Magic's Promise

He noticed then the 'blank' spot in the back of his mind that meant 'Fandes was keeping her promise and shielding him out. He grinned a little to himself; that probably meant that Gavis was doing the same, so Sofya's curiosity about him must be eating her alive.

'I've seen nearly no food for a week,' he replied quietly, and paused for a moment when the serving girl took the plate away and replenished his mug of cider. “I don't know if you'd call my duty extraordinary, but it was harder than I expected. I've been on the Karsite Border for the last year. Meals weren't exactly regular, and the food was pretty awful. There were times I shared 'Fandes' oats because I couldn't even attempt eating what they gave me; half-rotten meat and moldy bread aren't precisely to my taste. All too often there wasn't much to go around. And, to tell you the truth, sometimes I just forgot to eat. You know how it is, things start happening, and the next thing you know, it's two days later. That's why -' he gestured at his too - large uniform, and grinned wryly. 'The situation was harder on clothing than on stomachs.'

Her sable eyes widened, and softened. 'You were on the Karsite duty? I don't blame you for running off,' she replied, with a hint of a chuckle. 'I think I would, too, Herald - you never did give me your name.'

'Vanyel,' he said. 'Vanyel Ashkevron. Lissa's brother. I know, we don't look at all alike -'

But her reaction was not at all what he had expected. Her eyes widened even farther, and she sat straight up. 'Herald-Mage Vanyel?” she exclaimed, loud enough that the farmers and traders who'd begun trickling in while Vanyel was eating stopped talking and turned to look with their mouths dropping open. 'You're Vanyel?” Her voice

carried embarrassingly well, and rose with every word. 'Vanyel Demonsbane? The Shadow Stalker? The Hero of - '

'Please -' Vanyel cut her off, pleadingly. 'Please, it - yes, I'm Vanyel. But - honestly, it wasn't like you think.' He groped for the words that would make the near-worship he saw on her face go back to ordinary friendliness. 'It wasn't like that, it really wasn't - just - things had to get done, and I was the only one to do them, so I did. I'm not a hero, or -I'm just - I'm just - another Herald,' he finished lamely.

He looked around the common room, and to his dismay saw the same worship in the expressions of the farmfolk around him. And something more. Fear.

An echo of that fear was in Sofya's eyes as well, before she looked down at her ale.

He closed his eyes, settling his face into a calm and expressionless mask, that belied the ache that their fear called up in him. He'd wanted - acceptance, only that.

Tran, Tran, you were right, I was wrong. “Be careful what you ask for, you may get it.'' Gods, I asked for signs that Tran was right. And now I have them. Don't I?

He opened his eyes again, but the reverence and adulation hadn't vanished. There was a palpably clear space around him where the 'common folk' had moved a little away, as if afraid to intrude too closely on him. Even Sofya.

And the room had taken on the silence of a chapel. I'm about to ruin their evening as well as mine. Unfair, unfair - there must be something I can do to salvage this situation, at least for them.

'You know,' he said, with forced lightness, 'if there was one thing I missed more than anything, it was a chance for a little music -'

He reached blindly down beside him for the lute he'd left leaning against the wall, stripped the case off it and tuned it with frantic speed. ' - and I hate to sing alone.

I'll bet you all know 'The Crafty Maid,' don't you?'

Without waiting for an answer, he launched into the song. He sang alone on the first verse - but gradually other voices joined his on the chorus; Sofya first, with a kind of too-hearty determination, then a burly peddler, then three stout farmers. The local folk sang timidly to begin with, but the song was an old and lively one, and the chorus was infectious. By his third song the whole room was echoing, and they were no longer paying much more attention to him than they would have to a common minstrel.

Except between songs.

And except for Sofya, who worshiped him with eyes that sent a lump of cold to live in the bottom of his throat. She waited on him herself, as if he was some kind of angel, to be adored, but not touched.

He slipped out of the room early, when she was getting something; another musician had joined the crowd, a local, and he used the lad's talent as a screen to get out during a particularly rowdy song. He thought he'd gotten away without anyone noticing, but the innkeeper intercepted him in the hallway.

'Milord – Vanyel -' The tallow candles lighting the hall smoked and flickered and made the shadows move like the Shadows he'd once hunted. The memory knotted his stomach. He concentrated on the innkeeper, but the man gulped and would not meet his eyes. A breath of cooked onions drifted up the hall from the common room. 'Milord, if I'd known who it was I was serving, I'd have made you special fare, and I'd not have accepted your coin.'