Magic's Price (21 page)

“I can do this much for you,” Vanyel told them after a moment's thought. Five sets of eyes fastened on him. “You know I have limited Crown authority. I can authorize a general reduction in taxes for landholders who keep their own armed forces. And I can get you weapons—and I think some trainers. We've got some Guards that are minus legs or arms that would still make good trainers, even if they can't fight.”

All of them brightened at that. Mekeal looked as if he was counting something up in his head.

:Probably would-be young heroes,:
Yfandes said cynically.
:And he's reckoning how much he can get taken off the tax-roles by encouraging young hotheads to take their energy off to the Guard.:

:Probably,:
Van replied, thinking a little sadly of all the aspiring heroes who had found only early graves on the Karsite Border. And how many more he'd send there, if indirectly....

But the fighters had to come from somewhere. Better that they came as volunteers, and well-trained. “I can probably even authorize tax credit if you send trained fighters for the Guard instead of cash or kind at tax time,” he continued. “Randale's pretty loath to hire mercenaries, but he wants to avoid conscription, and right now the ranks down South are getting thinner than we'd like.”

“I got another thought,” Mekeal put in. “Give that credit across Valdemar, an' send the green ‘uns to us for training an' seasoning. We'll get 'em blooded without the kind of loss you get in combat.”

That
made him feel less guilty. “Good gods,” Vanyel replied, “I'm surrounded by geniuses! Why didn't
we
think of that?”

Meke shrugged, pleased. “Just tryin' to help all of us.”

:It's an excellent solution to getting youngsters used to real combat at relatively low risk,:
‘Fandes observed, with approval.
:I like the way your brother thinks.:

:So do I, dearling.:
He nodded at Meke. “That will help immensely, I truly think.”

They discussed other matters for a while, but it was fairly evident that they'd touched on all the topics the others considered of the most import. Vanyel got to his feet and excused himself when the conversation devolved to small talk about hunting.

“I'll make an effort to get in touch with Herald Joshel and get confirmation on everything we covered,” he told them, and grinned, seeing a chance to bring a point home. “That's the advantage of having a strong Mindspeaking Herald around when you need answers in a hurry. Joshe is actually a stronger Mindspeaker than I am, and he's taking my place with Randale while I'm gone. I know when he'll be free tomorrow, and I'll contact him then.”

He was surprised at how late it was when he left them. The halls were quiet; the servants had long since gone to bed, leaving every other lamp out, and the ones still burning turned down low. His room would be the guest room he'd used every visit he'd made home, and he knew exactly where it was, despite the additions to the manor and the darkness of the halls.

He found himself yawning as he neared his door.
I didn't realize how tired I was, he
thought
sleepily. It's a good thing I didn't drink that second mug of ale Father poured. I wonder what room they put Stef in? I hope it wasn't the one overlooking the gardens; ye gods, he'll be up all night with mocker-birds screaming at his window. I'll take the old room any time, even if it isn't as cool in the summer. Havens, that bed is going to feel good....

He reached for the door handle and pulled it open just enough to slip inside. Some kind soul had left two candles burning, one above the hearth, one beside the bed. The gentle candlelight was actually quite bright compared to the darkened hallway; shadows danced as the candleflames flickered in the draft he had created by opening the door. As he stepped away from the door, he glanced automatically toward the right side of the hearth, beside the bed—the servants always left his luggage there, and he wanted to make sure his gittern was all right before he went to bed.

And he froze, for there were two sets of packs, and two gitterns. His—and Stefen's. And—he looked beyond the luggage to see if the furnishings had been changed; but they hadn‘t—only one bed.

Behind him, someone shot the bolt on the door.

He whirled; Stefen turned away from the door and faced him, the warm gold of candlelight softening his features so that he looked very young indeed. His loose shirt was unlaced to the navel, and his feet were bare beneath his leather riding breeches.

“Before you ask,” he said, in a soft, low voice, “this wasn't my idea. This seems to have happened on your father's orders. But Van—I'm glad he did it—”

Vanyel backed up a step, his mind swimming in little circles. “Oh. Ah, Stefen, I'll just get my things and—”

Stef shook his head, and brushed his long hair back behind his ears with one hand. “No. Not until I get a chance to say what I have to. You've been avoiding this for weeks, and I'm not letting the one chance I've had to really talk to you get away from me.”

Vanyel forced himself to relax, forced his mind to stop whirling as best he could, and walked over to one of the chairs next to the hearth. He stood beside it, with his hands resting on the back so that Stefen could not see them trembling. He glanced down at them; they seemed very cold and white, and he wondered if Stefen had noticed. “Ah ... what is it you need to talk about that you couldn't have said on the road?” he asked, as casually as he could.

“Dammit, Van!” Stefen exploded. “You know very well what I want to talk about! You—and me.”

“Stefen,” Vanyel said, controlling his voice with an effort that hurt, “you are one of the best friends I've ever had. I mean that. And I appreciate that friendship.”

