Текст книги "Magic's Promise"

Автор книги: Mercedes Lackey

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

That broke the grip of heartache holding him, for nothing could have been less like the Tylendel Vanyel had loved than the creature that looked at him out of the mask of Tylendel's face. There was craft there, and guile – and a terrible cruelty. The kind of cruelty that would see nothing wrong with setting an innocent boy up to be abused and neglected most of his life. A heartlessness that had finally served the helpless boy up as a sacrifice, as the expendable tool that gave Vedric power, and never once felt a twinge of guilt or regret.

A strengthening surge of anger galvanized him, and he reengaged with every resource he had, fighting his way through lightning, fire, force-walls, everything Vedric could throw into his path. He could see the puzzlement in Vedric's eyes as he won each step across the room, paying for each fingerlength in pain when Vedric's weaponry penetrated his shielding and scored on him, but taking those fingerlength gains despite the pain. He forgot Jervis, forgot Tashir, forgot everything but the fight to win to within arm's-reach of the mage-lord.

Multicolored curtains of power danced in front of him, barring his way. They scorched him as he parted them. Two steps to go. One.

He reached out and seized Vedric's arms, and at that moment the mage seemed to figure out what his goal was. Panic spasmed across his face. But it was a realization that came too late. Vanyel opened himself up to the node completely, and let the power use him as a channel, as he had when he melded with the heart-stone. It poured through him, meeting no resistance– And into the meld that was the Mavelan family.

Vedric's spine arced; his mouth opened, but no sound emerged. For one moment he glowed like a young sun -

– Vanyel's mind rocked under a multivoiced scream of agony that seemed to go on and on forever – Then it was gone, and so was Vedric. There was nothing left but a pile of white ash at Vanyel's feet and two handfuls of ash that he dropped onto the pile.

Vanyel stared at the ash, dully – and when the entryway swayed, he thought for a moment that it was his own fatigue that made him stumble and lose his footing.

But as Jervis scrambled toward him to grab his arms and shake him, he understood. The node – he'd drained enough power so that the fault had gone unstable.

The building rocked again, as Jervis continued to shake him. “Come on, you damned fool!” he shouted, right into Vanyel's face. “Those damned shields that Vedric set up t' keep us from gettin' away are still there! Gate us outa here before the building comes down on our heads!”

He wrenched himself out of Jervis' hands and faced the ruined outer door, holding up his hands and beginning the Gate-spell, while around him the room bucked and heaved like a boat in a storm.

The pain was incredible.

Letting the node-force use him had left him raw; it was only knowing that Jervis would perish with him that kept him going. He could see the court beyond the door – or rather, what the quake was leaving of it. The palace was disintegrating around them, and nothing living was going to stay that way for long here.

Finally the Gate was complete; the courtyard winked out with a wrench that felt as if someone had torn Vanyel's guts out, and in its place was the corridor just outside the Ashkevron family chapel.

Vanyel's knees gave out and he collapsed. He had just enough energy to wince a little as half the wall collapsed between him and the Gate.

There was nothing but pain now; and he lacked even the strength to weep.

Jervis was shaking him; he tried to push the man's hands away, but it was like a babe trying to push away the hand of an adult. “Go,” he panted, too spent even to moan. “Can't – hold it – stable.”

There's nothing left. I overestimated again -

He could feel the Gate pulsing with the beating of his own heart. In a moment it would collapse.

“Go – now,” he tried to urge the armsmaster. He was so tired; he'd give anything to be able to rest, beyond the pain.

Shadow-Lover -

Death had long since lost any fear for him. He had been courted by the Shadow-Lover for so long that His embrace would be welcome, if only it would bring him peace. There was nothing left – not even his will.

But Jervis had enough will for two.

“I'm not goin' without you!” the old man growled, as the palace walls cried in a hundred agonized voices around them. “You remember what you said about giving up? Dammit, Van, don't do it now! There's nobody to pick up your load if you give up on me!”

