Mercedes Lackey - Magic's Pawn

But then again - maybe that was exactly as Withen had planned.

"So this is Vanyel," the woman had said, dryly. "A pretty boy, Treesa. I trust he's something more than ornamental."

Vanyel went rigid at her words, then rose from his bow and fixed her with what he hoped was a cool, appraising stare. Gods, she looked like his father in the right light; like Lissa, she had that Ashkevron nose, a nose that both she and Withen thrust forward like a sharp blade to cleave all before them.

"Oh, don't glare at me, child," the woman said with amusement. "I've had better men than you try to freeze me with a look and fail."

He flushed. She turned away from him as if he was of no interest, turning back to Vanyel's mother, who was clutching a handkerchief at her throat. "So, Treesa, has the boy shown any sign of Gift or Talent?"

"He sings beautifully," Treesa fluttered. "Really, he's as good as any minstrel we've ever had."

The woman turned and stared at him - stared through him. "Potential, but nothing active," Savil said slowly. "A pity; I'd hoped at least one of your offspring would share my Gifts. You can certainly afford to spare one to the Queen's service. But the girls don't even have potential Gifts, your four other boys are worse than this one, and this one doesn't appear to be much more than a clotheshorse for all his potential."

She waved a dismissing hand at him, and Vanyel's face had burned.

"I've seen what I came to see, Treesa," she said, leading Vanyel's mother off by the elbow. "I won't stress your hospitality anymore."

From all Vanyel had heard, Savil was, in many ways, not terribly unlike her brother; hard, cold, and unforgiving, preoccupied with what she perceived as her duty. She had never wedded; Vanyel was hardly surprised. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to bed Savil's chill arrogance. He couldn't imagine why warm, loving Lissa wanted to be like her.

Now his mother was weeping hysterically; his father was making no effort to calm her. By that, Vanyel knew there was no escaping the disastrous plan. Incoherent hysterics were his mother's court of last resort; if they were failing, there was no hope for him.

"Give it up, Treesa," Withen said, unmoved, his voice rock-steady. "The boy goes. Tomorrow."

"You - unfeeling monster - " That was all that was understandable through Treesa's weeping. Vanyel heard the staccato beat of her slippers on the floor as she ran out the library door, then the slower, heavier sound of his father's boots.

Then the sound of the door closing -

- as leaden and final as the door on a tomb.

Two

Vanyel stumbled over to his old chair and collapsed into its comfortable embrace.

He couldn't think. Everything had gone numb. He stared blankly at the tiny rectangle of blue sky framed by the window; just sat, and stared. He wasn't even aware of the passing of time until the sun began shining directly into his eyes.

He winced away from the light; that broke his bewildered trance, and he realized dully that the afternoon was gone - that someone would start looking for him to call him for supper soon, and he'd better be back in his room.

He slouched dispiritedly over to the window, and peered out of it, making the automatic check to see if there was anyone below who could spot him. But even as he did so it occurred to him that it hardly mattered if they found his hideaway, considering what he'd just overheard.

There was no one on the practice field now; just the empty square of turf, a chicken on the loose pecking at something in the grass. From this vantage the keep might well have been deserted.

Vanyel turned around and reached over his head, grabbing the rough stone edging the window all around the exterior, and levered himself up and out onto the sill. Once balanced there in a half crouch, he stepped down onto the ledge that ran around the edge of the roof, then reached around the gable and got a good handhold on the slates of the roof itself, and began inching over to his bedroom window.

Halfway between the two windows, he paused for a moment to look down.

It isn't all that far - if I fell just right, the worst I'd do is break a leg - then they couldn’t send me off, could they? It might be worth it. It just might be worth it.

He thought about that - and thought about the way his broken arm had hurt -

Not a good idea; with my luck, Father would send me off as soon as I was patched up; just load me up in a wagon like a sack of grain. "Deliver to Herald Savil, no special handling. " Or worse, I'd break my arm again, or both arms. I've got a chance to make that hand work again - maybe - but if I break it this time there isn’t a Healer around to make sure it's set right.

Vanyel swung his legs into the room, balanced for a moment on the sill, then dropped onto his bed. Once there, he just lacked the spirit to even move. He slumped against the wall and stared at the sloping, whitewashed ceiling.

He tried to think if there was anything he could do to get himself out of this mess.

He couldn't come up with a single idea that seemed at all viable. It was too late to "mend his ways" even if he wanted to.

No - no. I can't, absolutely can’t face that sadistic bastard Jervis. Though I'm truly not sure which is the worst peril at this point in the long run, Aunt Ice-And-Iron or Jervis. I know what he'II do to me. I haven't a clue to her.

He sagged, and bit his lip, trying to stay in control, trying to think logically. All he knew was that Savil would have the worst possible report on him; and at Haven - the irony of the name! - he would have no allies, no hiding places. That was the worst of it; going off into completely foreign territory knowing that everybody there had been told how awful he was. That they would just be waiting for him to make a slip. All the time. But there was no getting out of it. For all that Treesa petted and cosseted him, Vanyel knew better than to rely on her for anything, or expect her to ever defy Withen. That brief flair during their argument had been the exception; Treesa's real efforts always lay in keeping her own life comfortable and amusing. She'd cry for Vanyel, but she'd never defend him. Not like Lissa might well have –

If Lissa had been here.

When the page came around to call everyone to dinner, he managed to stir up enough energy to dust himself off and obey the summons, but he had no appetite at all.

The highborn of Forst Reach ate late, a candlemark after the servants, hirelings and the armsmen had eaten, since the Great Hall was far too small to hold everyone at once. The torches and lanterns had already been lit along the worn stone-floored corridors; they did nothing to dispel the darkness of Vanyel's heart. He trudged along the dim corridors and down the stone stairs, ignoring the servants trotting by him on errands of their own. Since his room was at the servants' end of the keep, he had a long way to go to get to the Great Hall.

Once there, he waited in the sheltering darkness of the doorway to assess the situation in the room beyond.

As usual he was nearly the last one to table; as far as he could tell, only his Aunt Serina was missing, and she might well have eaten earlier, with the children. Carefully watching for the best opportunity to do so undetected, he slipped into his seat beside his brother Mekeal at the low table during a moment when Lord Withen was laughing at some joke of Father Leren's. The usually austere cleric seemed in a very good mood tonight, and Vanyel's heart sank. If Leren was pleased, it probably didn't bode Vanyel any good.

"Where were you this afternoon?" Mekeal asked, as he wiggled over to give Vanyel a place on the bench, interrupting his noisy inhalation of soup.