“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.