The words reached through the haze of pain and weakness as nothing else could have. He struggled to his feet, Jervis supporting him, as the palace bucked around them. Jervis started for the open Gate, more than half dragging him over the rubble, and finally draped his arm across his own shoulders and carried him through the Gate itself.

He'd thought there could be no worse pain than passing that Gate.

He discovered a heartbeat later that he was wrong.

There was a flash of light on metal as Jervis' boots clattered onto the stone of the corridor floor. It was training, a training that refused to admit to having no strength, that made him squirm sideways in Jervis' grip.

But it wasn't quite enough. There was a rush of dark cloth toward them, and the hard impact of something driving into his stomach and jerking upward-

“Leren!” Jervis roared. “What in – ”

And pain that blacked out everything else sent him bonelessly to the floor as Jervis let go of him.

Somewhere – in some other world beyond the pain –  there was a sound of scuffling. All he knew was the pain, the agony that was the center of him, as he lay on his side and clutched his stomach, something hot and wet trickling between his fingers.

Heal – I have to Heal myself– He had just enough Healing-Gift to save himself. He reached, feebly, – no strength -

:Chosen!: Yfandes' mind-voice, faint and far-off – and a brief, unsteady surge of energy from her to him, all unlooked-for; energy that could Heal him.

But something else brushed his mind, a sense of dark and evil wings.

It was with Leren. A dark force that ruled Leren, and it was poised to strike at the armsmaster.

He had a choice; save himself – or save Jervis.

Which was not a choice at all.

No!

Vanyel took that borrowed strength and hurled it at the unprotected, unsuspecting darkness like a spear of light.

It penetrated.

But it did not kill. The darkness fled, wounded, but not conquered, as Vanyel began fading into a darkness of his own.

Gods – Leren – controlled.

Jervis' voice. “Bastard got distracted. Got him with a chair,” the man said, from that other world. “He won't be going anywhere for a while. Boy – boy, did he mark you?”

It was becoming very hard to breathe; his frantic gasps after air just made the pain worse, and didn't seem to be bringing anything into his lungs.

Someone rolled him onto his back and he cried out.

“Lady's tits!” Jervis swore. “Bloody bastard!”

Vanyel opened his eyes, but he couldn't see anything but a tiny spot of brightness in a sea of black. The blackness called him -

Jervis slapped his face lightly, and the blackness receded for a moment. “Don't leave on me, boy,” he said urgently, supporting Vanyel in his lap. “Stay with me!”

Vanyel did his best to obey, as Jervis bellowed somewhere over his head for a Healer, but he was cold, and getting colder, and there didn't seem to be any room for anything but agony.

He tried to open his eyes again, when he heard frantically running feet. There was a strange Herald in Whites on his left, and a swirl of green robes as a Healer dropped down beside him on his right.

“Gods!” he heard the latter swear, in an audible panic. There were hands pulling his away, and a wash of weakening that followed a gush of something, warmth that poured out of him, and over the hands that replaced his. “I – oh, gods, we're losing him!”

“Like hell!” ''I – “

Everything – voices, vision, even the pain – began to fade. Everything except the stranger kneeling at his left side. Though his face remained oddly shadowed, there was a soft, argent glow about him, like starlight, that brightened with each passing moment.

:Take my hand, Herald Vanyel.:

Vanyel blinked, struggled against his fading sight, tried to hold to consciousness.

:My hand.: The strange Herald held his right hand out to Vanyel, and there was entreaty in that mind-voice. :Will you not take it?:

The urgency in the request pulled at him; this was important. Important that he fight past the pain to obey the stranger. Moved by some deep conviction that he didn't understand, he found a tiny crumb of strength; just enough to move the fingers of his left hand and place them, sticky and warm with his own blood, into the stranger's outstretched palm. The stranger's hand closed over his, and his lips curved in a smile of triumph.

