He was trembling, half in anger, half in an anguished frustration that had been held in check for nearly ten years.
Withen squirmed, acutely uncomfortable with this confrontation. “Son, I—”
Vanyel cut him off with an abrupt shake of his head, then held both his hands outstretched toward Withen in entreaty. “Why, Father, why? Why can’t you believe what I tell you? What have I ever done to make you think I have no sense of honor? When have I ever been anything other than honest with you?”
Withen stared at the floor.
“Look,” Vanyel said, grasping at anything to get his point across, “let’s turn this around. I know damned good and well you’ve had other bedpartners than Mother, but do I assume you would try to—to seduce that little-girl chambermaid of hers? Have I looked sideways at you whenever you’ve been around one of her ladies? So why should you constantly accuse me in your mind—assuming that I would obviously be trying to seduce every susceptible young man and vulnerable little boy in sight?”
Withen coughed, and flushed crimson.
He’d probably be angry, Vanyel thought, in a part of his mind somewhere beyond his anguish, except that this frontal assault isn’t giving him time to be anything other than embarrassed.
“You—could use your reputation. As a—the kind of person they write those songs about.” Withen flushed even redder. “A hero-worshipping lad would find it hard to—deny you. Might even think it your due and his duty.”
“Yes, Father, that’s only too true. Yes, I could use my reputation. Don’t think I’m not acutely aware of that. But I won’t—would never! Can’t you understand that? I’m a Herald. I have a moral obligation that I’ve pledged myself to by accepting that position.”
By the blankness of Withen’s expression, Vanyel guessed he had gone beyond Withen’s comprehension of what a “Herald” was. He tried again. “There’re more reasons than that; I’m a Thought-senser, Father, did you ever think what that means? The constraints it puts on me? The things I’m open to? It’s a harder school of honor than ever Jervis taught. There are no compromises, mind-to-mind. There are no falsehoods; there can’t be. A relationship for me has to be one of absolute equals, freely giving, freely sharing—or nothing.” Still no flicker of understanding. He used blunter language. “No rape, Father. No unwilling seduction. No lies, no deception. No harm. No one who doesn’t already know what he is. No one who hasn’t made peace with what he is, and accepted it. No innocents, who haven’t learned what they are. No children.”
Withen looked away, fidgeting a little in his chair. Vanyel moved swiftly to kneel between him and the fire, where Withen couldn’t avoid looking at him. “Father—dammit, Father, I care about you. I don’t want to make you unhappy, but I can’t help what I am.”
“Why, Van?” Withen’s voice sounded half-strangled. “Why? What in hell did I do wrong?”
“Nothing! Everything! I don’t know!” Vanyel cried out, his words trembling in the air, a tragic song tortured from the strings of a broken lute. “Why am I Gifted? Why am I anything? Maybe it’s something I was born with. Maybe the gods willed it. Maybe it’s nothing more than the fact that the only person I’ll ever love happened to be born into the same sex body that I was!” Grief knotted his throat and twisted his voice further. “All I know is that I am this way, and nothing is going to change that. And I care for my father, and nothing is going to change that. And if you can’t believe in me, in my sense of honor—oh, gods, Father—”
He got to his feet somehow, and held out his open hands toward Withen in a desperate plea for understanding. “Please, Father—I’m not asking for much. I’m not asking you to do anything. Only to believe that I am a decent human being. Believe in Herald Vanyel if you won’t believe in your son. Only—believe; believe that no one will ever come to harm at my hands. And try to understand. Please.”
But there still was no understanding in Withen’s eyes. Only uncertainty, and acute discomfort. Vanyel let his hands fall and turned away, defeated. The last dregs of his energy had been burned out, probably for nothing.
“I—I’m sorry, son—”
“Never mind,” Vanyel said dully, bleakly, walking slowly toward the door. “Never mind. I’ve lived with it this long, I should be used to it. Listen; I’m going to make you a pledge, since you won’t believe me without one. Medren is safe from my advances, Father. Your grandsons are safe. Every damned thing on this holding down to the sheep is safe. All right? You have my damned oath as a damned Herald on it. Will that be enough for you?”
