Текст книги "Magic's Promise"

Автор книги: Mercedes Lackey

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“No. Damn. Van-you know I never wanted this-”

Memory.

Balmy spring breezes played over the lawn. Randi laughing at something, some joke he had just made– Shavri playing with the baby in a patch of sun. Bucolic, pastoral scene -

Shattered by the arrival on a lathered horse of a Queen's Messenger. In black.

Randi jumped to his feet, his face going white. The man handed Randale a sealed package wrapped in silk, but Randi didn't open it.

“Herald Randale – your grandmother the Queen sends me to tell you that your father – ”

The package fell from Randale's fingers. The blue silk wrappings unwound from the contents.

The silver coronet of the Heir.

An accident. A stupid accident – a misstep on a slippery staircase in full view of everyone-and the Heir, Herald-Mage Darvi, was dead of a broken neck. And Randale was Heir.

Vanyel's heart ached for him. And he dared not show it. Pity would be wrong at this moment, but he softened his voice and his expression.

“I told you Jisa would make a bad Queen. I meant every word. Shavri knows all this, too, you can bet on it. And I'm telling you you're tearing her in pieces, putting her between love for you, and what she knows is her duty.” Randale looked at him as if he wanted to interrupt. “No, hear me out – you've sympathized often enough with me and my matchmaking mother. How in Havens do you think Shavri feels with you putting that same kind of pressure on her?”

“Not good,” Randale admitted, after a long moment.

“Then stop it, before you put her under more pressure than she can take. Leave her alone. Let it lie for another ten years; if things haven't come to a conclusion one way or another, then bring it up. All right?”

“No,” Randale said slowly. “It's not all right. But you're absolutely correct about there being no choice. Not for any of us.”

Vanyel rose, and swung the chair he'd been slouched over out of the way. Randale did the same.

“Don't spoil what you have with what you only think you want, Randale,” he said softly, taking his friend and King's arm. “This is experience talking; the one thing about the brief time I shared with my love that I have never regretted is that I never consciously did anything to make him unhappy. Had our time been longer, maybe I would have; I can't ever know. But at least I have no memories of quarrels or hard words to shadow the good memories.”

Randale took his hand. “You're right; I'm wrong. I'll stop plaguing her.”

“Good man.”

Rand I -oh, Randi – Close; Randale was coming too close. It was beginning to hurt – Then Randale's servant entered behind him, the King's formal uniform draped over one arm, the royal circlet in the other hand, and a harried expression on his face.

Vanyel forced a laugh, and took the welcome opportunity to escape. “Now unless I haul myself out of here, I'm going to make your man there very unhappy.”

“What?” Randale turned, startled. “Oh. Oh, hellfire. I have got that damned formal audience before dinner, don't I?”

“Yes, sire,” the servant replied, as expressionless as a stone.

“Then I'd better get changed. Vanyel -”

Vanyel put his arm around the younger man's shoulders and gave him an affectionate embrace. “Just go do your duty, and make her happy. That's what counts. I'm off; I'll see you by Midwinter, certainly.”

“Right. Van, be well.” Randale looked at him – really looked at him, for the first time. He started to reach for Vanyel's arm with an expression of concern;  Vanyel ducked his head to conceal the signs of weariness.

“I'm never ill. Go, go, go-before your man kills me with a look!''

Randale managed a grin, and followed the servant back into the private rooms of the suite. Vanyel spent a moment with his eyes closed in unvoiced prayer for him, then took himself back to his own room and his longed – for reunion with his bed.

Three

Morning. Vanyel woke slowly, surrounded by unfamiliar warmth and softness, and put bits of memory together as they drifted within reach.

He vaguely remembered getting to his room, surrounded by fatigue that increasingly fogged everything; recalled noting a brief message from Tran, and getting partially undressed. He did not remember lying down at all; he didn't even remember sitting on the bed.

By the amount of light leaking around the bedcurtains it was probably midmorning, and what had wakened him was hunger.

His soft bed-clean sheets, a real featherbed, and those wonderful dark curtains to block out the light-felt so good. Good enough to ignore the demands of his stomach and give preference to the demands of his weary body. He'd had a fair amount of practice in shutting off inconvenient things like hunger and thirst; there'd been plenty of times lately when he'd had no other choice.

He almost did just exactly that, almost went back to sleep, but his conscience told him that if he didn't get up, he'd probably sleep for another day. And he couldn't afford that.

