Magic's Pawn

I did - well - I didn't!'

Lord Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one moment Vanyel actually thought he'd gotten through to his father, who was more accustomed to hearing him quote poetry than military history.

'Parrot some damned book at me, will you?' Lord Withen snarled, dashing Vanyel's hopes. 'And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about fighting? You listen to me, boy - you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned well better learn what Jervis has to teach you if you want to sit in my place when I'm gone! If he says you were cheating, then by damn you were cheating!'

'But I wasn't cheating and I don't want your place - ' Vanyel protested, the drugs destroying his self-control and making him say things he'd sooner have kept behind his teeth.

That stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he'd gone mad, grown a second head, or spoken in Karsite.

'Great good gods, boy,' he managed to splutter after several icy eternities during which Vanyel waited for the roof to cave in. 'What do you want?'

'I - ' Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to be a Bard -

'You ungrateful whelp - you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order you to do! You're my heir and you'll do your duty to me and to this holding if I have to see you half dead to get you to do it!'

And with that, he stormed out, leaving Vanyel limp with pain and anger and utter dejection, his eyes clamped tight against the tears he could feel behind them.

Oh, gods, what does he expect of me? Why can't I ever please him ? What do I have to do to convince him that I can't be what he wants me to be ? Die ?

And now - now my hand, oh, gods, it hurts - how much damage did they do to it ? Am I ever going to be able to play anything right again ?

'Heyla, Van - '

He opened his eyes, startled by the sound of a voice.

His door was cracked partway open; Radevel peered around the edge of it, and Vanyel could hear scuffling and whispers behind him.

'You all right?'

'No,' Vanyel replied, suspiciously.

What the hell does he want?

Radevel's bushy eyebrows jumped like a pair of excited caterpillars. 'Guess not. Bet it hurts.'

'It hurts,' Vanyel said, feeling a sick and sullen anger burning in the pit of his stomach.

You watched it happen. And you didn’t do anything to stop it, cousin. And you didn't bother to defend me to Father, either. None of you did.

Radevel, instead of being put off, inched a little farther into the room. 'Hey,' he said, brightening, 'you should have seen it! I mean, whack, an' that whole shield just split - an' you fell down an' that arm - '

''Will you go to hell?' Vanyel snarled, just about ready to kill him. 'And you can take all those ghouls lurking out there with you!'

Radevel jumped, looked shocked, then looked faintly offended.

Vanyel didn't care. All that mattered was that Radevel - and whoever else was out there - took themselves away.

Left finally alone, Vanyel drifted into an uneasy slumber, filled with fragmented bits of unhappy dreams. When he woke again, his mother was supervising the removal of his younger brother Mekeal and all Mekeal's belongings from the room.

Well, that was a change. Lady Treesa usually didn't interest herself in any of her offspring unless she had something to gain from it. On the other hand, Vanyel had been a part of her little court since the day he'd evidenced real talent at music about five years ago. She wouldn't want to lose her own private minstrel - which meant she'd best make certain he healed up all right.

'I won't have you racketing about,' she was whispering to Mekeal with unconcealed annoyance on her plump, pretty face. 'I won't have you keeping him awake when he should be sleeping, and I won't have you getting in the Healer's way.'

Thirteen-year-old Mekeal, a slightly shrunken copy of his father, shrugged indifferently. ' 'Bout time we went to bachelor's hall anyway, milady,' he replied, as Lady Treesa turned to keep an eye on him. 'Can't say as I'II miss the caterwauling an' the plunking.'

Although Vanyel could only see his mother's back, he couldn't miss the frown in her voice. 'It wouldn't hurt you to acquire a bit of Vanyel's polish, Mekeal,' Lady Treesa replied.

Mekeal shrugged again, quite cheerfully. 'Can't make silk out 'o wool, Lady Mother.' He peered through dancing candlelight at Vanyel's side of the room.

'Seems m'brother's awake. Heyla, peacock, they're movin' me down t' quarters; seems you get up here to yourself.'

'Out!' Treesa ordered; and Mekeal took himself off with a heartless chuckle.

Vanyel spent the next candlemark with Treesa fussing and weeping over him; indulging herself in the