrake (he shuddered as he saw the size 
of it up close) up to the battered porch of the house and into the shadowed 
doorway.
He was not only confused with exhaustion, but he was feeling more than a little 
awkward and out of place. These were the kind of people he had most tried to 
avoid at home - those mysterious, inscrutable peasant-farmers, whose needs 
and ways he did not understand.
Surely they would turn on him in a moment for not being there when they needed 
help.
But they didn't.
The older woman pushed him down onto a stool beside the enormous fireplace 
at the heart of the kitchen, the younger took his cloak and pack, and a boy 
brought him hot, sweetened tea. When one of the bearded, dark-clad men 
started to question him, the older woman shooed him away, pulling off her own 
dun cloak and throwing it over a bench.
"Ye leave th' boy be fer a bit, Magnus; I seen this b'fore with one a' them bird-
laddies. They does the magickin', then they's a-maundered a whiles." She patted 
Vanyel on the head, in a rather proprietary sort of fashion. "He said there ain't no 
more critters, so ye git on with takin' care a' poor old Kern an' Tansy's man an' let 
this lad get hisself sorted."
Vanyel huddled on the stool and watched them, blinking in the half-dark of the 
kitchen, as they got their lives put back together with a minimum of fuss. 
Someone went to deal with the bodies, someone saw to the hysterical young 
mother, someone else planned of rites. Yes, they were mourning the deaths; 
simply and sincerely, without any of the kind of hysterics he'd half feared. But 
they were not allowing their grief to get in the way of getting on with their lives, 
not were they allowing it to cripple their efforts at getting their protections back in 
place.
Their simple courage made him, somehow feel very ashamed of himself.
It was in that introspective mood that the others found him.

* * *


" - I know it was a stupid thing to do, to run off like that, but - " Vanyel shrugged. 
"I won't make any excuses. I've been doing a lot of stupid things lately. I wasn't 
thinking."
"Well, don't be too hard on yourself. Foresight dreams have a way of doing that 
to people," Savil said, crossing her legs and settling back on her stool beside the 
hearth. "They tend to get you on the boil and then lock up your ability to think. 
You wouldn't be the first to go charging off in some wild-hare direction after 
waking up with one, and you probably won't be the last. No, thank you, Megan," 
she said to the wide-eyed child who offered her tea. "We're fine."
If the settlers had been awed by Vanyel, they'd been struck near speechless by 
the sight of the Tayledras. They didn't know a Herald from a birch tree, but they 
knew who and what the Hawkbrothers were, and had accorded them the 
deference due a crowned head.
All three of the adults were weary, and relief at finding both that Vanyel was 
intact and that the queen-drake was indisputably deceased had them just about 
ready to collapse. So they'd taken the settlers' hospitality with gratitude; settling 
in beside the hearth and accepting tea and shelter without demur.
Vanyel had waited just long enough for them to get settled before launching into 
a full confession.
"So when I finally managed to acquire some sense," he continued, "I figured the 
best way to find my way back would be to look for where all the mage-energy 
was. I did everything like you told me, Master Starwind, and I opened up - and 
the next thing I knew it was nearly noon. Somebody'd opened up a Gate - I think 
somewhere nearby - and it knocked me put cold."
"Ha - I told you those things were Gated in!" Savil exclaimed. "Sorry, lad, I didn't 
mean to interrupt you. Then what?"
"Well, I didn't think there was anyone around here but Tayledras, so I thought 
one of them had done it. I started to open up again to find the vale, and I heard a 
call for help. I got here, and when I saw that colddrake - kill the old man - I just - I 
just couldn't stand by and not do anything. I didn't even think about it. I wish I 
had, I think I overdid it."
"With a colddrake, particularly a queen, better overkill," Savil replied, exchanging 
a look of veiled satisfaction with Starwind. "You may have acted a fool, but it put 
you in the right place at the right time, and I am not going to berate you for it."
"Aunt Savil, I," he flushed, and hunched himself up a little, "I got here before the 
old man came out. I didn't do anything until he - I mean - I was just hiding in the 
bushes. I guess," he said, in a very small voice, "I guess Father's right. I am a 
coward. I could have saved him, and I didn't."
"Did you know you could have saved him?" Moondance asked, quietly, his 
square face still. "Did you know that your mage-powers would work against the 
drake?''
"Well - no."
"You ran toward the danger when you Mindheard the call for help, right?" Savil 
asked. "Not away?"
"Well - yes."
"And you simply froze when you saw the strange monster. You did not flee?" 
Starwind raised one long eyebrow.
"I guess that's what happened."
"I think perhaps you have mistaken inexperience for cowardice, young Vanyel," 
Starwind said with conviction. "A coward would have run away from a plea for 
help. A coward would have fled at the first glimpse of the drake. You were 
indecisive - but you remained. It is experience that makes one decisive, and you 
have precious little of that."
"M'lord Starwind?" One of the homespun-clad men of the settlement was 
standing diffidently at the Tayle-dras' elbow.
"Phellip, I wish you would not call me 'lord,' " Starwind sighed, shaking his head. 
"You hold your lands under our protection, yes, but it is a simple matter of barter, 
foodstuffs for guardianship, and no more than that."
"Aye, m' - Master Starwind. Master, this drake - she just be chance-come, or be 
there anythin' more to it?"
Starwind turned to look at him more closely, and with some interest. "Why do you 
ask that?"
Phellip coughed, and flushed. "Well, m'lord, I was born 'n' bred west a' here. 
M'people held land a' Mage-lord Grenvis - he were all right, but - well, when 'is 
neighbors had a notion t' play war, they useta bring in drakes an' th' like 
aforehand."
"And you think something of the sort might be in the offing? Phellip, I 
congratulate you on your foresight. The thought had only just occurred to me - "
"Da?" One of the boys couldn't contain himself any longer, and bounced up 
beside his father. "Da, there gonna be a war? With fightin' an' magic an' - "
Phellip grabbed the loose cloth of the boy's tunic and pulled him close. "Jo - I 
want ye t' lissen t' what m'lord Starwind is gonna tell ye - m'lord, you tell 'im; 'e 
don' believe 'is of man that fightin' ain't good fer nothin' but fillin' up graveyards."
"Young man," Starwind fixed the boy with an earnest stare. "There is nothing 
'fine' about warfare. There is nothing 'glorious' about battle. All that a war means 
to such as you and I is that people we know and love will die, probably 
senselessly; others will be crippled for life - and the fools who began it all will sit 
back in their high castles and plot a way to get back what they lost. If there were 
to be a war - which, trust me, Phellip, I shall try most earnestly to prevent - the 
very best you could hope for, young man, would be to see these lovely fields 
around you put to the torch so that you would face a very hungry winter. That is 
what warfare is all about. The only justifiable fight is a defensive one, and in any 
fight it is the innocents who ultimately suffer the most."
The boy didn't look convinced.