Clothing, clothing, good gods, what am I going to do about clothing?

There was no way his uniforms would be cleaned and mended, and he was going to need to take a few with him even if he didn't plan to wear them. And he had to have uniforms to travel in, anyway; technically a Herald traveling was on duty.

Wait a moment; wasn't there something in that note from Tran about uniforms?

He pushed off the blankets with a pang of regret, pulled the bed curtains aside, winced away from the daylight flooding his room, and sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for leftovers from half – recollected dreams to clear out of his brain. His shoulders hurt.

Have to do something about that muscle strain before I start favoring that arm . . . remember to put liniment on it, and do some of those exercises.

Birds chirped news at each other right outside his win – dow. It had been a very long time since he'd paid any attention to birdcalls – except as signals of the presence or absence of danger.

The musical chatter was quite wonderful, precisely because it was so sanely ordinary. Ordinary. Peaceful. Gods, I am so tempted just to fall back onto the mattress and to hell with starting for Forst Reach today.

But a promise was a promise. And if he delayed going one day, it would be easy to rationalize another delay, and another, all of which would only lead to Randale's recruiting him. Which was what the trip was supposed to prevent.

He pulled himself up out of bed with the aid of the bedpost and reached for one of Tantras' uniforms. Clean, Lord and Lady, clean and smelling of nothing worse than soap and fresh air. Once he managed to get himself started, habit took over.

He reached with one hand for one of yesterday's leftover apples in their bowl on the table, and Tantras' note with the other.

Go ahead and take my stuff with you. I don't need these; they're spares that were made before I put on all that muscle across the shoulders. A bit tight on me, they ] should be just a little big on you. Tell me what you want done and get out of here; I don't mind taking care of some of your paperwork for you. I'll see that your new uniforms are ready by the time you get back; Supply told me there's no chance of salvaging your old ones. Tran.

More than a little big, Vanyel thought wryly, standing up and surveying himself in the rather expensive glass mirror (a present from Savil) on the back of the door. He'd had to tie the breeches with an improvised drawstring just so they'd stay up, and the tunic bagged untidily over his belt. He looked – except for the silver in his hair – rather like an adolescent given clothing “to grow into.” They'd have been all right a year ago, but – oh, well. Nobody's going to see me except the family. I certainly don't have anyone to impress!

But Tran's volunteering gave him a notion about some other things he needed. He rummaged out the pen and paper he'd used yesterday; by now he reckoned those notes were well on the way to the Border and Forst Reach. Another reason to hail out of here. If I don't arrive soon after the letter, they'II worry. His letters should beat him to the holding by a few days, at least.

He wrote swiftly, but neatly; “neat as a clerk,” Tran was wont to tease. Order me new cloaks, would you? And new boots. I need them badly; I'd be ashamed to stand duty the way they are now.

And since you're being so kind as to keep track of this, ask Supply to work me up a set of spare uniforms to leave here, and have them keep a set here at all times. Next time there might not be anyone my size with extras for me to borrow! Thanks, Van.

He packed quickly, without having to think about what he was doing, now that he'd finally gotten his momentum. After the last four years, he could pack fatigue – drunk, pain – fogged, drugged to his eyebrows, or asleep-and he had, at one time or another.

He swung his cloak – it was more gray than white, and a little shabby, but there was nothing to be done about that – over his shoulder, picked up his packs, plucked his lute off the chair, and headed out. In the dark and echoing hall on his way to Companion's Field and the stable, he intercepted a page, gave the child the note for Tantras, and asked for some kind of breakfast to be brought to him while he saddled Yfandes.

She was already waiting calmly for him at the entrance to the tackshed. :They've cleaned all my tack,: she told him, :but the saddle needs mending and the rest isn't what it should be. I wouldn't trust the chestband to take any strain at all, frankly.:

:Swordcuts and bums aren't fixed with saddlesoap,: he reminded her. :We'll just have to – wait a moment – what about your formal gear? That's next thing to brand new. Gods know we've used it what – once? Twice?:

Her ears went up – her sapphire eyes fixed on him -

And he had that curious and disorienting doubled image of her that he'd gotten sometimes in the past, the image of a dark, wise – eyed woman, weary, but smiling with newly – kindled anticipation, flickering in and out with the graceful white horse.

Gods, if I needed a sign of how dragged-out I am, that's it. Hallucinating again. Dreaming awake. Got to be because I never really think of her as a “horse” even when I'm riding her.