He didn’t wait to hear the answer, but opened the door quickly and shut it behind him.
He leaned against it, feeling bitterness and hurt knotting his gut, making his chest ache and his head throb. And eleven years’ experience as a Herald was all that enabled him to cram that hurt back down into a little corner and slap a lid on it, to fiercely tell the lump in his throat that it was not tears and it would go away. Maybe he would deal with all this later—not now. Not when he was drained dry, and not when he was alone.
“Heyla, Van!” The voice out of the dark corridor beside him startled him, and he whirled in reaction, his hands reaching for weapons automatically.
He forced himself to relax and made out who it was.
Gods—just what I needed.
“Evening, Meke,” he replied; tired, and not bothering to hide it. “What brings you out tonight?”
Lady Bright, that sounds feeble even to me.
“Oh,” Mekeal replied vaguely, moving into the range of the lantern beside the study door. “Things. Just—things. Where were you off to?”
“Bed.” Vanyel knew his reply was brusque, even rude, but it was either that or let Meke watch him fall to pieces. “I’m damned tired, Meke; I’ve got a lot of rest to catch up on.”
Mekeal nodded, his expression softening a little with honest concern. “You look like hell, Van, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Gods. Not again.
“The last year hasn’t been a good one. Especially not on the Borders.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,” Mekeal interrupted eagerly, coming so close that Vanyel could see the lantern flames reflected in his eyes. “Listen, can you spare me a little time before you go off to bed? Say a candlemark or so?”
Vanyel stifled a sigh of exasperation. All right, stupid, you gave him the opening, you have only yourself to blame that he took it. “I suppose so.”
“Great! Come on.” Mekeal took Vanyel’s elbow and hauled him down the ill-lit corridor, practically running in his eagerness. “You’ve seen that stud I bought?”
“From a distance,” Vanyel replied cautiously.
“Well, I want you to come have a good look at him, and he really doesn’t settle down until well after dark.”
I can believe that.
They walked rapidly down the hollow-sounding corridor, Mekeal chattering on about his acquisition. Vanyel made a few appropriately conversational sounds, but was far more interested in reestablishing his “professional” calm than in anything Meke was saying. Meke was obviously heading for the corridor that led to one of the doors to the stable yard, so Vanyel pulled his arm free and picked up his own pace a little. Might as well get this over with now, while I’m still capable of standing.
Mekeal obviously had this planned, for when they emerged into the cool darkness and a sky full of stars, Vanyel saw the dim glow of a lantern in the stable across the yard. They crossed the yard at something less than a run, but not for lack of Mekeal’s trying to hurry his steps.
The famous stud had pride of place, first stall by the entrance, by the lantern. Vanyel stared at it; if anything it was worse up close than at a distance.
Ugly is not the word for this beast.
It glared over its shoulder at him as if it had heard his thought, and bared huge yellow teeth at him.
“Well?” Meke said, bursting with pride. “What do you think?”
Vanyel debated breaking the bad news easily, then remembered what his little brother was like. He not only did not take hints well, he never even knew there was such a thing as a subtle hint. Vanyel braced himself, and told the truth. “Meke—there’s no way to say this tactfully. That monster is no more Shin’a’in than I am. You were robbed.”
Mekeal’s face fell.
“I’ve seen a Shin’a’in warsteed,” Vanyel said, pressing his advantage. “She was under a Shin’a’in. The nomad told me then that they don’t ever sell the warbeasts, and that they literally would not permit one to be in the hands of an outsider. And they never, never let the studs off the Dhorisha Plains. I’ll give you a full description. The mare I saw was three hands shorter than this stud of yours, bred to carry a small horse-archer, not anyone in heavy plate; she was short-backed, deep-chested, and her hindquarters were a little higher than her forequarters. She had a big head in proportion to the rest of her, and if anything, this stud’s head is small. Besides being large, her skull had an incredibly broad forehead. Lots of room for brains. Need I say more? About the only things she had in common with your stud are color and muscles.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Meke, but—”
“A half-breed? Couldn’t he be a cross?” Mekeal asked desperately.