He was standing. The pain was gone.

So was the wound. The strange Herald still held his hand, but about them was – nothing. Only a kind of peaceful, tranquil gray emptiness.

The stranger's face was still shadowed – except for the eyes, a blazing glory of sapphires and light, a light never seen in Vanyel's world.

Not in the mortal world that Vanyel knew. Not the natural world.

Therefore this was not the natural world – and this was no mere Herald.

Vanyel released the stranger's hand and sank slowly to one knee, unable to look away from those incandescent eyes. Then the stranger smiled, and the smile was as brilliant and overpowering as the gaze. That smile was no sight for mortal eyes, and Vanyel managed to drop his gaze before he was lost to it. He bowed his head over his knee in profound obeisance to the Power that had chosen to wear the guise of a human, and a Herald.

“Lord,” he whispered, unable to muster enough coherent thought to say anything more.

“Vanyel, no,” replied a voice of amber, silk, and steel.

He felt hands, gentle hands on his shoulders, hands that drew him up to his feet. He dared a glance at the Power's face, and was caught again, a moth in sapphirine flame.

“No, Vanyel,” He said, shaking His head, denying Vanyel's assumption. “Not 'Lord.' Only a messenger, a servant. You mustn't kneel to me.''

The longer he looked into those eyes, the easier it became. “I'm – dead,” he said steadily, feeling nothing at the words except a soul-deep relief, that it was finally over, that he could rest.

But the Other shook His head again. “No. Not yet, Vanyel.” He hesitated a moment, and His eyes were shadowed with pity. “Vanyel, because of what you are, what you have become, and that you stand at the crossroads of many possibilities, it is given to you to choose.”

“Choose?” he said, honestly bewildered. “Choose how?”

“Life,” replied the Power, His eyes dimmed, as if with unshed tears, “Life, or -” He touched His hand to His own heart. “– or myself.”

Then he understood what stood with him in this timeless nothingness, what gazed at him with eyes of sorrow; beautiful, perfect, and serene.

The Shadow-Lover.

“Ask me what you will,” Death said, eyes radiant, and voice soft with compassion. “You must choose in full knowledge of what your choice will mean.”

“What do I go to,” Vanyel asked, marveling at his own steadiness, as he ached for the peace those eyes promised him, “if I choose to live?”

“Pain,” Death replied, bowing His own head so that Vanyel could no longer see those eyes. “Loss. You will see good friends die, one by one, until you are alone. You will find yourself growing apart from others, day by day, until there seems to be nothing but loneliness and your duties. You will receive hurts and will not die of them, though you may long to. And the end – will be only more pain.”

“And – the alternative.”

“For you – peace. And an end to pain and loneliness and grieving.”

Vanyel felt all the burdens of his existence heavy upon him; felt taxed beyond his strength. But he had not missed that subtle phrasing, and he asked a further question, though he knew in his heart that he would hate the answer.

“And what of those I leave behind?”

Death looked up again, and held his gaze with those brilliant, depthless eyes – and was it his imagination, or did a sad, proud smile touch those sculptured lips for a moment?

“They will come to me,” Death said quietly. “And sooner, and in greater numbers, than if you choose to live. The Valdemar you knew will be no more; her people will struggle to maintain their freedom in a shrunken land, bereft of allies and hemmed about by enemies. You are not the only hope, Vanyel, but you are Valdemar's best hope.”

Vanyel closed his eyes in a spasm of despair, struggling to maintain his composure. He was so tired – so very tired. So tired of pain, of loneliness, of a life that seemed harder to endure each day. But what he had told Jervis was no less than the truth. He could no more leave his duties unfulfilled than he could repudiate Yfandes. Especially not now – not knowing, by the word of a Power that would not tell him false, that there was no one else to do what he could do.

But he was so tired.

“What is magic's promise, Vanyel?” asked the vibrant voice. “You thought you knew the answer once. Is it still the answer you would give now?”

