Magic's Pawn

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.