Magic's Pawn

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.