Vanyel cleared his throat, and the boy shot a look at him. "Pretty exciting, the 
way that drake just nipped off that fool old man's head, wasn't it, Starwind?" he 
drawled, in exaggerated imitation of some of the young courtiers of his own 
circle.
The boy paled, then reddened - but before he could burst into either tears or 
angry words, Vanyel looked him straight in the eyes so fiercely that he could not 
look away.
"That's what you'll see in a war, Jo," he said, harshly. "Not people in tales getting 
killed - your people getting killed. Younglings, oldsters - everybody. And some 
fool at the rear crowing about how exciting it all is. That's what it's about."
Now Jo looked stricken - and, perhaps, convinced. Out of the corner of his eye 
Vanyel saw the farmer nodding in approval.
Out of nowhere, Vanyel felt a sudden rush of kindred feeling for these people. 
Suddenly they weren't faceless, inscrutable monoliths anymore - suddenly they 
were people. People who were in some ways a great deal more like him than his 
own relatives were. They had lives - and loves and cares.
Their outlook on warfare was certainly closer to his than that of any of his blood 
relations.
They aren't that much different than me. Except - except that I can do something 
they can't. I can - I can protect them when they can't protect themselves. And 
they can do things I can't. But I could learn to grow a carrot if I had to. It probably 
wouldn't be a very good carrot, but I could grow one. They won't ever be able to 
blast a colddrake.
What does that mean, really? What does that say about my life? Why can I do 
these things, and not someone else - and what about the people out there who - 
who send drake-swarms out to eat Helpless farmers? If I can protect people like 
this from people like them - doesn't that mean - that I really have to?
He looked up and saw his aunt's eyes; she was watching the children at their 
chores, cleaning and chopping vegetables for a stew. Her expression was at 
once protective and worried.
It's the way Savil feels - it's got to be. That's why she's a Herald.
And suddenly Tylenders words came back to him; so clearly that it seemed for a 
moment as if Tylendel were sitting beside him again, murmuring into his ear.

"… it's a kind of hunger. I can't help it. I've got these abilities, these Gifts, and I 
can't not use them. I couldn't sit here, knowing that there were people out there 
who need exactly the kind of help I can give them and not make the effort to find 
them and take care of them.'' Now he understood those words. Oh, the irony of it; 
this part of Tylendel that he had never been able to comprehend - now it was 
clear. Now that Tylendel was gone - now he understood. Oh, godsHe closed his 
eyes against the sting of tears. Oh, yes - now he understood. Because now he 
felt that way, too. Too late to share it.

Fourteen

:Well?: To all appearances, Savil was asleep beside the settlers' stone hearth as 
she Mindspoke Starwind in Private-mode. In actuality, despite her weariness she 
was anything but sleepy, and was watching the fire through half-slitted eyes as 
she waited for the opportunity to confer with him. Her single word contained a 
world of overtones that she was fairly certain he'd pick up.
:Interesting, on several levels,: he replied. He was lying on his back, arms 
beneath his head, his eyes also closed.
The settlers - Savil had learned before the evening was over that they were 
calling their lands "Garthhold," and that there were seven loosely-related families 
in the group - had offered the Tayledras and their friends unlimited hospitality. All 
four of them were bone-tired even after rest and tea, and it was agreed among 
the three adults that it would be no bad thing to take them up on it. They refused, 
however, to put anyone out of his bed. So after a dinner of bread and stew, they 
made it plain that they intended to sleep by the fireside. The four of them were 
currently rolled up in their cloaks, on sacks of straw to keep them off the stone of 
the floor, beside the glowing coals of the kitchen hearth.
Vanyel was genuinely asleep. Savil wasn't certain of Moondance; he was curled 
on his side, his face to the fire, as peaceful and serene as a child's.
By all rights, he should really be asleep. There'd been several injuries related to 
the colddrake's attack and the hasty escapes, and Moondance had had his 
hands full Healing them. Then he had delegated himself magical assistant to 
getting the stockade back up. It had saved the Garthholders no end of effort to 
have the logs spell-raised back into place. He should have been exhausted.
So Savil thought, until he Mindspoke both of them. :May I enter the 
conversation? I assume there is one.:
So much for Moondance being weary.
:Be welcome, but keep it in private,: she replied, :Among other things, we're 
discussing the boy. Starwind, go on please. :
:From the small things to the great - I think perhaps you may cease to fear for the 
boy. I think he now feels the hunger you spoke of, and understanding has been 
attained. Herein the question is if the boy can conquer his fears.:
.I wondered about that. He's been wearing a very odd look on his face this 
evening, and I've never known him to be as friendly with common folk as he was 
tonight.: She opened her eyes wide and stared at the glowing embers of the 
hearth without really seeing them. -.Poor Van. If that dream of his is ForeSight - 
that's a hell of a burden to carry around.:
:It still may never come to be,: Moondance reminded them, and the straw of his 
bedding crackled as he shifted. :We still See only the thing most likely at this 
moment. And the moment is always changing. I would change the subject. We 
have a more urgent consideration. Those colddrakes were Gated here. That 
speaks of - :
: - great trouble to come,: Starwind replied, his mind-voice dark and grim. '.There 
is no doubt in my mind at this moment that the drakes were sent to harry this 
area in advance of a fighting force.: The fire popped once. :This has gone 
beyond tampering. There was a village to the west of here under tacit k 'Treva 
protection. I can no longer sense it; it is under a foreign shield.:
:Someone moved in and took it over, hmm?: Savil brooded on that a moment. 
:What would you say to us organizing a little surprise for whoever sent those 
drakes? I doubt anyone is expecting k 'Treva response this soon. By rights, 
dividing the swarm should have kept us busy for a week.:
Starwind's mind-voice was troubled. .I would say that you are not k'Treva - :
:And I would reply that I am Wingsister, which makes me just as much k 'Treva 
as Moondance. I would say also that two mages tampering in this area is a very 
unlikely coincidence, ft is far more likely that this is the same mage who was 
hired by the Leshara of Valdemar. Which makes it the more my fight.:
More straw rustled, and Savil moved her head slightly; just enough to see 
Starwind's ironic gaze bent on her for a long moment.
:And I,: Moondance put in, .-would say that my shay'kreth'ashke is unlikely to win 
a battle of wills with such a stubborn one as I know the Wingsister to be. I would 
also say that three Adepts are better in this than two.:
Starwind sighed. .I fear I am defeated ere I begin. What do we do with the boy, 
then? We cannot leave him here, and I mislike taking the time to take him back to 
the vale. That will lose us the element of surprise.:
:He may prove useful,: Moondance said unexpectedly. :He did defeat the queen-
drake. :
:We bring him, I suppose,: Savil agreed, though with some misgiving. :Surely 
Yfandes can be counted on to keep him out of serious trouble.:
:I cannot like it, but I must agree,: Starwind replied reluctantly. :This is a great 
deal of danger to be taking one so untested and so newly-healed into.:
.I know,: Savil said, wishing the coals burning in the fireplace didn't look so much 
like a burning town. .'Believe me, I know. :

It had been snowing all day, not heavily, but steadily. The air felt almost warm. 
