Magic's Price

less like Mekeal's father than his older brother. They both were square and sturdily built, much taller than Vanyel, brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-completed. Withen's hair and beard were about half silvered, and he'd developed a bit of a paunch; those were his only concessions to increasing age.

Withen relaxed further, and finally returned the embrace. “And as usual, you look like hell, son. Randale's been overusing you again, no doubt of it. Your sister warned us. Kernes' Horns, can't we ever see you when you haven't been overworking?”

“It's not as bad this time, Father,” Van protested with a smile. “My reserves are in fairly good shape; it's mostly sleep and peace I lack.”

“But don't they ever feed you, boy?” Withen grumbled. “Ah, never mind. We'll get some meat back on those bones, won't we, Treesa?”

Vanyel held out his hands to his mother, who took both of them. Treesa had finally accepted the onset of age, though not without a struggle. She had permitted her hair to resume its natural coloring of silver-gilt, and had given up trying to hide her age-lines under a layer of cosmetics.

Yet it seemed to Van that there might have been a little less discontent in her face than there had been the last time he was here. He hoped so. It surely helped that Roshya, Mekeal's wife, was accepting her years gracefully, and with evident enjoyment. Whatever stupid things Mekeal had done in his time - and he'd done quite a few, including the purchase of a purported “Shin'a'in warsteed” that was no more Shin'a'in than Vanyel - he'd more than made up for them by wedding Roshya. At least, that was Van's opinion. Roshya stood right behind Treesa, a young child clinging to her skirt with grubby hands, giving Treesa an encouraging wink.

“Run along dear,” Roshya said to the child, with an affectionate push. The child giggled and released her.

Treesa smiled tentatively, then with more feeling. “Your father's right, dear,” she said, holding him at arm's length and scrutinizing him. “You do look very tired. But you look a great deal better than the last time you were here.”

“That's mostly because I am,” he replied. “Mother, you look wonderful. Well, you can see that I brought Aunt Savil - and -” he hesitated a moment. “And the friend you wanted to meet. My friend, and Medren's. Stef -”

He turned and gestured to Stefen, who extracted himself from the crowd of admiring children and adolescents.

Van steeled himself, kept his face set in a carefully controlled and pleasant mask of neutrality, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “Father, Mother,” he said, gesturing toward Stefen, “This is Bard Stefen. Stef, my Father and Mother; Lord Withen, Lady Treesa.”

Stef bowed slightly to Withen, then took Treesa's hand and kissed it. “Mother? Surely I heard incorrectly. You are Herald Vanyel's younger sister, I am certain,” he said, with a sweet smile, at which Treesa colored and and took her hand away with great reluctance, shaking her head. “His mother? No, impossible!”

Withen looked a little strained and embarrassed, but Treesa responded to Stefs gentle, courtly flattery as a flower to the sun. “Are you really a full Bard?” she asked, breathless with excitement. “Truly a Master?”

“Unworthy though I am, my lady,” Stef replied, “that is the rank the Bardic Circle has given me. I pray you will permit me to test your hospitality and task your ears by performing for you.”

“Oh, would you?” Treesa said, enthralled. Evidently she had completely forgotten what else Stef was supposed to be besides Van's friend and a Bard. Withen still looked a little strained, but Van began to believe that the visit would be less of a disaster than he had feared.

Thunder rumbled near at hand, startling all of them. “Gods, it's about to pour. Meke, Radevel, you see to the horses,” Withen ordered. “The rest of you, give it a rest. You'll all get your chances at Van and his f-friend later. Let's all get inside before the storm breaks for true.”

Treesa had already taken possession of Stefen and was carrying him off, chattering brightly. Van turned protectively toward Yfandes, remembering that his father never could bring himself to believe she was anything other than a horse.

But to his immense relief, Meke was leading Stefs filly to the stables, but his cousin Radevel had looped the two Companions' reins up over their necks and was standing beside them.

“Don't worry, Van,” Radevel said with a wink. “Jervis taught me, remember?” And then, to the two Companions, “If you'll follow me, ladies, one of the new additions to the stables are proper accommodations for Companions. Saw to 'em m'self.”

Vanyel relaxed, and allowed his father to steer him toward the door to the main part of the manor, as lightning flashed directly overhead and the first fat drops of rain began to fall. Good old Rad. Finally, after all these years, I get one of my family convinced that 'Fandes isn't a horse!