He blinked his eyes and forced himself to focus properly as she replied, as excited as a girl being told she could wear her holiday best– :Chosen, could we use it? Please?:

He chuckled. :You like being dressed up and belled like a gypsy, don't you?:

She tossed her head, and arched her neck. :Don't you? I 've heard you preening at yourself in the mirror of a morning, especially when there was someone to impress!:

“You fight dirty,” he said aloud; and went in search of her formal tack, grinning.

One of the kitchen wenches, a bright-eyed little brunette, barely adolescent, brought him hot bread and butter, cider, and more apples about the time he managed to find where Yfandes' formal panoply had been stored. The saddle was considerably lighter than the field saddle, and fancier; it was tooled and worked with silver and dyed a deep blue. The chest and rump bands had silver bells on them, as did the reins of what was essentially an elaborate hackamore. The reins were there more for his benefit than his Companion's, and more for show than either. There was light barding that went along with the outfit, but after regarding it wistfully for a moment, Yfandes agreed that the barding would be far more trouble than it was worth and Vanyel bundled it away.

He paused a moment and bit into the bread; it was dripping with melted butter, and he closed his eyes at the unexpected pleasure the flavor gave him.

Oh, gods – fresh bread!

The taste was better than the manna that the priests said gods ate. “Bread” for the past year had meant rock-hard journey-bread at best, moldy crusts at worst, and anything in between – and it was never fresh, much less hot from the oven. There had been butter – sometimes –  rancid in summer, as rock-hard as the journey-bread in winter.

It's the little things we miss the most – I swear it is! Ordinary things, things that spell “peace” and “prosperity.“ He thought briefly of the sword-comrades he'd left on the Border, and sent up a brief prayer. Brightest gods, grant both, but especially peace. Soon, before more blood is shed.

After that he alternated between bites of food and adjusting of harness. The kitchen wench lingered to watch him saddle Yfandes, draped over the open half – door of the stable, squinting into the sunlight. There was something between hero-worship and starry-eyed romance in her gaze; finally Vanyel couldn't stand it any longer and gently shooed her back to her duties.

He noted out of the corner of his eye – with more than a little alarm-that she was clutching the mug he'd drunk from to her budding bosom as though it had been transformed into a holy chalice.

:Looks like you've got another one, Chosen,: Yfandes commented sardonically as he fastened his packs behind her saddle.

:Thank you for that startling information. That's just what I needed to hear. :

:It's not my fault you have a face that breaks hearts.: :But why – oh, never mind.: He gave the girth a last tug and swung up into the saddle. :Let's get out of here before someone else decides she's fallen in love with me.:

They got through the city as quickly as they could, and out onto the open road where it was possible to breathe without choking on the thick cloud of dust and other odors of the crowded city. It was a little strange to ride with the soft chime of the bells marking every pace Yfandes took; it made him nervous for the first few leagues, until he managed to convince his gut that they were in friendly territory, and in no danger of alerting enemy scouts with the sound. After that, the sound began to soothe him. Like muted, rhythmic windchimes -

I've always adored windchimes. And I never get to meditate to them anymore.

He slowly began to relax. Yfandes was in no great hurry, although her “traveling” pace would have run a real horse into the ground after half a day. This had been a gentle summer, turning into a warm and even gentler fall, just enough frost to ensure that the harvests ripened, not enough yet to turn the leaves. Once out of Haven, Exile's Road wound lazily through rustling, golden grain – fields, and fields of sweetly ripening hay. The morning air was slightly cool, but the sun was warm enough that Vanyel soon rolled his cloak and bundled it behind his saddle.

It was very hard to stay awake, in fact. His muscles relaxed into the familiar configurations of riding.

Memory flicker – the k'Treva Vale. Savil, schooling him on Yfandes. “You think you're a rider now, lad. When I'm done with you, you'll be able to do anything ahorse that you can do on the ground.''

Himself, slyly. “Anything?”

She threw a saddlebag at him.

From here to the Border the land was the next thing to flat; long, rolling hills covered with cultivated fields, interrupted by fragrant oak groves that occasionally amounted to small forests.

:You really could sleep, you know,: Yfandes chided him. :I'm not going to let you fall off. It won't be the first time you've taken a nap that way.:

“I'm hardly going to be company for you like that.”