The Companions moved like white spirits through the drifts of flurries, each 
carrying double. White horses, white riders - all but one; the one riding pillion 
behind the second Companion was in smoky black and dark gray, a shadow to a 
ghost.
"You all look like Heralds," Vanyel said, from the pillion-pad behind Moondance. 
"Everyone does except me."
"How so?" Moondance asked, somewhat surprised.
"It's your white outfits," Savil supplied, as Kellan lagged a little so that she could 
reply without having to turn her head. "Heralds always wear white uniforms when 
they're on duty."
"Ah - youngling, Tayledras always wear the colors best suited to blend into the 
treetops. In winter - white. In summer, obviously, green." Moondance was 
carefully plaiting a new bowstring using both hands; he wasn't even bothering 
with the reins, he had those looped up on the pommel of the saddle. Vanyel 
didn't much care for riding pillion, but it wasn't bad behind Moondance; the 
younger Tayledras didn't mind talking to him. As Vanyel had suspected, he had 
forgiven Vanyel even before he made his apology to the Tayledras. Which he 
had done as soon as he could get Moondance alone; it only seemed right. Now it 
was as if the incident had never occurred; Moondance even seemed to welcome 
his questions and encouraged him to ask them.
They'd talked about Vanyel's Gifts, mostly. Vanyel hadn't actually talked about 
them to anyone; Savil hadn't had much opportunity to do so, and Starwind had 
just gone directly into his head, showed him what to do, and then expected him 
to do it.
"So, what were we up to?" Moondance asked.
"ForeSight." Vanyel shivered. "Moondance, I don't like it. I don't want to know 
what's going to happen. Is there any way I can block it?"
"Now that it is active? Not to my knowledge. But you must not let it cripple you, 
ke'chara. You are not seeing the irrevocable future, you see the future as it may 
be if nothing changes. The most likely at this moment. These things may change; 
you can change them."
"I can?" Vanyel perked up at this.
"Assuredly. But it may be that the cost of such a change is to dissolve a 
friendship or a love you would not willingly forgo. You may feel such a bond is 
worth the price." He smiled crookedly back over his shoulder. "If I were to have 
the certain knowledge that my lifebond to Starwind would send me to my death 
tomorrow, I would go willingly to that fate. But I would not tell Starwind of my 
foreknowledge. Think on that, if you will."
Vanyel did brood on that for several furlongs.
It was Moondance in Yfandes' saddle and not Vanyel, because if they were 
surprised by an attack, Vanyel had been ordered to drop off the pillion pad and 
stay out of the fight.
It was humiliating - but sensible. Vanyel was rather more acutely interested in 
"sensible" than in "humiliating" at the moment. If an attack came, he'd obey those 
orders. He'd learned his lesson with the colddrake.
"Well, are there no more questions, ke'chara?"
Vanyel shook his head.
"Then I have one for you. Starwind has said that when you were frightened in 
practice you pulled power from the valley-node. Is this true?"
"What's the valley-node?"
"Savil did not tell you?" Moondance made a face. "No patience, that one. You 
surely have felt that all things have energy about them, yes?"
"Even rocks - "
"Ge'teva, if you sense that, then your Mage-Gift is a most strong one! Even I 
have some difficulty with seeing that. So; have you seen that this energy flows 
along lines, as rainwater to streams?"
Vanyel hadn't, but when he closed his eyes and extended he could see that 
Moondance was right.
"I do now."
"Then follow a stream to the place where it meets another.''
He did. There was a kind of - knot. A concentration of power. He told Moondance 
so.
"That is a node." Moondance nodded. "Tayledras can direct the course of these 
streams on occasion, which is how we take the magic from places where the 
wars left it and move it to a place where it is useful. We build our strongholds 
over places where two or more powerful streams meet; nodes. The energy of the 
node is such that all of us can use it, but we have found that a-many out-land 
mages not only cannot sense the streams, they cannot sense nor use the nodes. 
This may be something only those outsiders at the level of our Adepts do well; I 
think it is perhaps unique to the Tayledras that all of us, from the time we start to 
feel our Gifts awaken, manipulate this energy as easily as a child plays with 
building bricks. There was a time - very long ago - when the Tayledras adopted 
outlanders very commonly, and it is said that these outlanders changed even as I 
have. I think that the key to change is using this magic under the direction of 
Tayledras born. So; of outland Adepts we have known, only Wingsister Savil can 
link into the nodes as well as Tayledras; her Gift is very strong. So, it seems, is 
yours.
Vanyel was confused as to where all this was leading. "But what does that mean, 
Moondance?"
"For now - you exhausted yourself when you killed the colddrake. That is 
something you need not do quite so quickly, if you remember that you can pull 
from the life-energy nodes within your sensing range. When they are drained - 
then you use your own strength."
:That's what I've been trying to tell you,: Yfandes said unexpectedly in his mind.
That gave him food for thought for several more candlemarks.
They'd journeyed westward from Garthhold with the rising of the sun, stopping 
three times on the way to question folk Starwind knew. The first had been a fur 
trapper, who'd told them of rumors of a renegade wizard, who was half-human, 
half-Pelagir changeling and had sorcerous skills and a taste for worldly power. 
The second was a kyree, a wolflike creature with a mind fully the equal of any 
human. He stopped them; Mindspeaking to warn them of of the same wizard, but 
his stories were more than mere rumors; to his certain knowledge the changeling 
was planning to carve himself a realm of his own as quickly as he could, and had 
already begun that task.
The third had been one of k'Treva's border-guards - not Tayledras herself, but 
another of the Pelagir changelings, a tervardi, a kind of flightless bird-woman.
She was no longer among the living.
When Starwind had been unable to Mindcall her, they had detoured to the grove 
of trees that held her ekele. There was no sign of a struggle, but they found the 
fragile, white-plumaged wraith in her ekele, dead, without a mark upon her, but 
with her bow in her hand, bowstring snapped, and her empty, glazed eyes wide 
with what Vanyel assumed was fear.
Starwind spent some moments beside the body, working some kind of subtle 
magic. Vanyel could feel things stirring, even if he couldn't yet read them. What it 
was Starwind found, he would not tell Vanyel, but the three adults grew very grim 
- and Moondance took the bow and its arrows when they left.
They had been riding all day, cutting cross-country at the ground-eating pace 
only a Companion could maintain; it was nearing sunset when they slowed, on 
coming to what looked to be a fairly well-traveled road.
Savil and Kellan halted while they were still within the cover of the forest, and 
Yfandes came up beside them as silently as it was possible for something the 
size and weight of a Companion to do. The snow-laden branches of an 
enormous evergreen shielded them from the view of anyone on that road, 
although the road itself looked deserted. There didn't seem to be any new tracks 
on it, and all the old ones had been softened with a layer of new, undisturbed 
snow. The road was lined on both sides by a row of these evergreens, though, 
and anything could lie in wait undetected behind them.
