Magic's Promise

And since you're being so kind as to keep track of this, ask Supply to work me up a set of spare uniforms to leave here, and have them keep a set here at all times. Next time there might not be anyone my size with extras for me to borrow! Thanks, Van.

He packed quickly, without having to think about what he was doing, now that he'd finally gotten his momentum. After the last four years, he could pack fatigue - drunk, pain - fogged, drugged to his eyebrows, or asleep-and he had, at one time or another.

He swung his cloak - it was more gray than white, and a little shabby, but there was nothing to be done about that - over his shoulder, picked up his packs, plucked his lute off the chair, and headed out. In the dark and echoing hall on his way to Companion's Field and the stable, he intercepted a page, gave the child the note for Tantras, and asked for some kind of breakfast to be brought to him while he saddled Yfandes.

She was already waiting calmly for him at the entrance to the tackshed :They've cleaned all my tack,: she told him, :but the saddle needs mending and the rest isn't what it should be. I wouldn't trust the chestband to take any strain at all, frankly.:

:Swordcuts and bums aren't fixed with saddlesoap,: he reminded her :We'll just have to - wait a moment - what about your formal gear? That's next thing to brand new. Gods know we've used it what - once? Twice?:

Her ears went up - her sapphire eyes fixed on him -

And he had that curious and disorienting doubled image of her that he'd gotten sometimes in the past, the image of a dark, wise - eyed woman, weary, but smiling with newly - kindled anticipation, flickering in and out with the graceful white horse.

Gods, if I needed a sign of how dragged-out I am, that's it. Hallucinating again. Dreaming awake. Got to be because I never really think of her as a “horse” even when I'm riding her.

He blinked his eyes and forced himself to focus properly as she replied, as excited as a girl being told she could wear her holiday best- :Chosen, could we use it? Please?:

He chuckled. :You like being dressed up and belled like a gypsy, don't you?:

She tossed her head, and arched her neck. :Don't you? I 've heard you preening at yourself in the mirror of a morning, especially when there was someone to impress!:

'You fight dirty,' he said aloud; and went in search of her formal tack, grinning.

One of the kitchen wenches, a bright-eyed little brunette, barely adolescent, brought him hot bread and butter, cider, and more apples about the time he managed to find where Yfandes' formal panoply had been stored. The saddle was considerably lighter than the field saddle, and fancier; it was tooled and worked with silver and dyed a deep blue. The chest and rump bands had silver bells on them, as did the reins of what was essentially an elaborate hackamore. The reins were there more for his benefit than his Companion's, and more for show than either. There was light barding that went along with the outfit, but after regarding it wistfully for a moment, Yfandes agreed that the barding would be far more trouble than it was worth and Vanyel bundled it away.

He paused a moment and bit into the bread; it was dripping with melted butter, and he closed his eyes at the unexpected pleasure the flavor gave him.

Oh, gods - fresh bread!

The taste was better than the manna that the priests said gods ate. 'Bread' for the past year had meant rock-hard journey-bread at best, moldy crusts at worst, and anything in between - and it was never fresh, much less hot from the oven. There had been butter – sometimes - rancid in summer, as rock-hard as the journey-bread in winter.

It's the little things we miss the most - I swear it is! Ordinary things, things that spell “peace” and “prosperity.“ He thought briefly of the sword-comrades he'd left on the Border, and sent up a brief prayer. Brightest gods, grant both, but especially peace. Soon, before more blood is shed.

After that he alternated between bites of food and adjusting of harness. The kitchen wench lingered to watch him saddle Yfandes, draped over the open half - door of the stable, squinting into the sunlight. There was something between hero-worship and starry-eyed romance in her gaze; finally Vanyel couldn't stand it any longer and gently shooed her back to her duties.

He noted out of the corner of his eye - with more than a little alarm-that she was clutching the mug he'd drunk from to her budding bosom as though it had been transformed into a holy chalice.

:Looks like you've got another one, Chosen,: Yfandes commented sardonically as he fastened his packs behind her saddle.