“If a common stud caught the mare in season and if she didn’t kill him first and if the mare’s owner decided—against all tradition—to sell the foal instead of destroying it or sending it back to the Plains. Maybe. Not bloody likely, but a very bare possibility. It is also a very bare possibility that this stud has Shin’a’in cull blood somewhere very far back in his line.” Vanyel rubbed his nose and sneezed in the dust rising as the stud fidgeted in his stall. The precious stud laid his ears back, squealed, and cow-kicked the door to the box as hard as he could. More dust rose, there was a clatter of hooves all through the stable, and startled whinnies as the rest of the horses reacted to the stud’s display of ill-temper. “Meke, why did you buy this monster? Forst Reach has the best line of hunters from here to Haven.”
“Hunters won’t do us a hell of a lot of good when there’s an army marching toward us,” Mekeal said, turning to look at him soberly. “And even if this lad isn’t Shin’a’in, crossed into our hunters he’ll sire foals with the muscle to carry men in armor. I just hope to hell we have them before we need them.”
Incredulous at those words coming from this sibling, Vanyel looked across his shoulder at his younger brother. “That’s what this is about?”
Meke nodded, the flickering lantern making him look cadaverous—and much older. “There’s trouble coming up on the West. Even if it doesn’t come from Baires and Lineas, one or both, it’ll come from the changeling lands beyond them. It’s been building since Elspeth died. Every year we get more weird things crossing over into Valdemar. Plenty of them here. Check the trophy room some time while you’re visiting; you’ll get an eyeful. Liss thinks they’re either being driven here by something worse, or they’re being sent to test our defenses; neither notion makes me real comfortable. Hunters are all very well, but they can’t carry a fighter in full armor. And the tourney-horses I’ve been seeing lately don’t have the stamina for war. One thing this lad does have is staying power.”
Gods. Oh, gods. If the problems are so evident even Meke is seeing them— Vanyel’s spine went to ice.
“Do you want my advice with this beast?” he asked bluntly.
Mekeal nodded.
“Given what you’ve told me, he might be useful after all. Breed him to the best-tempered and largest of the hunter-mares. And see what comes of breeding him to plowhorse mares. Maybe make a second-generation three-way cross—if you have time.”
Meke nodded again, smoothing his close-cropped beard. “I hadn’t thought about plowbeasts; that’s a good notion. He is vicious. I like the willingness to fight, but I can do without viciousness. So, you agree with me?”
Vanyel turned slowly, a new respect for his brother coloring his thoughts. “Meke, even if this Border stays quiet, there’s Karse, there’s Hardorn, there’s Iftel—Rethwellan seems quiet, but their king is old and that could change when he dies. There’s even the north, if those barbarians ever find a leader to weld them into a single fighting force. May the gods help us—you’ll have a ready market all too soon if you can breed the kind of horses you’re talking about.” Vanyel pondered the worn, scrubbed wooden floor of the stable. “What have you heard? About here, I mean.”
“The Mavelans want Lineas. Badly enough to chance a war with us, I don’t know. The Lineans don’t much like either Baires or Valdemar, but they figure Valdemar is marginally better, so they’ll put up with us enforcing the peace as third-party. It all comes down to what’s going to happen with this mess with Tashir being disinherited.”
Lady Bright, more words of political wisdom where I never expected to find them. His view may be shortsighted—he may not see the larger picture—but where his neighbors are concerned, my little brother seems to have them well weighed and measured.
“I heard Lord Vedric is behind the protests,” Vanyel ventured. Mekeal looked skeptical.
“One thing I’ve learned watching them, anything the Mavelans do openly has about fifty motives and is hiding a dozen other moves. The protest might be a covering move for something else. Vedric might have the backing of the family. Vedric might be operating under orders. Vedric might be acting on his own. Vedric might have nothing to do with it. And Vedric might really be Tashir’s father—and might actually be trying to do something for the boy. The gods know he hasn’t any true-born offspring and it’s not that he hasn’t tried.”