"The village of Covia lies a few furlongs up that road," Starwind whispered, as the 
sun sank in sullen glory ahead of them. "There is still a shield upon it, and I do 
not like the feel of the power behind that shield. I do not, however, sense that the 
power is presently in the village."
"Nor I," replied Savil, after a moment.
:Nothing,: Yfandes said to Vanyel.
" 'Fandes says she doesn't feel anything either," he reported, feeling rather in the 
way.
"My thought is to enter the village and see how much is amiss - and what the 
people know. Then - Vanyel, it is in my mind to leave you with the villagers. You 
have enough mage-training to be some protection to them, and they may be of 
some physical protection to you."
"I - yes, Master Starwind," he replied, not much liking the idea, but not seeing any 
other choice. "What about 'Fandes?"
:I don't like it, but I'll go with them,: Yfandes said reluctantly. :If you need me, I'll 
know, and they need a second mount.:
Vanyel reported Yfandes' words with a sinking heart. Starwind nodded. "I think 
she has the right of it; we can cover more ground mounted. Well." He peered up 
the road through the gathering evening gloom. "I think it is time to see the 
handiwork of our enemy."
Vanyel was doing his best not to be sick. Again. He'd already lost control over his 
stomach once, just outside of Covia, when they'd found the wizard's - warn-off.
It was well after sundown, and pitchy dark outside of the village square. The 
entire population of the village, upwards of seventy people, was jammed into the 
tiny square. Many of them had brought lanterns and torches. They were crowding 
about the four strangers and two Companions, like baby chicks seeking the 
shelter of the hen's wings - although they were paying scant attention to Savil 
and less than that to Vanyel and the Companions. The Herald was a dubious and 
unknown quantity, and the boy and the "horses" were being dismissed out of 
hand.
The party had made a kind of impromptu dais out of the low porch of the Temple, 
which was barely large enough to hold the four humans; the Companions were 
serving as living barricades on either side, to keep them from being totally 
overwhelmed. As it was it was getting a little cramped, behind the two Tayledras. 
But Vanyel was beginning to be rather glad he was being ignored. Between the 
tales the villagers were telling Starwind - and the physical evidences they were 
displaying in the flickering of the torchlight to substantiate those stories-it wasn't 
easy for Vanyel to control his nausea.
This had been a pleasant little village, as safe as any place inside the Pelagirs. 
People could feel comfortable about raising children; had time for celebrations 
now and again.
It was no longer pleasant, nor safe. It was now a place under siege, with no way 
out.
Two weeks ago a stranger had come to the village, mounted on something that 
was not a horse, and accompanied by a retinue of some of the Pelagirs' least 
attractive denizens. He had announced that the town and its inhabitants were 
now his, and had helped himself to whatever he wanted. After one demonstration 
of his power had left a heap of ash where the village inn had once stood, these 
folk had more sense than to resist - but they had attempted to send for help. The 
remains of their messenger were found the next morning, impaled on a stake in 
the middle of the outbound road. The frozen corpse was still there; the 
Companions had passed it on the way in. From the look of the man, simple 
impalement had come as a relief.
He had come back about every other night, each time taking both goods and 
victims. The villagers told Starwind that they had been praying for help; they 
assumed he was the answer to those prayers. He seemed, to Vanyel at least, to 
be agreeing with that assumption.
Vanyel was just grateful that the fitful torchlight wasn't bright enough for him to 
see much of the details of what had been done to some of the wizard's victims. 
He was equally grateful that he was in the dark at the back of the porch, behind 
Savil.
" - this's the last, Master Starwind," the swarthy, unshaven headman said, 
wearily, his red-rimmed eyes those of one who had seen far too much of horror in 
the past few days. "This girl."
He pushed a mousy blonde female right up onto the porch, where Vanyel 
couldn't avoid looking at her. The young woman would still have been attractive - 
if she hadn't been vacant-eyed and drooling. She was filthy, her hair matted and 
hanging in lank snarls. Starwind flinched at the sight of her, but Moondance 
fearlessly took her face in both his slender hands and gazed into her blank brown 
eyes for a long time.
When he finally released her, his face and voice were tight with anger. "I think 
that Brightwind may be able to bring her mind back," he said, slowly and 
carefully, as if he was trying to keep from saying something he had rather not 
speak aloud. "It will require many months - and she will never be able to bear the 
touch of a man; she has been too far hurt within. Even so, all those channels 
meant for pleasure have been warped, and now can only carry pain. I do not 
know if even I can Heal that. I do not think that anything will be able to Heal her 
heart and soul of what was done to her; not entirely. It may be it is better not to 
try; it may be that it is better to wipe all away and begin with her as with a small 
child."
The balding headman nodded as if that was what he had expected to hear. "She 
was one of the first he took," he said heavily, "Her and her mother. Her father 
was the messenger we sent - we never found anything of her mother.''
"And he grows stronger, this Krebain, with every person he takes?" Starwind 
asked.
The torches wavered in the wind, casting weird shadows across the man's 
hollow-cheeked face as he nodded. Vanyel could scent the coming of more snow 
in that wind. "He seems to. Seems to me he's doing blood-magic, wouldn't you 
say, Master Starwind?"
Starwind nodded, and narrowed his eyes in thought. "Aye, Gallen; you know your 
lore well, I think. So. This Krebain has retreated to whatever place he has made 
for a fastness, and it is bound to be somewhere near; I think we shall continue 
with my original plan. Gallen, I shall leave young Vanyel here with you. He knows 
something of material strategy and warfare; he is also Mage-Gifted."
Vanyel shivered at the thought of being left alone here. The headman cast one 
doubtful look at him and ventured a protest; Vanyel didn't much blame him. 
"Master Starwind - I beg you - this is only a boy - "
"He destroyed a queen colddrake, alone and unaided," Moondance said quietly, 
pushing Vanyel forward and putting one hand on Vanyel's shoulder. "It is in my 
mind that he could deal with more than you would reckon."
"He did?" This time the look Headman Gallen gave him was a little less doubtful, 
but it was still not overly confident.
"Gallen, I do not expect Vanyel to have to defend you from this Krebain," 
Starwind said patiently. "He could never be a match for a blood-bound Adept, 
and I would not expect it of him. I expect him to have to deal with some of this 
renegade's creatures at worst. My thought is that the three of us shall find 
Krebain and deal with him - and that when his control over his slaves is gone, 
some of them may think to attack here. I see no reason why, among you, you folk 
and Vanyel could not defend yourselves against such lesser dangers. Does that 
content you?''
It didn't - that was obvious. But it was all that Headman Gallen was going to get, 
and he well knew it. Vanyel attempted to put himself into the mindset of a 
warleader. He didn't feel particularly successful at it.