She shook her head, and the bells on her halter laughed for her. :Your presence is company enough, Chosen. I ran lone for ten years before you bonded to me. Just having you with me, whole and healthy, is pleasure; you needn't think I need entertaining when we aren't working.:

With a brief flash of pain and pleasure he remembered how he had never needed anything but Tylendel's presence either....

:Yes,: she agreed, following the thought. :Exactly.: So he hooked his leg around the saddle pommel, crossed his arms and tucked the ends of his fingers into his belt, then sagged into a comfortable slouch; chin on chest. It didn't take long.

He came awake all at once, his hand reaching automatically for the sword he wasn't wearing. There was an instant of panic before he remembered where he was going, and why he was going there.

“Why did you stop?” he asked Yfandes, who had come to an unmoving halt-which was what had waked him-in the middle of the completely deserted road. There was nothing but open meadow on either side of him, dotted with sheep, though there was no sign of the shepherd. Crows cawed overhead, and the sheep bleated in their pastures; otherwise silence prevailed. The sun was low enough ahead of them to force him to squint. It must be late afternoon, early evening.

:There's an inn just beyond the next curve, sleepy one,: Yfandes said, a hint of amusement tingeing her thought. :It's later than lunch and earlier than dinner, but I'm tired and I'd really like to stop before I go any farther.:

“Havens, love, you should have-”

:No, I shouldn't have. This is the first time you've really relaxed in I don't know how long. Have you thought about the way we resonate?:

He saw instantly what she meant. “So – you were relaxing with me.”

:In very deed, and reveling in it. First journey I've been able to enjoy in a while. But I would like to stop now. :

“Then so would I.” He unwrapped his leg from the pommel and stretched it; she waited until his foot was back in the stirrup, then resumed her easy amble, not quite a walk, not quite a canter. “Is this a temporary halt, or are we stopping for the night?''

:The night?: she asked, wistfully. There was a hint of something more there than she was sending.

“You're not telling me everything,” he accused. “Why this inn?”

:Well-you won't be the only Herald there. Herald-Courier Sofya is there-:

“Chosen by?” He had a shrewd hunch where this was leading.

She curved her neck coquettishly, and looked up and sideways at him out of one huge blue eye. :Gavis. :

He shook his head at her. “Ah, yes-the one that has been setting all the courier-records lately. Why this penchant for over-muscled courier-types, all legs and no brains-”

:He is not over-muscled,: she replied indignantly, breaking into a teeth-rattling trot to punish him.

“But brainless?” he taunted, feeling unusually mischievous.

:He just doesn't speak up unless he has something to say. Unlike certain Herald-Mages I know.: She kicked once, jarring every vertebra in his spine, before settling, all four feet braced in the dust of the road, and plainly going nowhere.

He reached forward before she could stop him, and tweaked her ear. “Well, since you want to arrange a little assignation, don't you think you'd better get the cooperation of your Chosen?”

:I can't imagine why,: she replied.

“We could move out of the center of the road, and I could groom you so that you looked your usual lovely self when we rode into that inn yard, instead of being all covered with road dust. I could even braid your tail up with some of the blue and silver cord that was with the barding. If I felt like it.”

:– Vanyel-I-: she floundered.

“And I do feel like it, you ridiculously vain creature,” he said, leaning down and putting both arms around her neck, resting his cheek on her crest. “And to think that they call me a peacock! Has it been so long since I teased you that you've forgotten what it sounds like?”

:Oh, Vanyel – it has been a long time.:

“Then we'll have to remedy that.” He dismounted, still a bit stiff from his long doze, and opened the pack with the currycomb in it. Something else occurred to him as he wormed his hand down inside the pack. “Just-do me a very big favor, sweetling-”

:Hmm?: She turned her head and blinked back at him.

He fished out the comb and the cords. “Please, please remember to shield me out of your trysting, all right? You forgot to, the last time. Here, let's get out of the road.” He stifled a sigh, as they moved under the shade of tree beside the roadway. “I don't grudge you any pleasure at all, but it's been a very long time since I did any number of things – and teasing you is only one of them.”

Yfandes twitched, the closest to blushing a Companion could come.

