Magic's Promise (21 page)

:I didn't know that; good points,
ke'chara.
Young as he is, our Randale can be brilliant at times. As soon as your father pauses for breath
-:

“
Now see here, you old boneheaded windbag! Do you
want
those farmers of yours to be the prey of every scoundrel with a likely rumor under his hat?
”
Savil had the bit in her teeth and she was off again. Vanyel gave up trying to control himself, and leaned all his weight against Yfandes, laughing silently until his eyes teared.

This is ridiculous,
Vanyel thought irritably, pausing for a moment on the narrow staircase.
Absolutely ridiculous. Why should I have to act as though I was sneaking through enemy-held territory just to get to my own bed every night?

He took the last flight of back stairs to the fourth floor, poorly lit as they were, with not so much as the betraying squeak of a stair tread. He flattened himself against the wall at the top, and probed cautiously ahead.

No Melenna.

So far, so good.

His right eye stung and watered, and he rubbed at it with one knuckle; his eyelids were sore and felt puffy.
I
should have gotten to bed candlemarks ago, except every time I tried, Melenna was lurking around a corner to waylay me. I hope she's given up by now.

He peered down the dark corridor one more time before venturing out into it. This was the servants' floor, and if she were still awake and hoping to ambush him, Melenna wouldn't think to look for him up here.

He counted the doors-the fifth on the right opened, not into a room, but into a tiny spiral staircase that only went as far as the third floor. He probed again, delicately. Nothing in the staircase, or at the foot of it.

The stair was of cast iron, and in none too good repair. He clung to the railing, gritted his teeth, and moved a fingerlength at a time to keep it from rattling. The journey through the stuffy darkness seemed to take all night.

Then his foot encountered wood instead of metal, and he slipped off the staircase and groped for the door. He put one hand flat against the wooden panel and concentrated on what lay beyond it. This stair let out only two doors from his own room, and if Melenna were waiting, she'd be in the corridor.

Politeness - and Heraldic constraints - forebade Mind-searching for her, even if he had the energy to spare. Which he didn't, he had been chagrined to discover.

And anyway, the non-Gifted were always harder to locate by Mindsearch than the Gifted.

I'm getting very tired of this. I don't want to set Mother off, and I don't really want to hurt Melenna, but if this cat-and-mouse game keeps on much longer, I may have to do just that. I tell her “no” politely, and she doesn't believe it. I avoid her, and she just gets more persistent. I almost killed her two days ago when she popped out of hiding at me.
He leaned his forehead against the door for a moment, and closed his aching eyes.
I'm about at my wits' end with that woman. Damn it all, she's old enough to know better! I
don't
want to hurt her; I don't even want to embarrass her.

Well, there was no sign of her in the corridor. He relaxed a little and stepped out onto the highly polished wood of the hall of the guest rooms, where the brighter lighting made his smarting eyes blink and water for a moment.

He opened the door to his own room -

And froze; hand still on the icy metal of the doorhandle.

Candles burned in the sconces built into the headboard. Melenna smiled coyly at him from the middle of his bed. She allowed the sheet to slide from her shoulders as she sat up, proving that she hadn't so much as a single thread to grace her body.

Vanyel counted to ten, then ten again. Melenna's smile faltered and faded. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and began to pout.

Vanyel snatched his cloak from the peg beside the door, turned on his heel without a single word, and left, slamming the door behind him hard enough to send echoes bouncing up and down the corridor.

:'Fandes, beloved,:
he Mindsent, so angry he was having trouble staying coherent. :
I
hope you don't mind sharing sleeping-space.:

Straw was not the most comfortable of beds, although he'd had worse. And he'd spent nights with his head pillowed on Yfandes' shoulder before this. But
“
day
”
for the occupants of the stable began long before
he'd
been getting up. The stablehands had no reason to be quiet -
 
and neither did the horses. Meke's famous stud was the worst offender; he began cow-kicking the side of his stall monotonously from the moment color touched the east.

. - Stupid brute thinks that if he keeps kicking, somebody will come to let him out,:
came Yfandes' sleepy thought.
:I
usually move out under a tree about now.:

Vanyel raised his head and yawned. He'd gotten some sleep, but not nearly as much as he would have liked.
:You move. I think I'll go back to my room. If Melenna hasn't taken herself off to her own room by now, I swear I'll throw her out. Maybe a dose of humiliation will convince her to leave me alone.:

:Sounds as good a plan as any.:
Yfandes waited for him to move out of the way, then got herself to her feet and nudged open the outside door. Vanyel stood up, shoulders aching from the strange position he'd slept in, and brushed bits of straw off his clothing. He ignored the startled glances of the stablehands, picked up his cloak and shook it out as Yfandes ambled out into her meadow.

:Go get some more sleep, dearheart,:
she Mindsent back toward him.

:I'II
try,:
he replied, smoldering.
:Maybe I'll bring my sleeping roll down here. Maybe when word gets around that I'm sleeping with horses she'll stop this nonsense.:

:And if she's stupid enough to try and waylay you down here, I'll chase her around the meadow a few times to teach her better manners,:
Yfandes sent, irritation of her own coloring her thoughts a sullen red.
:This is getting exasperating. I don't
care
if she thinks she's in love with you, that doesn't excuse imbecilic behavior.:

Vanyel didn't reply; he was too close to temper that could do the woman serious damage. He folded his cloak tidily over his arm, pretending he didn't notice the whispers of the stablehands as he let himself out of the stall and shut the door behind him.