"Van, see what you can do about organizing these folk," Savil said quietly. "You 
know most of those old ballads by heart, and there's lots of good advice in them; 
that's why we make you learn them. I don't want you to try anything more than a 
token defense if something does come at you that you can't handle. Just call 
Yfandes for help and delay things as long as you can. For the rest - the creatures 
they've described are strong, but not particularly bright. Barricades across the 
road and fire should keep most of them at bay. You took that queen colddrake; 
remember that. You can take just about anything else except this Krebain himself 
so long as it isn't a small army."
Vanyel gulped, and tried to look competent and brave. This is what it all comes 
down to, doesn't it? This is what I have to do; I have to, like 'Lendel said. 
Because these people need me. "Yes, Aunt," he said carefully. "Barricades and 
fire."
Savil looked worried and preoccupied. "Do your best, lad. Remember that 'voice' 
I used to stop you and 'Lendel fighting? It makes people listen; goes right to their 
guts. Imitate that if you can." She mounted Kellan from the porch; Starwind took 
Yfandes' saddle, but Moon-dance hesitated a moment before taking the pillion 
behind him.
"Vanyel, ke'chara, remember what I told you about the nodes. Use them. There 
are - " he paused, and his eyes unfocused for a moment. "There are three that I 
can sense that you should be able to use. I wish you could reach the valley-node 
as we can, but I think it is beyond your strength for now. None of the three 
nearby are as strong as the valley-node, but taken together they should serve." 
He took Vanyel's face between his hands and kissed him on the forehead. "Gods 
be with you, youngling. With fortune, this will be no more than an interesting 
exercise for you."
He mounted behind Starwind, and the crowd of villagers parted to let them 
through. Vanyel watched them vanish into the darkness with a heavy heart.
If he hadn't been so frightened himself, he'd have lost his temper a dozen times 
over. He had to keep explaining to these people, time and time again, exactly 
what he wanted of them and why he wanted it - and would turn his back on one 
group, thinking that he had finally gotten through to them, only to return to find 
they'd abandoned the project and were staring apprehensively off into the 
darkness.
It wasn't that they were stupid; it was that they were so completely without hope. 
They couldn't see any chance of holding off anything, and so they had 
abandoned any thought of being able to do so. After all, their best efforts hadn't 
done anything but get folks killed. Vanyel, who was counting on them to be as 
much protection for him as he would be for them, was nearly frantic. It took hours 
before he was finally able to get them going under their own power.
Then there was the matter of defense.
When dawn came and he asked for their weaponry, he got as ill-used and motley 
an assortment of near-junk as he'd ever seen, and there wasn't a one of them 
who knew how to use any of it. These were farmers born and farmers bred; most 
of them off lands held of lords or mage-lords who were bound to protect them. 
The k'Treva had bartered protection for made-stuffs and foodstuffs, and they had 
never thought they'd need to raise a blade in their own defense.
So Vanyel was faced with the task of showing rank amateurs the way of the 
sword. Forget teaching them point-work; forget the finer points of defense. In the 
end he padded them to the eyebrows and set them to bashing at each other. 
Teach them to hold something long and poke with it, or hold something heavy 
and smash with it - and if it was something with an edge, hope that the edge, 
rather than the flat, connected.
By the second day of this he was tired to the bone, half-mad with frustration, and 
frantic with the fear he dared not show. So when Veth, Gallen's half-grown son, 
came at him wide open for the hundredth time, he lost his temper completely and 
hit him with a full force blow he had not consciously intended to deliver. And tried 
to pull it too late to do any good.
He knocked the boy halfway across the square.
Veth landed sprawled on his back - and didn't move - 
And Vanyel's heart stopped - 
And in his mind he saw - Jervis - standing over him - 
Oh, gods!
Vanyel's sword went flying; his helm followed it as he ran to kneel at Veth's side 
in the cold dust of the square.
Oh, gods - oh, gods - I've done to him what Jervis did to me. Oh, please, gods, 
please don't let me have hurt him - 
He unlaced the boy's helm and pulled it off; about then Veth blinked up at him 
and started to sit up of himself, and Vanyel nearly cried with relief.
"Veth - please, Veth, I'm sorry, I - I lost my temper - I didn't mean it - "
The boy looked at him with bewilderment. "Eh, Master Van, I be all right. I been 
kicked by our old mule worse nor this - just let me get a bit of a drink, eh?"
Vanyel sagged back on his heels, shutting his eyes against the harsh sunlight, 
limp with relief. The boy got gingerly to his feet.
Oh, gods. I - I'm as bad as Jervis. I'm worse than Jervis; I know better. Oh, gods 
- 
"Vanyel, young sir - "
He looked up; it was Reva, Veth's mother, her tired face anxious. He winced, and 
waited for her to give him the tongue-lashing he deserved.
It didn't come. If you'll forgive me for being an interfering old hen," she said, with 
a little quirk of her mouth, "I think you've about worn yourself into uselessness, 
young sir. I know you haven't eaten since last night. Now here - "
She offered him her hand; astounded, he took it, and to his utter befuddlement 
she hauled him to his feet. "Now," she put one arm around his shoulders, the 
other about Veth's, "I think it's time you both got a bit of food in you. The time it 
takes to eat won't make Veth a better fighter, nor you a better teacher." She 
hugged them both, as if they were both her sons, then released them.
The words he had thrown into Withen's face - was it only a year ago? - came 
back to shame him further.
"Let every man that must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to 
any one school."
I've been treating them exactly the way Jervis treated me. Forcing them to use 
things they don't know, to go outside of their talents. I am a complete and 
incompetent fool.
Vanyel blushed. And stammered. "I - I'm no kind of a teacher, Mistress Reva, or 
I'd not have chosen what I did to teach." He raised his voice so the rest of those 
practicing in the square could hear him. "This is getting us nowhere. It's like you 
trying to teach me to - to plow and spin, for a Midsummer contest a week away. 
We haven't the time, and I'm a fool. Now, please, what are your real weapons? 
Any of you know the use of bow? Or sling? Boar-spear, maybe?"
It was not his imagination; there were looks of real relief all across the square - 
and the beginnings of smiles.
But in the end, all his preparations were in vain.
The villagers willing to fight were on the barricades; there were really only two 
blockades - there was only one road going through the village, and it led directly 
through the pounded-dirt square. The square itself was fairly defensible now; not 
even a colddrake would have been able to get past the buildings. The folk too 
frightened or unable to defend themselves had faded away into the shadows as 
they did every night to scatter and hide in the cellars and attics of the buildings 
around the square. Headman Gallen had by now come to the conclusion that 
Vanyel knew something of what he was about; he and two or three of the other 
folk not too cowed to take a stand (including the old herb-witch, who took a dim 
view of this young upstart wizard taking over her village) were having a hasty 
conference with Vanyel on supplies - when a surge of Gate-energy invoked 
practically under Vanyel's nose knocked him to his knees and very nearly 
knocked him out.
The only thing that saved him from unconsciousness this time was that he was 
completely under shield. He found himself gasping for breath, and completely 
disoriented for a moment. His eyes had flashing lights in front of them, and he 
shook his head to try and clear it. That was a mistake; his head reacted poorly to 
the abrupt movement.