Vanyel allowed no hand to tend Yfandes but his own, no more than he would have permitted a stranger to see to the comfort of his sister, the cloistered priestess. 'Fandes frequently protested this wasn't necessary, but this afternoon she wasn't complaining. Especially not when young Gavis pranced up to the fence of the inn's open wagon – field with a proud curve to his neck and a certain light of anticipation in his eye. Vanyel kept his amused thoughts to himself as Yfandes flirted coyly with the handsome Companion, and wished her nothing more risque than a “pleasant evening” when he opened the gate into the meadow for her.

She gave him a long look over her shoulder. . – Vanyel, you aren't made of stone. I wish you would find a – comrade. You would be much happier.:

He winced away from the idea. :I've been over this with Savil. And you. Until I can stop trying to replace 'Lendel, I'm not going to cheat myself and my would-be partner. :

:I don't see that. If you're friends, it wouldn't be cheating . . . never mind.:

:Go, and enjoy yourself.:

:Oh, I think I can manage that,: she said with deliberate innocence, gave him a slow wink, then frisked off with Gavis in close attendance.

The tack he did entrust to the stableboy, though the lad's wide – eyed awe in his presence left him feeling just a bit uneasy. “Awe” was not something he wanted aimed in his direction. It felt too close to “fear.”

He stepped into the open door of the inn's common room with his packs over one shoulder, and stood blinking in the sawdust – scented gloom, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The lean and nervous innkeeper was at his elbow in a breath, long before Vanyel could see anything other than shadows, more shadows, and a dim white form in one corner that was probably Herald Sofya. It seemed as if he and the other Herald were the only guests this early in the afternoon, but this was harvest-season. The locals were undoubtedly making the maximum use of every moment of daylight.

“Milord Herald, an honor, a pleasure. How may this humble inn serve you, milord?”

“Please -” Vanyel flushed at his effusiveness. “Just dinner, a room if you've one to spare, use of your bathhouse, food for my Companion – I took the liberty of turning her loose with Companion Gavis.” Now his eyes had adjusted enough that he could see what he was doing; he fumbled in his belt-pouch and pressed coins into the innkeeper's hand. “Here; I'm on leave, not on duty. This should cover everything.” Actually it was too much, and he knew it – but what else did he have to spend it on? The man gaped at the money, and began babbling about the room: “Royalty slept there, indeed they did, King Randale himself before his coronation -” Vanyel bore with it as patiently as he could, and when the man finally wound down, thanked him in a diffident voice and entrusted everything but the lute to the hands of one of the servants to be carried away to the rented room.

Now he could make out Herald Sofya in the corner; a dark, pretty woman, quite young, quite lean, and not anyone he recognized. She was paying studious, courteous attention to her jack of ale; Vanyel drifted over to her table when the innkeeper finally fled to the kitchen vowing to bring forth a dinner instantly, which – from the description – would have satisfied both the worst gourmand and the fussiest gourmet in the Kingdom.

“Herald Sofya?” he said quietly, and she looked at him in startlement. He surmised the cause, and smiled.

In all probability her Companion had been so taken up with Yfandes that he'd neglected to tell his Chosen Vanyel's identity. Or else she wasn't much of a Mindspeaker, which meant Gavis wouldn't be able to give her more than images. She had probably assumed the same was true for him. “Your Gavis Mindspoke my Yfandes on the road, and she told me both your names before we arrived. Might I join you?”

“Certainly,” she replied, after swallowing quickly.

He sat on the side of the table opposite her, and saw the very faint frown as she took in the state of his Whites. “I apologize for my appearance.” He smiled, feeling a little shy. “I know it won't do much for the Heraldic reputation. But I only just got leave, and I didn't want to wait for replacement uniforms. I was afraid that if I did, they'd find some reason to cancel my leave!”

Sofya laughed heartily, showing a fine set of strong, white teeth. “I know what you mean!” she replied. “It seems like all we've done is wear out saddle – leather for the past three months. There're four of us on this route, and the farmers are beginning to count on us like a calendar; one every three days, out to the Border and back.”

“To Captain Lissa Ashkevron?”

“The same. And let us hope the Linean Border doesn't heat up the way the Karsite Border did.”

Vanyel closed his eyes, as a chill crawled up his backbone and shivered itself along all of his limbs. “Gods spare us that,” he said, finally.

When he opened his eyes again, she was staring at him very oddly, but he was saved from having to say anything by the appearance of the innkeeper with his dinner.

Vanyel started in on the smoked-pork pie with an appetite he didn't realize he'd had until the savory aroma of the gravy hit him. Sofya leaned back against the wall and continued to nurse her drink, giving him an odd and unreadable glance from time to time.