“
There was a problem with my bed last night,
”
he told Tarn, the chief stableman and Withen's most trusted trainer.

Tarn was no fool, and he'd been quietly on Vanyel's side since Van was old enough to ride. He was one of the few at Forst Reach who hadn't changed his behavior toward Vanyel when the nature of Vanyel's relationship with Tylendel became known at the holding. Since his wife was one of the cooks, he was quite conversant with
“
house
”
gossip. He smiled slowly, showing the gap where he'd had three teeth kicked out.
“
Aye, milord Van. I ken. There's some invites a body wish t' give hisself.
”

Van winced inwardly a little, knowing that this was going to do Melenna's reputation no good at all once this tale got around the keep.

The stablehands went back to their chores, and he wound his way past them, out into the yard between the outbuildings and the keep. He blinked at the sunlight, seeing just one other person, a vague, unidentifiable shadow in the door of the armory.

“
Vanyel,
”
called a raspy, far-too-familiar voice.
“
A word with you.
”

Jervis. The armsmaster moved out past the door of the armory to stand directly in his path and Vanyel felt his stomach start to churn. In no way could he successfully avoid a confrontation this time. Jervis was between him and the keep.

“
Yes, armsmaster?
”
he said.

“
I left you messages, Meke told me he'd passed them on.
”
Jervis moved closer, a frown making his seamed and craggy face more forbidding than usual.

Vanyel kept his own feelings behind an expressionless mask.
“
That you wanted to spar, yes I know. He did tell me. I'd rather not, thank you.
”

“
Why not?
”

“
Frankly, because I don't feel up to it,
”
Vanyel replied with cool neutrality, though his back was clammy with nervous sweat.
Because I know damned well it won't stay polite exercise for long. Because I know you’re going to push me just as far as you can, armsmaster. I'm going to have to
hurt
you. And dammit, I don't want to let you do that to me.

“
What's that supposed to mean?
”
Jervis growled, his face darkening.
“
You think this old man isn't good enough for you?
”

“
I'm
worn out,
for one thing. I just spent the night in the stable because there was an unwelcome visitor in my room; that's
not
my bed of choice, and Meke's damned stud makes more noise than a herd of mules. For another - Jervis, I've been on a battle-line for the last year.
You
were a mercenary, what does that tell you?
”

I
don't want to inflict more pain when I don't have to. And I'm on a hair-trigger; gods,
think
about this, you old bastard! Remember what it was like, how some things became reflex, no matter how hard you tried to control them.

Jervis narrowed his eyes.
“
You look in good enough shape to me. There's nothing you can do, young Vanyel, that
I
can't handle. Unless you're really no better than, say, young Medren, no matter what all those songs say about you.
”

The reminder of the treatment Medren was receiving at Jervis' hands was the spark to the tinder. Vanyel's temper finally snapped.
“
On your head be it,
”
he growled.
“
I take
no
responsibility. You want to spar so badly, all right, let's get it over with.
”

He stalked off toward the armory, a sturdy wooden building between the stables and the keep, with Jervis at his heels. He had a set of practice gear here, made up soon after he returned from k'Treva, gear put together at Withen's insistence and unused until now. It was gear unlike any other set at Forst Reach: light, padded leather gambeson; arm, thigh, and shin guards; main - gauche and heavy rapier; and a very light helm, all suited to his light frame and strike-and-run style.

The armory was not dark; there were clerestory windows glazed with bubbly, thick third-rate glass; stuff that wouldn't admit a view, just light. Vanyel found the storage chest with his name on it. He pulled his gear out and stripped off yesterday's tunic, pulling on the soft, thick linen practice tunic, strapping on the gambeson and guards, and gathering up his helm and weighted wooden practice blades.

This armory was new; built since Vanyel had left home. There was enough room for sparring inside; most of the interior had been set up as a salle. Vanyel was just as pleased to see that. The older building had been so small that all practices had to be held outside. So far as Vanyel was concerned, the fewer eyes there were to witness the confrontation, the better he'd like it.

He was shaking and sick inside; he was going to give Jervis a lesson the old man would never forget, and the very idea made his gut knot. He was
not
proud of what he was going to do.

But the old man
asked
for it. He wouldn't take “no,” and he wouldn't back down. Dammit, it's going to be
his
fault, not mine!

Van dwelled on that while he armed up; a sullen anger making him feel justified, and burning the knots out of his gut with self-righteousness and a growing elation that he was
finally
going to pay Jervis back for every bruise and broken bone.

Until he realized where
that
train of thought was leading him.

I'm rationalizing the fact that I want to beat him bloody. That I want revenge on him. Oh, gods.

The realization made him sick again.

He went to the center of the practice area, crossing the unvarnished wooden floor with no more noise than a cat. Jervis looked around after donning his own gear -
much
heavier than Vanyel's - as if he had actually expected Van to have slipped out while he was arming. He seemed surprised to see Vanyel standing on the challenger's side, waiting for him.

I
'
II
let him make the first move,
Van thought, keeping himself under tight control.
He's probably going to give me a full rush, and I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Damned bully. But I
will not
lose my temper. I can't stop my reflexes, but I
can
keep my temper. I will
not
let him do that to me.

But Jervis astonished him by simply walking up to his side of the line, giving a curt salute that Vanyel returned, and waiting in a deceptively lazy guard position.