He could hardly think, much less see. Gods - what in - 
"What do we have here?"
The clear, musical tenor voice sounded amused - and Vanyel froze. The voice 
carried clearly; the petrified silence in the square was as deltas the Nine Pits.
He looked up when his eyes cleared, and found that all he could see were the 
backs of people. The members of his erstwhile war-council were standing 
huddled together as if to keep him hidden in the shadows behind them. Vanyel 
got hold of the splintery side of the storehouse and pulled himself cautiously to 
his feet, ducking his head behind Gallen's and standing on tiptoe to peek over the 
shoulders of the men in front of him. His gut went cold when he saw the 
flamboyantly dressed stranger in the middle of the cleared square.
This could only be the wizard Krebain.
The torches falling from the hands of the stunned villagers were unneeded; the 
wizard had brought his own mage-light with him. It hung over his head, a tiny 
green-yellow sun. People were slowly backing away until they ran into the walls 
and the barricades, leaving the stranger standing in arrogant isolation in the 
exact center of the dusty square.
The wizard was a gaudy sight; he wore scarlet and gold; skin-tight breeches, 
close-cut gold-embroidered velvet tunic, scarlet cloak with cloth-of-gold lining. 
Even his boots and velvet gloves were scarlet. He had a scarlet helm that was 
more than half mask, ornamented with a preposterous crest of a rampant dragon 
in gold. With one hand on his hip, he tapped at his chin with a gloved finger as he 
turned to survey the people surrounding the square.
"A rebellion - I do believe this is a rebellion! How droll!" He laughed; it had a 
nasty sound to it.
He was graceful, slim, and very tall. White-blond hair tumbled from beneath the 
helm in wavy, shining cascades. What could be seen of his face was like 
elegantly sculptured marble. Vanyel found himself caught by the wizard's sheer 
charismatic beauty. None of the villagers had said anything about that.
Vanyel felt almost sick. Evil such as had been described to him shouldn't be - 
beautiful!
But then he thought, Artificial - that really is what he is. He's changed himself, I'm 
sure of it, like - painting his face, only more so. If I had a lot of power and didn't 
care how I used it, I suppose I'd make myself beautiful, too.
"I wonder what could have roused you worms to think to stand against me?" 
Krebain mused aloud. "None of you had half an ounce of courage before this. But 
then - none of you smelled of the mage-born before this, either, other than that 
foolish old witch of yours over there." He smiled slyly. "I think I detect a stranger 
among you - hmm? Now where have you hidden him?"
Ice crawled up Vanyel's spine. All they have to do is point a finger at me - and 
even if they don't, if I call Yfandes for help, he 'II know where I am. Oh, gods, can 
I hide? I can't challenge him! They can't expect it of me - I'm no match for him!
But to his surprise, not a single one of those remaining in the square answered 
the wizard's question. In fact, the men standing in front of Vanyel moved closer 
together, as if to shield him from the wizard's chance sight.
The wizard's voice sharpened with impatience. "I grow weary, curs. Where is the 
stranger I sensed?"
Silence.
Except for the herb-witch, who whispered back at Vanyel, with the merest breath 
- "Stay quiet, boy. You're no fit opponent for him, and we know it. Won't do any of 
us any good for you to get caught, and he just may take us apart for spite even if 
he gets you. Maybe if he gets bored, he'll go away."
"I said, I want to know where the stranger is." The wizard looked about him, both 
hands on his hips now, and anger in his pose. "Very well. I see it's time you 
learned another lesson." He turned slightly, so that he was staring right at the 
group clustered in front of Vanyel, and raised his left hand. "You - Gallen." He 
made a little summoning motion. "Come here…"
Gallen made a staggering step, then another. He was fighting the wizard with his 
will, but losing. Sweat popped out all over his brow, and he made a whimpering 
noise in the back of his throat.
Behind him, the group closed ranks, still shielding Vanyel from view. Before him, 
the wizard grinned sadistically. "You really haven't a hope of fighting me, you 
know," he said pleasantly. "It's like a babe challenging an armed warrior. Come 
along, there's a good dog."
Gallen ran the last few steps, coming to a trembling halt at the wizard's side. 
Krebain strolled around him, looking him over carefully. The mage-light followed 
in faithful attendance above his head. "Let's see - I believe you have a wife.'' He 
swept his gaze over the rest of the villagers. "Yes, indeed - and there she is. 
Reva - my goodness. A would-be sword-lady, are you? Come here, my dear."
He crooked his finger, and dusky Reva stumbled out of the group at the 
barricade on the west road, still clutching her improvised pike of a knife strapped 
to the end of a staff. Her face was strained, white - and a mask of despair.
Krebain shook his head. "Really, my dear, you have no use for a weapon like 
that. Take it from her, Gallen."
Gallen did not move; sweat poured down his face, glistening in the mage-light.
"I said, take it. " Krebain's voice sharpened with command, and Gallen's gnarled 
hands slowly reached forward to take the pike from his wife.
"Now - just rest the point of that wicked little knife on her stomach, why don't 
you." Gallen his face reflecting his agony, lowered the pike until the point of the 
blade touched his wife's stomach. He whimpered again as Krebain's will made 
him brace it. Krebain's smile grew broader. "Of course, Reva, it would be very 
painful if you were to walk forward just now - "
Vanyel couldn't bear it. He gathered what little there was of his courage, and 
shouted, his voice breaking.
"Stop it!"
He pushed his protectors aside and walked out from behind them to stand in the 
open, a pace or two in front of them.
And in the moment when Krebain turned to face him, licking his lips, he 
Mindcalled with all his strength - 
:Yfandes! The mage - he's here! 'Fandes - :
"That's enough, child."
Vanyel felt a barrier close down around the village, a barrier that allowed no 
thought to escape, and no further call for help.
He raised his chin with the same bleak defiance that had served him against his 
father.
"Let them alone, wizard," he said, his voice trembling despite his efforts to keep it 
steady. He could feel sweat trickling coldly down the back of his neck and his 
mouth was dry and sour with fear. "I'm the one you wanted."
Krebain made a dismissing gesture, and Reva and Gallen staggered as his hold 
over them was released. Gallen threw down the pike and seized her shoulders, 
and together they melted into the crowd at Krebain's back.
"Come where I can see you," the wizard said, mildly.
Vanyel walked, with slow and hesitant steps, into the area where the mage-light 
was striking.
"What a pleasant surprise - "
Unless Krebain was feigning it - which was possible - he was surprised.
And - pleased.
If Vanyel could keep him in that mood, maybe he could keep them all safe a little 
longer. He began to feel a tiny stirring of hope.
"What a truly pleasant surprise. My would-be enemy is a beautiful young man. 
What is your name, lovely one?"
Vanyel saw no reason not to answer him. If nothing else - if Yfandes had heard 
him, he'd be buying time for help to arrive. He allowed himself a moment to hope 
a little more, then replied, "Vanyel Ashkevron."