He'd been too numb from the long, grueling ride to appreciate his meal yesterday. He'd stowed it away without tasting it, as if it had been the iron rations or make-do of the combat zone. But this morning – and now – the home fare seemed finer than anything likely to be set before Randale.

“I hope you don't mind my staring,” Sofya said at last, as he literally cleaned the plate of the last drop of gravy, “but you're going after that pie as if you hadn't seen food in a week, and you're rather starved-looking, and that seems very odd in a Herald-unless you've been standing duty somewhere extraordinary.”

He noticed then the “blank” spot in the back of his mind that meant 'Fandes was keeping her promise and shielding him out. He grinned a little to himself; that probably meant that Gavis was doing the same, so Sofya's curiosity about him must be eating her alive.

“I've seen nearly no food for a week,” he replied quietly, and paused for a moment when the serving girl took the plate away and replenished his mug of cider. “I don't know if you'd call my duty extraordinary, but it was harder than I expected. I've been on the Karsite Border for the last year. Meals weren't exactly regular, and the food was pretty awful. There were times I shared 'Fandes' oats because I couldn't even attempt eating what they gave me; half-rotten meat and moldy bread aren't precisely to my taste. All too often there wasn't much to go around. And, to tell you the truth, sometimes I just forgot to eat. You know how it is, things start happening, and the next thing you know, it's two days later. That's why -” he gestured at his too – large uniform, and grinned wryly. “The situation was harder on clothing than on stomachs.”

Her sable eyes widened, and softened. “You were on the Karsite duty? I don't blame you for running off,” she replied, with a hint of a chuckle. “I think I would, too, Herald – you never did give me your name.”

“Vanyel,” he said. “Vanyel Ashkevron. Lissa's brother. I know, we don't look at all alike -”

But her reaction was not at all what he had expected. Her eyes widened even farther, and she sat straight up. “Herald-Mage Vanyel?” she exclaimed, loud enough that the farmers and traders who'd begun trickling in while Vanyel was eating stopped talking and turned to look with their mouths dropping open. “You're Vanyel?” Her voice

carried embarrassingly well, and rose with every word. “Vanyel Demonsbane? The Shadow Stalker? The Hero of  – “

“Please -” Vanyel cut her off, pleadingly. “Please, it – yes, I'm Vanyel. But – honestly, it wasn't like you think.” He groped for the words that would make the near-worship he saw on her face go back to ordinary friendliness. “It wasn't like that, it really wasn't – just – things had to get done, and I was the only one to do them, so I did. I'm not a hero, or -I'm just – I'm just – another Herald,” he finished lamely.

He looked around the common room, and to his dismay saw the same worship in the expressions of the farmfolk around him. And something more. Fear.

An echo of that fear was in Sofya's eyes as well, before she looked down at her ale.

He closed his eyes, settling his face into a calm and expressionless mask, that belied the ache that their fear called up in him. He'd wanted – acceptance, only that.

Tran, Tran, you were right, I was wrong. “Be careful what you ask for, you may get it.'' Gods, I asked for signs that Tran was right. And now I have them. Don't I?

He opened his eyes again, but the reverence and adulation hadn't vanished. There was a palpably clear space around him where the “common folk” had moved a little away, as if afraid to intrude too closely on him. Even Sofya.

And the room had taken on the silence of a chapel. I'm about to ruin their evening as well as mine. Unfair, unfair – there must be something I can do to salvage this situation, at least for them.

“You know,” he said, with forced lightness, “if there was one thing I missed more than anything, it was a chance for a little music -”

He reached blindly down beside him for the lute he'd left leaning against the wall, stripped the case off it and tuned it with frantic speed. “ – and I hate to sing alone.

I'll bet you all know 'The Crafty Maid,' don't you?”

Without waiting for an answer, he launched into the song. He sang alone on the first verse – but gradually other voices joined his on the chorus; Sofya first, with a kind of too-hearty determination, then a burly peddler, then three stout farmers. The local folk sang timidly to begin with, but the song was an old and lively one, and the chorus was infectious. By his third song the whole room was echoing, and they were no longer paying much more attention to him than they would have to a common minstrel.

Except between songs.

And except for Sofya, who worshiped him with eyes that sent a lump of cold to live in the bottom of his throat. She waited on him herself, as if he was some kind of angel, to be adored, but not touched.