Magic's Pawn

Chadran coughed. 'I - didn't hear any sign of it in class. And it's pretty obvious he doesn't compose, or we'd have heard about it. Shanse would have said something, or put it in his report, and he didn't.'

'He has to have two out of three; Gift, Talent, and Creativity - you know that, Chadran,' said the woman. 'Shanse didn't see any signs of Gift either, did he?'

Chadran sighed. 'No. Breda, when Savil asked me about this boy, I looked up Shanse's report on the area. He did mention the boy, and he was flattering enough about the boy's musicality that we could get him training as a minstrel if - '

'If-'

'If he weren't his father's heir. But the truth is, he said the boy has a magnificent ear, and aptitude for mimicry, and the talent. But no creativity, and no Gift. And that's not enough to enroll someone's heir as a mere minstrel. Still - Breda, love, you look for Gift. You're better at seeing it than any of us. I'd really like to do Savil a favor on this one. She says the boy is set enough on music to defy a fairly formidable father - and we owe her a few.'

'I'll try him,' said the woman, 'But don't get your hopes up. Shanse may not have the Gift himself, but he knows it when he hears it.'

Vanyel had something less than an instant to wonder what they meant by 'Gift' before the woman he'd overheard entered the room. As tall as a man, thin, plain-she still had a presence that forced Vanyel to pay utmost attention to every word she spoke, every gesture she made.

'Today we're going to begin the 'Windrider' cycle,' she said, pulling a gittern around from where it hung across her back. 'I'm going to begin with the very first 'Windrider' ballad known, and I'm going to present it the way it should be dealt with. Heard, not read. This ballad was never designed to be read, and I'll tell you the truth, the flaws present in it mostly vanish when it's sung.'

She strummed a few chords, then launched into the opening to the 'Windrider Unchained' - and he no longer wondered what the 'Gift' could be.

Because she didn't just sing - not like Vanyel would have sung, or even the minstrel (or, as he realized now, the Bard) Shanse would have. No - she made her listeners experience every word of the passage; to feel every emotion, to see the scene, to live the event as the originals must have lived it. When she finished, Vanyel knew he would never forget those words again.

And he knew to the depths of his soul that he would never be able to do what she had just done.

Oh, he tried; when she prompted him to sing the next Windrider ballad while she played, he gave it his best. But he could tell from the look in his fellow classmates' eyes - interest, but not rapt fascination - that he hadn't even managed a pale imitation.

As he sat down and she gestured to the next to take a ballad, he saw the pity in her eyes and the slight shake of her head - and knew then that she knew he'd overheard the conversation in the hallway. That this was her way of telling him, gently, and indirectly, that his dream could not be realized.

It was the pity that hurt the most, after the realization that he did not have the proper material to be a Bard. It cut - as cruelly as any blade. All that work - all that fighting to get his hand back the way it had been - and all for nothing. He'd never even had a hope.

Vanyel threw himself onto his bed, his chest aching, his head throbbing -

I thought nothing would ever be worse than home - but at least I still had dreams. Now I don't even have that.

The capper on the miserable day was his aunt, his competent, clever, selfless, damn-her-to-nine-hells aunt.

He flopped over onto his stomach, and fought back the sting in his eyes.

She'd pulled him aside right after dinner; 'I asked the Bards to see if they could take you,' she'd said. 'I'm sorry, Vanyel, but they told me you're a very talented musician, but that's all you'll ever be. That's not enough to get you into Bardic when you're the heir to a holding.'

'But - ' he'd started to say, then clamped his mouth shut.

She gave him a sharp look. 'I know how you probably feel, Vanyel, but your duty as Withen's heir is going to have to come first. So you'd better resign yourself to the situation instead of fighting it.'

She watched him broodingly as he struggled to maintain his veneer of calm. 'The gods know,' she said finally, 'I stood in your shoes, once. I wanted the Holding - but I wasn't firstborn son. And as things turned out, I'm glad I didn't get the Holding. If you make the best of your situation, you may find one day that you wouldn't have had a better life if you'd chosen it yourself.'

How could she know? he fumed. I hate her. So help me, I hate her. Everything she does is so damned perfect! She never says anything, but she doesn’t have to; all she has to do is give me that look. If I hear one more word about how I 'm supposed to like this trap that's closed on me, I may go mad!

He turned over on his back, and brooded. It wasn't even sunset - and he was stuck here with his lute staring down at him from the wall with all the broken dreams it implied.

And nothing to distract him. Or was there?

Dinner was over, but there were going to be people gathered in the Great Hall all night. And there were plenty of people his age there; young people who weren't Bard trainees, nor Herald proteges. Ordinary young people, more like normal human beings.

He forgot all his apprehensions about being thought a country bumpkin; all he could think of now was the admiration his wit and looks used to draw at the infrequent celebrations that brought the offspring of several Keeps and Holdings together. He needed a dose of that admiration, and needed its sweetness as an antidote to the bitterness of failure.

He flung himself off the bed and rummaged in his wardrobe for an appropriately impressive outfit; he settled on a smoky gray velvet as suiting his mood and his flair for the dramatic.