"Vanyel - I do not believe this - Vanyel Ashkevron?" The wizard laughed, 
throwing back his head. "What a joke! What a magnificent jest! I come a-hunting 
you, and you walk unarmed into my very hand!"
Vanyel shook his head, bewildered.
The wizard grinned. "Dear, lovely boy. You have enemies, you know, enemies 
with no appreciation of beauty and a great deal of coin to spend. Wester Leshara 
holds you to blame for the death of his cousin Evan, didn't you know that? He 
sent me an additional commission to deal with you as I had with young Staven 
Frelennye. I had thought to attend to my own pursuits a while here, then deal 
with you at my leisure, allowing matters to cool first. But - now I don't know that I 
am going to oblige him by killing you. Not when you turn out to be so very 
beautiful. Come closer, would you?"
Vanyel felt no magical coercion, which rather surprised him. "If you don't mind," 
he said carefully, "I'd really rather not.''
This time Krebain's smile held a hint of real humor. "Then I shall have to come to 
you, beautiful Vanyel."
He paced gracefully across the pounded dirt of the village square, taking each 
step as though he walked on a carpet of petals strewn especially for his benefit. 
The mage-light continued to follow him faithfully. He strolled around Vanyel as he 
had walked around Gallen, but his expression this time was less cruelly cheerful 
and more acquisitive. His path was an inward-turning spiral, with Vanyel as the 
center, so that he completed his circuit facing Vanyel and less than a handspan 
away. He reached out with one crimson-gloved hand, ignoring the presence of 
everyone in the square as if he and Vanyel were alone together, and laid it along 
Vanyel's cheek. Vanyel looked steadily into his blue-black eyes within the 
shadowed eyeholes of the helm-mask and did not flinch away. Those eyes were 
the first indication he had seen that the wizard was something other than human. 
Those dark and frightening eyes were slitted like a cat's - and under the velvet of 
the glove, Vanyel could feel something very sharp and talonlike resting on his 
cheek.
"My goodness," Krebain breathed, "Silver eyes. Rare and beautiful, Vanyel 
Ashkevron. How wonderful, and how strange, that you should be here, at this 
moment. And I wonder, now - given what I know of Tylendel Frelennye - were 
you only the friend of Tylendel, or were you something more than friend?"
Still ignoring everyone else, he leaned forward and kissed Vanyel passionately 
and deeply.
Vanyel trembled with an unexpected reaction comprised of both revulsion and 
desire.
Half of him wanted to pull away and strike at this creature who could casually 
force a man to stab his own wife, who could regard the villagers about them so 
lightly as to totally ignore them at this moment.
The other half of him wanted to melt into the wizard's arms.
He fought the temptation to yield. This - dammit, it's nothing but sex, that's all it 
is. I know what real love feels like - and this - isn't - close.
He closed his eyes, as his knees went to water.
A dream-flash - 
"Surrender to me, Herald-Mage Vanyel, " Leareth said. ' 'Take my darkness to 
you.''
Had that dream been, not Foresight, but a warning?
He fought to think clearly, battling silently, but daring to give no outward sign of 
his struggle. It was at that moment that he realized that whatever other powers 
this wizard had, he did not share Vanyel's Mind-Gifts. Like - 
Thought-sensing, for instance. The shield over the village was spellcast, not 
mindcast. Which meant that Vanyel should be able to read the wizard, without 
Krebain knowing he was being read.
Krebain finally brought an end to the kiss, pulling away slowly and reluctantly, 
taking his hand from Vanyel's cheek with a tender caress of his velvet-clad 
fingers.
"Oh," he whispered, his eyes half-shut, the slits in them narrowed to near-
invisibility. "Oh, beautiful and rare, lovely Vanyel. Come with me. Come with me, 
be my love. I can teach you more than you have ever dreamed. I could carve you 
a kingdom, give you power, pleasure - anything you desired. Name it, and it 
would be yours."
The temptation was incredible. And the thought - I could guide him. I could bring 
him to compassion. He doesn't have to be this way. I could make him into 
something better. Couldn't I? Even if I don't love him - wouldn't that be 
worthwhile? Wouldn't that be a worthy goal? And I don't love him - but I could 
care for him, I think. There's a mutual need - isn't that enough?
His heart raced. I have to know - what is Krebain truly made of? If there's 
something there to work with - something I can influence - 
Krebain smiled. "I could even," he whispered, "grant you the finest revenge upon 
Wester Leshara the world has ever witnessed. A revenge so complete that it 
would even satisfy Tylendel's lover."
The wizard's mind was open to Vanyel's at that crucial instant; completely open 
and unguarded.
Vanyel saw how Krebain had gotten his power; how - and from what - he had 
learned it. And the uses he had put it to. And how he had enjoyed what he had 
done. There was nothing there that was human or humane.
Gods! Never - never would I give myself to that!
Utter revulsion killed all trace of desire - and now Vanyel flinched away, his 
nausea plain for anyone to read.
Krebain stepped back an involuntary pace, his face flushed. He frowned with 
anger, and his expression hardened. "I will have you, Vanyel Ashkevron - with or 
without a mind."
Vanyel had that much warning to get a shield up; had that much warning to 
scream "Run - " at the villagers.
At least, he thought he screamed that warning at them. They certainly scattered 
as quickly as if he had, scrambling up and over the barricades that they had built 
to keep the menace out, leaving him alone with the wizard.
Who called the lightnings down on him.
Vanyel's body screamed with pain, despite the shielding; his hair stood on end, 
and fire ran along his nerves. He went to his knees beneath the onslaught; 
reinforced his shielding and felt it weakening - and then remembered what 
Moondance had said about the power-nodes.
He reached, desperately; found them, tapped into them, and felt their power 
flowing into him, giving him a heady surge of strength, driving out the pain and 
renewing the will to fight this monster in human guise.
He staggered to his feet, backed up a pace, and deflected Krebain's own 
lightnings back into his face.
The fires arced across the square and the wizard retreated, getting his own 
shields up just in time. Vanyel did not give him a chance to recover from his 
surprise, but launched an attack of his own; not lightnings this time, but a vise of 
power, a glowing shroud that he closed around the wizard and began tightening.
But Krebain broke it after a moment's struggle, and countered with a circle of 
flame that roared up about him and began eating its way inward. Vanyel could 
smell his boot-soles scorching, and his skin tightened and hurt.
Vanyel in his turn, sweating with the heat, and his fear and effort, called upon the 
dust of the square to rise and snuff the flames.
This time Krebain gave him no chance to invoke a counterattack, but summoned 
a mage-storm like the one in Vanyel's dream. It howled down out of the night sky 
and surrounded him in a cloud of wind and energy, crackling with it, screaming 
with it.
And like the one in Vanyel's dream, this one ate away at his shields as fast as he 
could bring them up.