He rose out of his own soul-deep weariness, and realized that-no, the promise of magic's power – to a Herald – was not what he had thought at seventeen. And that was the difference between what he was, and what those of Vedric and Krebain's ilk were.

“It isn't a promise made to me,” he replied, slowly opening his eyes and meeting Death's unblinking, steadfast gaze. “It's a promise made to those who depend on me, on my strength; it's a promise I haven't fulfilled, not yet, not completely.” He closed his eyes again, and bowed his head, feeling tears of weariness slipping from beneath his lashes and not wanting the Other to see them and his weakness. “It's a promise that gives me no choice. I – have to go back. No matter how – tired – I am -”

There was a whisper of sound, and a feather-light touch on his jaw. He opened his eyes, and Death's hand lifted his chin so that his gaze again met those beautiful eyes. There were tears in Death's eyes, tears that matched his own, and a tender, sorrowful smile on Death's lips.

“I have never been so grieved – and so glad – to lose,” he said, and touched his lips to Vanyel's. Their tears mingled on his lips as Vanyel closed his eyes; he tasted them in the kiss, his own salt, bitter tears – and Death's sweet -

Strong arms closed about him, supporting him, holding him against a comforting shoulder, as Death held him with all the sensitivity of the lover that He could be.

Vanyel yielded to the greater strength, and crumpled in his arms, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Gentle hands caressed his hair, and gentle words came to his ears.

“Not yet, beloved,” Death murmured, breath moving against his ear, lightly stirring his hair. “There is no time here, while I will it so. You need not take up your burden until you feel ready to meet your life again.”

So he wept out his weariness, his longing for respite. He wept, and then he rested on Death's shoulder.

“Vanyel, is it only duty that calls you back?”

“No.” He found another tiny crumb of strength and slowly straightened in the Power's arms. “No – it's more than that. Moondance said it a long time ago. I lost my own hearth-fire, but that's no reason why I can't warm myself at the hearths of my friends, not when they've offered that warmth.” He blinked, and realized that he was smiling. “Not so many friends,” he said, half to himself, “But all of them – good friends.”

“Worth returning for, Vanyel?”

“Yes,” he replied simply.

Death actually laughed softly. “So long to learn what Moondance meant?”

“Sometimes I'm a bit dense.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For some reason I never had any trouble figuring out what death was all about; but life –  that's taken me until now.”

The Power held him for a moment longer, then let him go. He met the compassionate, luminous blue eyes for one final time, and saw them flare with a strange mixture of pride, grief, and joy. “Vanyel,” Death whispered. “One thing more – there is one who would make his farewell to you.”

Vanyel felt someone behind him, a lesser presence than the Shadow-lover, and turned.

“Hello, Vanyel,” said Jaysen, holding out his hand. “Or – I guess it's good-bye.”

“Jays?” Vanyel took the hand, momentarily stunned. “Oh, Jays, no – I didn't -”

“No, you didn't. Don't go all guilty on me.” Jaysen actually smiled, ruefully. “It was my own stupid fault for being so distracted by the fact that you went and fathered our little pet that I gave those things of Vedric's a chance to get at me.”

Tears burned his eyes. “But -”

“Stop that. I knew you'd take it that way, that's why I asked – Her – Lady Death – to let me see you. It's not your fault. Now listen to me, neither of us have much more time.”

“The Web – you're the Northern Guardian -”

“Exactly. You'll have to take my place. More than that, remember what you were thinking earlier? About making all the Heralds the power source? Do that, Van. Figure out how.” Jaysen squeezed his hand urgently. “It's important. Figure out how to change the Web-spell so that it doesn't need Guardians anymore, just the Heralds themselves. You're the only one of us that can do that. I'm charging you with that, Van.”

He nodded, and met Jaysen's eyes evenly. “I promise.”

