Magic's Promise

'All right.' Vanyel put his hand on Medren's shoulders, and focused down and out -

'Funny about Medren,' Radevel said, 'coming down with spots so sudden-like. I would've sworn he had 'em once already.''

Vanyel just shrugged. He was in Radevel's room following another 'sparring session' - this time one in which he sparred with Rad under Jervis' eye. It had been easier to deal with than the last one, but Jervis was still acting out of character. We have a truce of sorts. I don't know why, but I won't take the chance that it will extend to cover Medren. I daren't.

Radevel had invited him here afterward in a burst of hearty comradeship, and Vanyel had decided to take him up on it. Over the past hour he'd come to discover he liked this good - natured cousin more than he'd ever dreamed.

“‘Mother funny thing I can't figure,' Radevel continued, feet propped up on a battered old table, mug of watered wine in hand. 'Old Leren. Saw him watching you an' Jervis an' me at practice this afternoon, an' if looks were arrows, you'd be a damned pincushion. What in hell did you ever do to him?''

Vanyel shrugged, took a long drink of the cool wine, and turned his attention back to repairing his torn leather gambeson with needle and fine, waxed thread in a neat, precise row of carefully placed stitches. The past four years had seen him out more often than not beyond the reach of the Havenbred comforts and the servants that saw to the needs of Heralds. He'd gotten into the habit of repairing things himself, and around Radevel, that habit (which Radevel shared) made itself evident at the smallest excuse. 'Don't know,' he said shortly. 'Never did. I would almost be willing to pledge to you that he's hated me from the moment he came here. Mother swears it's because I asked too many questions, but I thought priests were supposed to encourage questions. Our old priest did. I may have been only four when he died, but I remember that.''

Radevel nodded agreement. 'Aye, I remember that, too. Jervis always said that Osen was a good man. Made you feel like taking things to him, somehow. 'The gods gave you a brain, boy,' he'd say. 'If you want to honor them, use it.' Never made you feel like you were beneath him.' He brooded over his mug, his plain face quiet with thought. 'This Leren, now - huh. I dunno, Van. You know, I stopped going to holydays here a long time ago - hike down into the village with Jervis when we feel like we need a dose of priest-talk. Tell you something else - young Father Heward down in the village don't care much for Leren either. He did his best not to let on, but he was downright gleeful to see us come marching down to the village temple, an' I know he don't care much for fighters, being a peace-preacher. Figure that.”

'I can't,' Vanyel replied.

He 'felt' Savil's distinct 'presence' coming up to the door of Radevel's room, so he didn't jump when she spoke. 'Is this a 'roosters only' discussion, or can an old hen join?''

Vanyel did not bother to turn around. Radevel grinned past Vanyel's shoulder at Savil, and reached - without needing to look - into the cupboard over his head for another mug. 'I dunno,' he mused. 'Old hens, welcome, but old bats-?'

“Give me that, you shameless reprobate,' she mock-snarled, snatching the clean mug out of his hand and pouring herself wine from the jug. She tasted it and made a face. 'Gods! What's that made of, old socks?'

'Standard mere ration, milady Herald ma'am, an' watered down, too. Grows on you, though. Got into liking it 'cause of Jervis.'

'Huh. Grows on you like foot-rot.'

Vanyel stuck the needle under a line of stitches and moved over to make room for her. She sat down beside him, careful to avoid unbalancing the bench. She sipped again. 'You're right. Second taste has merit - unless it's just that the first swallow ate the skin off my tongue. What was all this about Leren?'

“Radevel said he was watching me and Rad spar with Jervis this afternoon,' Vanyel supplied, frowning at his work. The leather was scraped thin here, and likely to tear again if he wasn't careful where he placed his stitches.

'To be precise, he was watching Herald Van, here. Like he was hoping me or Jervis would slip - up like and break his neck for him,' Radevel said. 'I'll tell you again, I do not like that man, priest or no priest. Makes my skin fair crawl with some of those looks he gives.'

'I've noticed,' Savil said soberly. “I don't like him either, and damned if I know why.''

Radevel held up one hand in a gesture of helplessness. 'I spent more time around him than either of you, and I just can't put a finger on it. Treesa doesn't like him either; only reason she goes to holyday services is 'cause she reckons herself right pious, and facing him's better'n not going. But if she had her druthers, he'd be away and gone. It's about the one thing I agree with that feather-head on. Pardon, Van.'

'Mother is a featherhead; I won't argue there. But - Savil, did you realize that she's very slightly sensitive? Not Thought-sensing, not Empathy, but like to it - something else, some kind of sensitivity