Magic's Pawn

histrionics she seemed to adore. In a way it was as hard to deal with as Withen's rage. He'd never been on the receiving end of her vapors before.

Oh, gods, he kept thinking confusedly, please make her go away. Anywhere, I don't care.

He had to keep assuring her that he was going to be all right when he was not at all certain of that himself, and Treesa's shrill, borderline hysteria set his nerves completely on edge. It was a decided relief when the Healer arrived again and gently chased her out to give him some peace.

The next few weeks were nothing but a blur of pain and potions - a blur endured with one or another of his mother's ladies constantly at his side. And they all flustered at him until he was ready to scream, including his mother's maid, Melenna, who should have known better. It was like being nursemaided by a covey of agitated doves. When they weren't worrying at him, they were preening at him. Especially Melenna.

'Would you like me to get you a pillow?' Melenna cooed.

'No,' Vanyel replied, counting to ten. Twice.

'Can I get you something to drink?' She edged a little closer, and leaned forward, batting her eyelashes at him.

'No,' he said, closing his eyes. 'Thank you.'

'Shall I - '

'No!' he growled, not sure which was worse at this moment, the pounding of his head, or Melenna's questions. At least the pounding didn't have to be accompanied by Melenna's questions.

Sniff.

He cracked an eyelid open, just enough to see her. She sniffed again, and a fat tear rolled down one cheek.

She was a rather pretty little thing, and the only one of his mother's ladies or maidservants who had managed to pick up Treesa's knack of crying without going red and blotchy. Vanyel knew that both Mekeal and Radevel had tried to get into her bed more than once. He also knew that she had her heart set on him.

And the thought of bedding her left him completely cold.

She sniffed a little harder. A week ago he would have sighed, and apologized to her, and allowed her to do something for him. Anything, just to keep her happy.

That was a week ago. Now - It's just a game for her, a game she learned from Mother. I'm tired of playing it. I'm sick to death of all their games.

He ignored her, shutting his eyes and praying for the potions to work. And finally they did, which at least gave him a rest from her company for a little while.

'Van?'

That voice would bring him out of a sound sleep, let alone the restless drug-daze he was in now. He struggled up out of the grip of fever-dreams to force his eyes open.

Lissa was sitting on the edge of his bed, dressed in riding leathers.

'Liss - ?' he began, then realized what riding leathers meant. ' - oh, gods - '

'Van, I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave you, but Father said it was now ot never.'

She was crying, not prettily like Lady Treesa, but with blotched cheeks and bloodshot eyes. 'Van, please say you don't mind too much!'

'It's ... all right, Liss,' he managed, fighting the words out around the cold lump in his throat and the colder one in his gut. 'I ... know. You've got to do this. Gods, Liss, one of us has to get away!'

'Van - I - I'll find some way to help you, I promise. I'm almost eighteen; I'm almost free. Father knows the Guard is the only place for me; he hasn't had a marriage offer for me for two years. He doesn't dare ruin my chances for a post, or he'll be stuck with me. The gods know you're safe enough now - if anybody dared do anything before the Healer says you're fit, he'd make a protest to Haven. Maybe by the time you get the splints off, I'll be able to find a way to have you with me. ...'

She looked so hopeful that Vanyel didn't have the heart to say anything to contradict her. 'Do that, Liss. I - I'll be all right.'

She hugged him, and kissed him, and then left him.

And then he turned to the wall and cried. Lissa was the only support he had had. The only person who loved him without reservations. And now she was gone.

After that, he stopped even pretending to care about anything. They didn't care enough about him to let Liss stay until he was well - so why should he care about anything or anyone, even enough to be polite?

'Armor does more than protect; it conceals. Helms hide faces - and your opponent becomes a mystery, an enigma.

Seldasen had that right. Just like those two down there.

The cruel, blank stares of the helm-slits gave no clues to the minds within. The two opponents drew their blades, flashed identical salutes, and retreated exactly twenty paces each to end at the opposite corners of the field. The sun was straight overhead, their shadows little more than pools at their feet. Twelve restive armored figures fidgeted together on one side of the square. The harsh sunshine bleached the short, dead grass to the color of light straw, and lit everything about the pair in pitiless detail.