Magic's Pawn

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