“I -” Jaysen's eyes softened for a moment. “There's something else. She told me I could tell you. Maybe it'll help. She said you won't be alone.”

He released Vanyel's hand, and stepped backward, already beginning to fade.

“She promised, Van. And I promise.”

Then he was falling, falling -

For a confused moment after he opened his eyes, he thought that the slumped form in Whites in the chair beside his bed was the Messenger -

But his hiss of pain as he tried to move woke the other, and he saw that it was a mortal and a friend, after all.

“Tran?” he whispered. “Tantras? What are you -”

Tantras' face was lined with exhaustion, and his eyes were red with weeping.

“Van, I have to tell you -”

“We lost Jays,” he whispered, remembering, feeling the emptiness.

Oh, gods – He was not aware that he was weeping until a sob shook him and made him gasp with pain.

Tantras just handed him a square of linen, and, moving to sit gingerly on the side of the bed, held him until exhaustion left him no more tears to weep.

“We thought you ought to hear it from a friend,” Tantras told him, helping him to lie back. “I should have known you already knew.”

“How?” Vanyel whispered. “He didn't tell me how.”

“He couldn't keep the Swarm off – so he and his Companion – you know better than me how that works.”

“Final strike,” Vanyel answered numbly. “Take your last target with you. Oh, gods – if I'd just been there.”

“What good would you have done?” Tantras chided. “No one can be two places at once, Van. Not even you. Lady Bright, we came within a hair of losing you, and that's something I'd rather not think about. Lissa's Healer still doesn't know how he pulled it off. He swears he had divine help at the last moment.”

Vanyel just stared at him, rinding it hard to imagine a world without Jaysen in it.

A gentle tap broke the silence between them, and a maid hurried in, face blank -

Hiding fear.

“Milord Herald-Mage?” she faltered, holding a pitcher.

Not “Vanyel, “or even “milord Van, “ he thought, with a catch in his throat. Now I terrify even the ones who grew up with me around. I'm a stranger even to my own.

“Yes, Sondri?” he said, as gently as he could.

“I brought ye summat t' drink.”

“Thank you.”

She left the pitcher and glass beside the bed, and hurried out.

Fear. Vanyel felt another wrench inside. And there was only one way to deal with the pain of it.

Tantras had enough Empathy to feel something of his withdrawal. “Van – ” He touched Vanyel's shoulder. “Van, what are you doing?”

Van looked at him bleakly. “You saw her,” he whispered. “It's just like you told me. I frighten people. And now even more than before. I wiped out the entire Mavelan family, or at least all of the ones in the meld. I had divine aid in being Healed, or at least that's what they're telling each other out there. I frightened them before, now I terrify them. It hurts, Tran. It hurts to feel that fear.''

“So you're withdrawing behind walls again.” Tantras shook his head. “Van, that's not the answer.”

“What is?”

Tantras only shook his head dumbly.

“At least my walls give me a little peace. And I won't wall my friends out, I promise.” He tried to smile, at least a little.

“But you won't look for new friends either. Or love. Van, you're making a serious mistake.”

“It's mine to make.”

“I can't stay,” Tantras said, after a long silence. “I have to courier messages back. I only waited to tell you.”

Vanyel nodded, grief too profound to be purged with one spate of weeping rising to block his words. “Duty; we all have it. That's what kept me, Tran, that, and finally figuring out what I'm doing here. And that's what Jays died for – duty, and protecting the ones we all love.” He stared at a spot on the opposite wall while his eyes burned and blurred. “Thanks for waiting to tell me.”

Tantras eased off the bed, and squeezed his hand. “Rest. When there's more to tell, we'll get the word to you.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, closing his eyes. He heard soft footsteps crossing the floor; heard the door open and close. Then knew nothing more for a very long time.