Stefs eyes were full of pleading, and Vanyel forced himself to turn away from him and stare at a carved wooden horse on the mantelpiece. “Stef, you're very young; I'm nearly twice your age. I've seen all this before. You admire me a great deal, and you think—”

There were no footsteps to warn him; suddenly he found Stef's hands on his shoulders, wrenching him around, forcing him to look into the young Bard's face. Stefs hands felt like hot irons on his shoulders, and there was strength in them that was not apparent from the Bard's slight build. “Vanyel Ashkevron,” Stef said, hoarsely, “I am shaych, just like you. I've known what I am for years now. I'm not an infatuated child. What's more—” Now the Bard flushed and looked away, off to Vanyel's right. “I've had more lovers in one year than you've had in the last ten. And—and I've never felt about
any
of them the way I feel about you. I—I think I love you, Van. I don't think I could ever love anyone but you.”

He looked back up at Vanyel. The Herald could only gaze back into the darkened emerald of Stefen's eyes, eyes that seemed in the dim light to be mostly pupil. Vanyel was utterly stunned. This—this was considerably beyond infatuation....

“Bards are supposed to be so cursed good with words,” Stefen said unhappily, looking into Vanyel's eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Well, all my eloquence seems to have deserted
me.
All—all I can tell you is that I think I'd love you if you were a
hundred
years older than me, or a deformed monster, or—or even a woman.”

The Bard's voice had lost any hint of training; it was tight and rough with tension and unhappiness. For his part, Vanyel couldn't seem to speak at all. His throat was paralyzed and his chest hurt when he tried to breathe. He felt alternately hot and cold, and his heart pounded in his ears. Stefen didn't notice his unresponsiveness, evidently, for he continued on without looking away from Van.

“Since you aren't any of those things,” he said, his voice unsteady with emotion, “since you're w-wonderful, and w-wise, and beautiful enough to make my heart ache, and dammit,
not
old, I—I can't take this much longer.” A single tear slid down one cheek, shining silver in the candellight; Stefen either didn't notice it, or didn't care. “I—I'm only glib when it comes to making rhymes, Van. I love you, and I'm
not
a Herald. I can't
show
you how I felt—except physically. I want to be your lover. I don't want anyone else, not ever again.”

When Vanyel didn't respond, a second tear joined the first, slipping silently from the corner of Stefen's eye; he swallowed, and broke eye contact to look down at his feet. He relaxed his hold on Vanyel's shoulders, but didn't release him.

“I suppose—I guess I must revolt you,” he said, bitterly. “All my ... other lovers ... I don't blame you, I guess. I—”

That broke Vanyel's paralysis. That, and the ache his Gift of Empathy let him feel all too clearly, an ache that was matched by the one in his own heart. “No,” he whispered. “No—Stef, I—just never knew you felt that strongly.”

His hands hurt from clenching the back of the chair. He let go, and flexed them, then raised his right hand, slowly, and brushed the tear from Stefen's face with gentle, wondering fingers. “I never guessed,” he repeated, no longer trying to hide the strength of his own feelings from himself.

Stefen let go of Vanyel's shoulders, caught Van's hand and looked back up into Vanyel's eyes, quickly. Whatever he read there made him smile, like the sun coming from behind a cloud; a smile so bright it left Vanyel dazzled. He kept Vanyel's right hand in his, and backed up a step. Then another. Vanyel resisted for a fraction of a second, then followed, drawn along like an obedient child. His knees were weak, and the room seemed too hot—no, too cotd—

He's too young!
part of him kept clamoring.
He can't possibly know what he's doing, what this means. He's hardly older than Jisa—

His conscience nagged as Stefen blew out the candles; as the young Bard ran strong, callused hands under Vanyel's shirt, and drew him down onto the bed—

And then the voice was silenced as Stef gently proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was
just
as experienced as he had claimed. If there was someone being seduced, it wasn't Stefen....

The last of Vanyel's misgivings dissolved as not-so-young Stefen showed him things he hadn't even imagined, and then proved that the sweet giving and receiving the Bard had just taught him was only the beginning....

 

Overhead, sky a dead and lightless black. To either side, walls of ice
—

He woke, shaking like a leaf in a gale; his chest heaved as he gasped for breath, clutching the blanket.

He was cold, bone-cold, yet drenched with sweat.
It was the old dream, the ice-dream, the dream where I die—I haven't had that dream for years—

Stefen lay beside him, sprawled over the edge of the bed, oblivious to Van's panting for air. Though the candles were out, Van could see him by moonlight streaming in the window. The storm had blown itself out, leaving the sky clear and clean; the moonlight was bright enough to read by, and Vanyel saw the bright points of stars glittering against the sky through the windowpane.

Vanyel controlled his breathing, and lay back, forcing his heart to slow. He blinked up into the dark canopy of the bed, still caught in the cold claws of the nightmare.

The young Bard sighed, and turned over, bringing his face into the moonlight. Lying beside Stef, for a moment—for a moment it had been, it had
felt
like being beside Tylendel, his love and lifebonded.

Lifebonded.

Only then did he realize why Stefen “felt” like Tylendel. The tie was the same; Vanyel was not only in love with the Bard, he had lifebonded to him. There was no mistaking that tie, especially not for an Empath.

No
—

But there was no denying it, either. Vanyel suppressed a groan; if being attracted to Stefen had been a betrayal of ‘Lendel's memory, then what was this? He couldn't think; he felt his stomach knot and a lump in his throat. He had loved 'Lendel; he still did.