Mercedes Lackey: Magic's Pawn

"Lady, get away from him - " Jervis' voice dripped boredom and disgust. "It's just his shield arm, nothing important. We'll just strap it to a board and put some liniment on it and he'll be fine - "

She didn't move her knees, but swung around to face Jervis so fast that her braid came loose and whipped past Vanyel's nose like a lash. " You have done quite enough for one day, Master Jervis," she snarled. "I think you forget your place."

Vanyel wished vacantly that he could see Jervis' face at that moment. It must surely be a sight.

But his arm began to hurt - and that was more than enough to keep his attention.

There wasn't usually a Healer at Forst Reach, but Vanyel's Aunt Serina was staying here with her sister during her pregnancy. She'd had three miscarriages already, and was taking no chances; she was attended by her very own Healer . And Lissa had seen to it that the Healer, not Jervis, was the one that dealt with Vanyel's arm.

"Oh, Van - " Lissa folded herself inelegantly on the edge of Vanyel's bed and sighed. " How did you manage to get into this mess?''

That beaky Ashkevron nose and her determined chin combined with her anxiety to make her look like a stubborn, mulish mare. Most people were put off by her appearance, but Vanyel knew her well enough to read the heartsick worry in her eyes. After all, she'd all but raised him.

Vanyel wasn't certain how clear he'd be, but he tried to explain. Lissa tucked up her legs, and rested her chin on her knees, an unladylike pose that would have evoked considerable distress from Lady Treesa. When he finished, she sighed again.

"I think you attract bad luck, that's all I can say. You don't do anything wrong , but somehow things seem to happen to you."

Vanyel licked his dry lips and blinked at her. "Liss - Jervis was really angry this time, and what you told him didn't help. He's going to go right to Father, if he isn't there already."

She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said that, should I? Van, all I was thinking about was getting him away from you."

"I - I know Liss, I'm not blaming you, but - "

"But I made him mad. Well, I'll see if I can get to Father before Jervis does, but even if I do he probably won't listen to me. I'm just a female, after all."

"I know." He closed his eyes as the room began to swing. "Just - try, Liss - please."

"I will." She slipped off the bed, then bent over and kissed his forehead. "Try and sleep, like the Healer told you, all right?"

He nodded.

Tough-minded and independent, like the grandmother who had raised her, Lissa was about the only one in the keep willing to stand up to Lord Withen now that Grandmother Ashkevron had passed on. Not surprising, that, given Grandmother. The Ashkevrons seemed to produce about one strong-willed female in every generation, much to the bemusement of the Ashkevron males, and the more compliant Ashkevron females.

Lady Treesa (anything but independent) had been far too busy with pregnancy and all the vapors she indulged in when pregnant to have anything to do with the resulting offspring. They went to the hands of others until they were old enough to be usefully added to her entourage. Lissa went to Grandmother.

But Vanyel went to Liss. And they loved each other from the moment she'd taken him out of the nursery. She'd stand up to a raging lion for his sake.

So Lissa went in search of their father. Unfortunately that left him alone. And unfortunately Lissa didn't return when she couldn't immediately find Lord Withen. And that, of course, left him vulnerable when his father chose to descend on him like the god of thunders.

Vanyel was dizzy with pain as well as with the medicines the Healer had made him drink when Lord Withen stormed into his tiny, white-plastered room. He was lying flat on his back in his bed, trying not to move, and still the room seemed to be reeling around him. The pain was making him nauseous, and all he wanted was to be left in peace. The very last thing he wanted to see was his lord father.

And Withen barely gave him enough time to register that his father was there before laying into him.

"What's all this about your cheating?" Withen roared, making Vanyel wince and wish he dared to cover his ears. "By the gods, you whelp, I ought to break your other arm for you!"

"I wasn't cheating!" Vanyel protested, stung, his voice breaking at just the wrong moment. He tried to sit upright - which only made the room spin the more. He fell back, supporting himself on his good elbow, grinding his teeth against the pain of his throbbing arm.

"I was," he gasped through clenched teeth, "I was just doing what Seldasen said to do!"

"And just who might this 'Seldasen' be?" his father growled savagely, his dark brows knitting together. "What manner of coward says to run about and strike behind a man's back, eh?"

Oh, gods - now what have I done? Though his head was spinning, Vanyel tried to remember if Herald Seldasen's treatise on warfare and tactics had been one of the books he'd "borrowed" without leave, or one of the ones he was supposed to be studying.

"Well?" When Lord Withen scowled, his dark hair and beard made him look positively demonic. The drugs seemed to be giving him an aura of angry red light, too.

Father, why can't you ever believe I might be in the right?

The book was on the "approved" list, Vanyel remembered with relief, as he recalled his tutor Istal assigning certain chapters to be memorized. "It's Herald Seldasen, Father," he said defiantly, finding strength in rebellion. "It's from a book Istal assigned me, about tactics." The words he remembered strengthened him still more, and he threw them into his father's face. "He said: 'Let every man that must go to battle fight within his talents, and not be forced to any one school. Let the agile man use his speed, let his armoring be light, and let him skirmish, but not close with the enemy. Let the heavy man stand shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in the shield wall, that the enemy may not break through. Let the small man of good eye make good use of the bow, aye, and let the Herald fight with his mind and not his body, let the Herald-Mage combat with magic and not the sword. And let no man be called coward for refusing the place for which he is not fit.' And I didn't once hit anybody from behind! If Jervis says I did - well - I didn't!"

Lord Withen stared at his eldest son, his mouth slack with surprise. For one moment Vanyel actually thought he'd gotten through to his father, who was more accustomed to hearing him quote poetry than military history.

"Parrot some damned book at me, will you?" Lord Withen snarled, dashing Vanyel's hopes. "And what does some damned lowborn Herald know about fighting? You listen to me, boy - you are my heir, my firstborn, and you damned well better learn what Jervis has to teach you if you want to sit in my place when I'm gone! If he says you were cheating, then by damn you were cheating!"

"But I wasn't cheating and I don't want your place - " Vanyel protested, the drugs destroying his self-control and making him say things he'd sooner have kept behind his teeth.

That stopped Lord Withen cold. His father stared at him as if he'd gone mad, grown a second head, or spoken in Karsite.

"Great good gods, boy," he managed to splutter after several icy eternities during which Vanyel waited for the roof to cave in. "What do you want?"

"I - " Vanyel began. And stopped. If he told Withen that what he wanted was to be a Bard -

"You ungrateful whelp - you will learn what I tell you to learn, and do what I order you to do! You're my heir and you'll do your duty to me and to this holding if I have to see you half dead to get you to do it!"