The Healer had done his best, but the wound Father Leren's knife had left was only half healed, and still very sore. Vanyel had just discovered that getting from his bed to the chair beside his table was a sweating and pain-filled ordeal. The Healer had sternly warned him about the consequences of tearing open half-healed tissues, and Vanyel was inclined to take him very seriously, given the way he was hurting. He didn't want to make a bigger mess of his midsection than it already was. As it was, he'd have an L-shaped scar for the rest of his life. Gut wounds were definitely not on his list of favored ways to earn a little rest.

Getting dressed had been an ordeal, too, but the Healer had said he could have visitors, and he wasn't going to see them bundled in bed like an invalid.

He eased himself down into the chair with a hiss as someone knocked on the door to his room. “Come,” he called, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

It was not anyone he had expected. It was Melenna.

A much subdued, sobered Melenna.

“I came to see if you were really all right,” she said, shyly, “and to ask Herald Vanyel for a favor, and some advice.”

Herald Vanyel. Not Van. And the fear is in her, too.

“Please, Melenna, sit down. I can't imagine why you'd want my advice, but -”

She remained standing. “Vanyel,” she said softly. “You – and me. There's no hope, is there?”

He looked up, and the honest longing in her eyes made his heart go out to her, the anger and frustration of the past few weeks evaporating. The gods knew, he knew exactly how it felt to long for something you'd never have – or never have again. “I'm sorry, Melenna, but I won't lie to you. It was hopeless from the start. A woman can never be anything more than my friend. I do value you as a friend, and the mother of my very young friend Medren, but I can't offer you any more than that.”

She bent her head, and quickly wiped her eyes, all coquettishness gone. “I – you know how I feel. Couldn't you – pretend? It would make Lady Treesa and Lord Withen awfully happy. And I wouldn't mind, really I wouldn't.”

He looked away from those sad, sad eyes. The offer was terribly tempting. But ultimately, a lie. “I know it would make them happy, but I'm a Herald, Melenna. I can't tell lies – how could I live one? And you would care, eventually. It would make you very unhappy. There are other men – shay'a'chern – who've talked with me, who tried just what you're suggesting. In the end, instead of two people who were only moderately happy most of the time, there were two people who were desperately unhappy all the time. The wife was jealous of his lovers, and his lovers were jealous of her, and it went downhill from there.” He shook his head. “No, my friend, it won't work. I'm sorry.”

She wiped another tear away. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “But to tell you the truth, I'm mostly sorry for myself, and a little bit for Treesa.” She sighed. “Can I – ask you a favor? And you can say no. It's about Medren.”

“If it's about Medren, the answer is probably 'yes,' “ he said. “Your son is a delight to any musician, and a charmer all by himself.”

“Would you – sort of be his guardian until he's settled? He's never been away from home at all. I know he isn't shy, but that's the problem. He seems a lot older than he really is, and that's my fault, I guess. He could get in with a faster crowd than he can handle.”

He stared at her, astounded. “You'd trust me – ?”

She returned his astonished stare levelly. “I'm not very clever, sometimes,” she replied, “but I listen, I listen a lot. You're very honorable, and in all the stories about you and – others, there's only been men. Not boys. Besides, Medren told me how he offered to pay for lessons, and how you turned him down. Yes, I trust you. I'll always trust you. I've loved you, Vanyel ... for a very long time.”

Greatly moved, Vanyel took her hand and kissed the back of it gently. “Then I will be very honored to see Medren settled properly,” he replied. “And I can only pray that I will always be worthy of your trust.”

She got up before he could say another word, and headed for the door – Only to be run over by the rush of people crowding in, as the door slammed open.

“Now look, you peabrain – ” Savil was shouting, as Vanyel's head began to spin.

“Look yourself,” Withen shouted back, shaking his finger at her. “The damned Lineans won't accept anything but the boy!”

“But he's a Herald,” Lores wailed over the din.

Vanyel's head began to spin, and he clutched the edge of his table. Rescue came from an unexpected source.

“Shut UP!'' Jervis roared, in a tone of voice that hearkened back to the parade ground.