The whirlwind howled and raged, obscuring sight - he couldn't see - couldn't see 
anything anymore, just the flickering storm of power shrieking around him, 
coming closer by the moment.
One by one the nodes went drained and dead; now there was only his own 
strength left.
He went to his knees, holding the last of his shields up with little more than 
desperation left to sustain him - 
 - and a final hammer-blow blew the storm away and smashed him to the earth.
Vanyel lay stunned in the sudden silence of the square, broken and bleeding.
He was sprawled half on his back, and the silence howled in his ears as the 
storm had. The square was deserted now, but for the silent scarlet figure of the 
wizard.
Vanyel was utterly spent, and everything hurt so much he could hardly think. He 
coughed, and tasted blood, and when he tried to breathe, he felt stabbing pains 
in his chest and back.
He was oddly conscious of little things, of a pebble digging into his cheek, of his 
ankle bending the wrong way, of a strand of hair tickling his nose, of blood 
running into his eyes - of a single flake of snow spiraling down into the mage-
light.
His vision began to darken as Krebain strode toward him from across the square; 
he seemed to be seeing things through a shadowy mist.
The wizard stood over him.
And strangely, he felt like laughing. Gods. All that being afraid of that dream, for 
nothing. He saw the wizard's expression, and sobered. So. This is what it comes 
to. This is how it ends. At least - he looks a little tired. At least I put up some kind 
of a fight.
He thought he heard someone, something, whimper. Please, gods - let those 
people have gotten away. Don't let this have been for nothing. Let the others 
come in time to save them.
"I told you, Vanyel Ashkevron, that I would have you with or without a mind," 
Krebain said softly. "But I would rather you were mine wholly, and of your own 
will. You see? I can be merciful. I can be kind to those I love. I give you another 
chance, beautiful Vanyel. Surrender to me, and I will heal your hurts, and give 
you all that I promised you. Will you come with me now?"
No. Not ever. Not at the cost of my life. He looked up at those inhuman, chillingly 
cold eyes. And it will be at the cost of my life. But - gods - I can't let it cost more 
lives than my own!
He reached, as far as he could, hoping for a tiny bit of energy left in the power-
nodes - hoping to find another node, undrained - 
 - and touched the valley-node instead.
Gods - it isn't possible!
For a moment he thought he saw a way out, not only for the villagers, but for 
himself. But when he assessed his own capabilities, he saw that to use the raw, 
elemental force of the vale would surely kill him. He no longer had the strength to 
control it. The effect would be like what he had done to himself in practice with 
Starwind - only a hundred times worse.
He could die painlessly, letting the wizard destroy his mind and soul - or he could 
die in agony, saving the people of Covia.
I was willing to die before, for 'Lendel - why would I be afraid of pain and dying 
now? he thought, with a catch in his throat. I surely owe a price for not stopping 
'Lendel. All right. Gods, let this be my expiation. Give me this last strength to stop 
him.
"No," he breathed. "Never."
The wizard's face twisted with anger, and he stepped back to deliver the final 
blow. Vanyel closed his eyes and reached - 
In this last moment, peace came to him. A strange and heart-tight inner stillness, 
born of total acceptance that what he was about to do would kill him without 
Moon-dance near to heal what he would do to himself. With a feeling oddly like 
the lifting of his heart, he opened himself to the valley-node - and focused - 
And the raw power poured through him and blasted from his eyes.
He screamed in agony, but his own cry was lost in the shriek Krebain made as 
the bolt of power caught him unshielded, in the face.
Then Vanyel fell, into true peace, and darkness. "Oh, 'Lendel, wherever you are, 
I'm coming. Please, please be there - 
Dear Withen; I think you would be very proud of your son today - 

A faint sound from the fern-canopied bed beside her made Savil set down her 
pen and paper beside her chair, unwrap herself from her cloak, rise, and draw 
the silky hangings aside.
Vanyel - bandaged, splinted and bruised, and looking very pale against the dark 
green of Moondance's bedding - moved his head again on the pillow, and 
opened dazed eyes.
Savil swallowed hard; he looked so battered, so bewildered.
Oh, my little love, we so nearly lost you this time - so close, so close. I half 
expect you to ask me to let you stay here, sheltered and safe. And the gods 
know, you've earned it.
He blinked, as if he didn't quite believe what he sdw.
"Aunt - Savil?" he said faintly. "Are you - real?"
She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, and touched his cheek, giving him a 
faint smile. "That real enough for you?"
He nodded, and blinked again. "The people - the villagers - Gallen and Reva - 
are they all right?"
"They're fine, ke'chara, " she replied, her heart filling with pride and love at the 
question. His first thought - for others. There's no doubt; Starwind was right. 
There is no doubt of him. ' 'We got there just in time for Moondance to keep you 
from getting away from us. Gods - it's a good thing that bastard wasn't still alive. I 
don't think I've ever seen him so angry in my life, and Yfandes was white-hot with 
rage. There wasn't much left for us to do. Basically all I did was make a Gate to 
get us all back to k'Treva so Moondance could put you back together again."
"Then everyone's all right?" he asked insistently, as if he didn't quite dare to 
believe her. "Are they protected now? Are you and Starwind and Moondance all 
right, too? That wizard - he was the one Leshara hired - he told me so. He told 
me - "
"Later," she soothed. "Tell me all that later. We're all fine. K'Treva sent out some 
of the Journeyman Tayledras to help get Covia back on its collective feet and 
give the region a little more in the way of protections. You're the only one who 
sustained any damage, love." She glanced up at the skylight to gauge the time. "I 
expect Moondance will be along any moment to give you another Healing."
He sighed, and made a tiny choking sound. She looked down, and saw to her 
confusion that he was crying.
"Vanyel," she asked, bewildered by the tears, and the strange, lost look in his 
eyes, "Van, what's wrong?"
"I - " he choked hopelessly. "I - after 'Lendel - they won't want me. The Heralds - 
they won't want me - "
"Oh, Van - " She closed her eyes against a surge of tears of her own, but these 
were born of joy. Child - oh, child, you rise above my expectations. That was the 
very last thing I ever thought I'd hear from your lips right now. "'tan - ke'chara - 
the Heralds will want you. How can they not want you? You are a Herald 
already.''
"I - am? I am?" He stared at her, bewildered, clearly unable to believe her.
She reached over to the chair and pulled her white cloak from it, draping it 
carefully over him. He clutched it, his eyes wide, his face reflecting all of his 
changing emotions, as he moved from hopelessness through surprise, to a joy 
that equaled her own.
" - there. There's your Whites to prove it. You have a bit more to learn; we'll be 
staying here for a few moons yet while Starwind teaches you - but Vanyel, what 
makes a Herald is the heart. A caring heart, that cares for others before itself. 
And you are a Herald."
He smiled then, a smile so sweet and so happy that it stopped her breath, and 
closed his eyes in absolute contentment, falling asleep with one hand still 
clutching the cloak to him.
 - yes, Withen. You would be very proud. I know I am.