Vanyel nodded and stowed that tidbit away. “I’ll tell you what, Meke, I’ll do what I can to get Father to see why you want to breed this stud—and persuade him that since you aren’t breeding hunters, he ought to leave you alone to see what you can come up with. But those sheep—”
Mekeal coughed and blushed. “Those sheep were a damnfool thing to do. There’s no market, not with Whitefell just south of us, with furlongs of meadow good for nothing but sheep. But dammit, the old man goes on and on about it until I’m about ready to bash him with a damned candlestick! I am not going to give in to him! We aren’t losing money, we just aren’t making as much. And if I give in to him on the sheep, he’ll expect me to give in to him on the stud.”
Vanyel groaned. “Lady bless! The two of you are stubborn enough to make an angel swear! Look—if I manage to get him to agree on the stud, will you please agree to clear out the damned sheep? Bright Havens, can’t one of you show a little sense in the interests of peace and compromise?”
Mekeal glowered, and Mekeal grumbled, but in the end, on the way back to the keep, Mekeal grudgingly agreed.
• • •
The silken voice stopped Vanyel halfway between the keep and the stables, dimming the bright autumn sunlight and casting a pall on the sweetness of the late-morning sky.
“Good—morning. Herald Vanyel.” The slight hesitation before the second word called pointed attention to the fact that it lacked little more than a candlemark till noon. The cool tone made it clear that Father Leren did not approve of Vanyel’s implied sloth.
Vanyel paused on the graveled path, turned, and inclined his head very slightly in the priest’s direction. “Good afternoon, Father Leren,” he replied, without so much as an eyebrow twitching.
The priest emerged from the deeply recessed doorway of the keep’s miniature temple, a faithful gray-granite replica of the Great Temple at Haven. Leren had persuaded Withen to build it shortly after his arrival as Ashkevron priest, on the grounds that the chapel, deep within the keep itself, couldn’t possibly hold the family and all of the relatives on holy day
s. It had been a reasonable request, although the old priest had managed by holding services in shifts, the way meals were served in the Great Hall. Vanyel alone had resented it; the little gray temple had always seemed far too confining, stifling, for all that it was five times the size of the chapel. The homely wood-paneled chapel made the gods seem—closer, somehow. Forgiving rather than forbidding. He had hated the temple from the moment he’d first stepped into it at the age of five—and from that moment on, had refused to enter it again. In fact, Vanyel wasn’t entirely certain that Leren had ever even set foot in the old chapel—which was why, as a boy, he had accomplished his own worship there.
“I have seen very little of you, my son,” came the cool words. The priest’s lean, dusky face beneath his slate-gray cowl was as expressionless as Vanyel’s own.
Vanyel shrugged, shifted his weight to one foot, and folded his arms across his chest. If he wants to play word-games—“I’m not surprised, sir,” he replied with detached civility. “I have spent very little time outside of my room. I’ve been using this time alone to catch up on a year’s worth of lost sleep.”
Leren allowed one black eyebrow to rise sardonically. “Indeed? Alone?” His expression was not quite a sneer.
Oh, what the hell. In for a sheep— Vanyel went into a full-scale imitation of the most languid fop at Haven.
The man in question wasn’t inclined to shay’a’chern, as it happened: rumor had it he played the effeminate to irritate . . . not Vanyel—but certain of his colleagues—and he also happened to be one of the finest swordsmen outside of the Circle or the Guard.
Following that sterling example, Vanyel set out to be very irritating.
“Quite alone, sad to say,” he pouted. “But then again, I am here for a rest. And company would hardly be restful.”
The priest retreated a step, surprise flashing across his face before he shuttered his expression. “Indeed. And yet—I am told young Medren spends an inordinate amount of time in your rooms.” His tone insinuated what he did not—quite—dare say.
The Last Herald-Mage Trilogy Page 49