Silence descended so suddenly that Vanyel's ears rang.

“Would someone mind explaining what all this is about?” he whispered into it.

“Let me see if I have all this straight,” he said, after everyone had said his or her piece – except Melenna, who'd found herself trapped by the influx of people and hadn't had the courage to push past them to escape. “Tashir now holds both thrones according to the treaty. Now that he's been acquitted, the Lineans are willing to accept him, and the Bairens are willing to take about anybody so long as it isn't a Mavelan. The problems with this are: first, he's a Herald, which means he has to be trained, and would normally mean he'd abdicate lands and titles; second, he doesn't want to be a King; third, he's very young, which would be a temptation to others to come and attack, and would drag Valdemar into defending his kingdom for him.”

“Something like that,” Withen admitted, as the others nodded.

“Why me?” he demanded. “Why am I suddenly the arbitrator?”

Savil flourished a piece of parchment. “Because according to this little piece of paper I have, under Randale's official seal, you understand the problems, so you're appointed full and final authority.”

:I'II get you for this, Savil. :

:You can try.:

He massaged his temples, and wished for wine. “All right, let's take this slowly. First of all, we've waived the rules for Heralds before when they were the only heirs. It isn't done often, but I think it's called for in this case. Lores, your Gift is Fetching, right?”

Startled, the Herald nodded.

“Fine, I hereby appoint you Tashir's mentor, to stay with him and teach him until you feel he's ready for Whites. You can serve double duty that way; mentor and envoy. Now – Tashir, would you be willing to take the ruling seat if we arranged for you to make the two lands a vassal-state? That means you are holding the lands of Randale, and it would make them part of Valdemar.''

Tashir considered that for a moment, his face sober. “D-does it have to be – do I have to be a King? I don't want to be a King. It's pretty stupid, anyway, to be a King of something you can ride across in a few days.”

“Provided you can get your people to agree, I can't see what difference it makes.”

“Then I'll be a Baron,” Tashir replied, sitting up very straight. “Lord-Baron of the March of Lineas-Baires. If there aren't any straight-line heirs, it all goes back to Valdemar.''

Vanyel sighed his relief. If Tashir hadn't been willing to take the damned power seat – civil wars were not what Valdemar needed on the Border.

“Now, when there's a ruler as young as you, he usually has a Council of older people to advise him – ”

“There isn't one,” Tashir interrupted. “Father had one, but they all died.”

“True. Have you any objections to my appointing you one?”

Tashir shook his head, and Vanyel plowed on before anyone could stop him. “First Councilor and Chamberlain, Herald Lores. Second Councilor and Seneschal, Kaster Ashkevron. He's Meke's right hand, Father, and he's Meke's accountant. Any objections so far?”

Withen snapped his mouth shut on whatever he was going to say, and shook his head.

“Right. Third Councilor, have somebody sent over from your local temple – pick a scholar. Fourth Councilor, the current Chief Elder of Highjorune. Fifth Councilor – huh. You'll need a Marshal, a good military advisor, I would think. Jervis.”

“Huh?” Jervis responded, “I what?”

“He'll be very good,” Vanyel continued before he could object, “and Radevel is certainly capable of taking over here as armsmaster. And since you're a bachelor, you'll need a Castelaine – otherwise you're never going to have cooked meals or clean shirts.” He went blank for a moment-until his eyes fell on Melenna.

“ 'Lenna?”

She jumped.

“Think you'd be able to keep Tashir in roasts, herbs, and clean linen?”

“Me?” she squeaked. “Me? Castelaine?”

“Of course, there's a catch.” Vanyel was beginning to enjoy this. “You'll have to be ennobled, but Randi did give me full powers.” He saw with a hidden smile that Tashir was beginning to look happier. Melenna had stood up for him once already and she was the mother of his good friend Medren – two points already in her favor, at least in his eyes.