Magic's Promise

Vanyel smiled. 'No, little nephew,' he replied. 'I'm going to take you to my father, and we're going to discuss your future.'

Withen had a room he called his 'study,' though it was bare of anything like a book; a small, stone-walled room, windowless, furnished with comfortable, worn-out old chairs Treesa wouldn't allow in the rest of the keep. It was where he brought old cronies to sit beside the fire, drink, and trade tall tales; it was where he went after dinner to stare at the flames and nurse a last mug of ale. That's where Vanyel had expected to find him; and when Vanyel ushered Medren into the stuffy little room, he could tell by his father's stricken expression that Withen was assuming the absolute worst.

'Father,' he said, before Withen could even open his mouth, 'do you know who this boy is?'

Candlelight flickered in his father's eyes as Withen looked at him as if he'd gone insane, but he answered the question. 'That's – uh - Medren. Melenna's boy.'

'Melenna and Mekeal's, Father,' Vanyel said forcibly. 'He's Ashkevron blood, and by that blood, we owe him. Now just how are we paying him? What future does he have?'' Withen started to answer, but Vanyel cut him off. 'I'll tell you, Father. None. There are how many wedlock-born heirs here? And how much property? Forst Reach is big, but it isn't that big! Where does that leave the little tagalong bastard when there may not be enough places for the legitimate offspring? What's he going to do? Eke out the rest of his life as somebody's squire? What if he falls in love and wants to marry? What if he doesn't want to be somebody's squire all his life? You've given him the same education and the same wants as the rest of the boys, Father. The same expectations; the same needs. How do you plan on making him content to take a servant's place after being raised like one of the heirs?'

'I - uh - '

'Now I'll tell you something else,' Vanyel continued without giving him a chance to answer. 'This young man is Bardic-Gifted. That Gift is as rare - and as valued in Valdemar - as the one that makes me a Herald. And we Ashkevrons are letting that rare and precious Gift rot here. Now what are we going to do about it?'

Withen just stared at him. Vanyel waited for him to assimilate what he'd been told. The fire crackled and popped beside him as Withen blinked with surprise. “Bardic-Gifted? Rare? I knew the boy played around with music, but - are you telling me the boy can make a future out of that?”

'I'll tell you more than that, Father. Medren will be a first-class Bard if he gets the training, and gets it now. A Full Bard, Father. Royalty will pour treasure at his feet to get him to sing for them. He could earn a noble rank, higher than yours. But only if he gets what he needs now. And I mean right now.'

'What?' Withen's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.

Vanyel could see that he was having a hard time connecting 'music' with 'earning a noble rank.'

'You mean - send him to Haven? To Bardic Collegium?'

'That's exactly what I mean, Father,' Vanyel said, watching Medren out of the corner of his eye. The boy was in serious danger of losing his jaw, or popping his eyes right out of their sockets. 'And I think we should send him as soon as we can spare him an escort - when the harvest is over at the very latest. I will be happy to write a letter of sponsorship to Bard Chadran; if Forst Reach won't cover it, I'm sure my stipend will stretch enough to take care of his expenses.'

That last was a wicked blow, shrewdly designed to awake his father's sense of duty and shame.

'That won't be necessary, son,' Withen said hastily. 'Great good gods, it's the least we can do! If - if that's what you want, Medren.'

'What I want?' the boy replied, tears coming to his eyes. 'Milord – I - oh, Milord - it's -' He threw himself, kneeling, at Withen's feet.

'Never mind,' Withen said hastily, profoundly embarrassed. 'I can see it is. Consider it a fact; we'll send you off to Haven with the Harvest-Tax.' The boy made as if to grab Withen's hand and kiss it. Withen waved him off. 'No, now, go on with you, boy. Get up, get up! Don't grovel like that, dammit, you're Ashkevron! And don't thank me, I'm just the old fool that was too blind to see what was going on under my nose. Save your thanks for Vanyel.'

Medren got to his feet, clumsy in his adolescent awkwardness, made clumsier by dazed joy. Before the boy could repeat the gesture, Vanyel took him by the shoulders and steered him toward the door.

'Why don't you go tell your mother about your good news, Medren?' He winked at the boy, and managed to get a tremulous grin out of him. 'I'm certain she'll be very surprised.'

That sentence made the grin widen, and take on a certain conspiratorial gleam. Medren nodded, and Vanyel pushed him out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.

He turned back to face Withen, and there was no humor in his face or his heart