Magic's Promise

snubbed, or more than 'Lendel's had been; the eyes were farther apart and larger, the chin rounded and not squared, the hair wavy, not curly, and darker than the golden-brown of Tylendel's. Subtle differences, but enough to let him shake off his ghosts, enough to tell him that this was not Tylendel.

Whatever the boy in turn saw or sensed in his eyes, it reassured him enough that he stopped fighting, and obeyed Vanyel's half-audible order to keep his head down.

Not now, he told himself. Deal with your ghosts later, not now.

For the first time since entering the gilded door, he looked around to see if there was finally anyone coming. He looked past the barren entryway - and froze at the sight of the wreckage in the mage-light.

He'd seen less destruction after the sacking of a keep.

No wonder no one came, he thought, dumbly. Nobody human could have survived this.

Vanyel stood at the edge of the staircase and stared. This entry was hardly more than twenty feet long, and made of the same black stone as the exterior, but polished to a reflective shine; it led to a short stone stair that in turn led down into the wood-paneled Great Hall. This Hall had been a reception area - lit by chandeliers and wall sconces, hung with tapestries, lined with dark wood tables and chairs polished to mirror-brightness. It was demolished.

The chandeliers had been torn from the beams, tapestries ripped from the walls. The walls, the floor, the ceiling beams themselves were scored and gouged as though with the marks of terrible claws. The tapestries had been shredded, the furniture reduced to splinters, the wreckage scattered across the floor as though a whirlwind had played here.

Vanyel remembered his dream, and felt his hair rise and a chill creep up his backbone.

'What -' His voice cracked, and he tried again. 'What happened?”

Lores' lip lifted a little, but he answered civilly enough. 'That boy - that's Tashir. You know who he is?'

Vanyel nodded. 'Tashir Remoerdis. Deveran of Lineas' oldest child.'

'You know Deveran figured him for a bastard, the worst kind, fathered on Ylyna by her own brother, so they say.'

'Is that really germane?' Van looked back at the wreckage.

'Damn right it's germane.” Lores lifted his lip scornfully. 'It's why the brat did all this.'

'Lores, you'd better tell me everything you know.' Vanyel requested simply, still trying to take in the implications of the wrecked palace.

Lores snorted and rambled on. 'Ylyna was no virgin, though in honesty the Mavelans never claimed she was. Still, fourteen's a bit young to have been as - let's say - experienced as she was. Tashir was born eight months after the wedding. That's suspicious enough. Boy looks like his uncle Vedric and nothing like Ylyna or Deveran did. That's the second reason; another is that he's known to have Gifts; Fetching, for one-things have been flying around when he got upset ever since he was thirteen. No Gifts manifested in Ylyna, and there's never been any in Deveran's line. The locals called it wizardry and pressured Deveran to disinherit Tashir.''

'I'd heard about the Gift,' Vanyel said, looking back at the boy to see if he'd overheard them. They were only twenty paces away, and Lores was making no effort to keep his voice down. Tashir was still sitting where they'd left him, head and hands dangling between his knees. 'How did the boy take being disinherited?'

'The boy?' For a moment Lores seemed puzzled. 'That was the odd part; boy seemed relieved. It was Vedric Mavelan that made all the fuss. But tonight - something happened at dinner, and I'm not sure exactly what.' Lores wrapped his arms around his chest, and his expression turned introspective, and a little fearful.

'Were you there?' Vanyel asked.

Lores nodded. 'Always, as the Valdemar envoy. Tonight...' He looked into the distance, frowning. 'I remember I was chatting with Deveran's armsmaster and the boy came up to the high table to say something to Deveran. Next thing I knew, they're at it hammer and tongs, screaming at each other, the boy going white and Deveran going red. Then Deveran backhanded the boy, knocked him to the floor.''

Vanyel chewed his lip. 'Was that unusual?'

Lores shrugged. 'Well, it had never happened in public before. Deveran asked us all to leave in the kind of voice that makes an order out of a request. We left - don't look at me like that, what else could we do?'