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.

He slipped out of the room early, when she was getting something; another musician had joined the crowd, a local, and he used the lad's talent as a screen to get out during a particularly rowdy song. He thought he'd gotten away without anyone noticing, but the innkeeper intercepted him in the hallway.

“Milord – Vanyel -” The tallow candles lighting the hall smoked and flickered and made the shadows move like the Shadows he'd once hunted. The memory knotted his stomach. He concentrated on the innkeeper, but the man gulped and would not meet his eyes. A breath of cooked onions drifted up the hall from the common room. “Milord, if I'd known who it was I was serving, I'd have made you special fare, and I'd not have accepted your coin.”

“Please,” Vanyel interrupted, trying to conceal his hurt. The innkeeper jumped back a pace. “Please,” he said; softly, this time. “I told you, I'm not on duty, I'm on leave. I'm just another traveler. You fed me the best meal I've had in months, truly you did. You've earned every copper I paid you, and honestly.”

“But milord Vanyel, it was nothing, it was common plowman's pie - surely you'd have preferred wine to cider; venison or a stuffed pheasant - and you paid me far too much -”

Vanyel felt a headache coming on. “Actually, no, inn-keeper. The truth is I've been on iron-rations for so long anything rich would likely have made me ill. And venison - if I never have to see another half-raw deer - Your good, solid fare was feast enough for me. I'll tell you what -” He decided on the lie quickly. “I've been too long within walls. I have a fancy for trees and sky tomorrow; if you'll have your excellent cook make me up a packet for breakfast and lunch, I'll consider us more than even. Will that serve your honor, good sir?”

The innkeeper stared, chewing his mustache ends nervously, as if he thought Vanyel might be testing him for some reason, and then nodded agreement.

“Now I - I'm just a little more tired than I thought. If I could use the bathhouse, and get some sleep, do you think?”

To the man's credit, he supplied Vanyel with soap and towels and left him alone. In the steamy quiet of the bathhouse Vanyel managed to relax again. But the cheer of this morning was gone.

He sought release in sleep, finally, in what must have been the finest room in the inn - a huge bed wide enough for an entire family, two featherbeds and a down comforter, and sheets so fresh they almost crackled, all of it scented with orris and lavender. Far below he could still hear the laughter and singing as he climbed into the enormous bed. He blew out the candle then, feeling as lonely as he had ever been in his life, and prayed that sleep would come quickly.

For once his prayers were answered.

“I wish I dared Gate,” he mused aloud, carefully examining, then peeling a hard-boiled egg. Yfandes had not said anything about his early-morning departure from the inn, or the fact that he had not waited for breakfast. It was chilly enough that he needed his cloak, and there was a delicate furring of frost on some of the tall weeds beside the roadway. “Gating would shorten this trip considerably.”

:You try and I'll kick you from here to Haven,: Yfandes replied sharply, the first time she'd spoken to him this morning. :That is absolutely the stupidest thing you've said in months!:

He bit into the egg and looked at her backward - pointing ears with interest. “Havens, ladylove - didn't your tryst go well?”

:My “tryst” went just fine, thank you,: she replied, her mind-voice softening. :I just get sick every time I think about what happened the last time.:

“Oh, 'Fandes, it wasn't that bad.”

:Not that bad? When you were unconscious before you crossed the threshold? And hurting so badly I nearly screamed?:

“All right, it was bad,” he admitted, popping the rest of the egg into his mouth and reaching into the “breakfast packet.” “And I'm not stupid enough to Gate without urgent need.” He studied a roll, weighing it in his hand. It seemed awfully heavy. As good as the food had been so far, it didn't seem likely that it was underbaked, but he was not in the mood to choke down raw dough. He nibbled it dubiously, then bit into it with a great deal more enthusiasm when it proved to have sausage baked into the middle of it. “It would just be very convenient to not have to stop at inns.”

:Don't tell them your real name,: she interrupted.

“What?”

: If reactions like last night bother you, you don't have to tell them your real name. Tell them you're Tantras. Tran won't mind.:

“ 'Fandes, that's not the point - never mind.” He finished the last of his breakfast and dusted his hands off. A skein of geese flew overhead, honking. The farmers already out in the fields beside the road, scything down the grain and making it into sheaves, paused a moment and pointed at the “v” of birds. “Tran was right, and I'm going to have to get used to it, I guess. And I can't do that hiding behind someone else's name.” He managed a wan smile. “It could be worse. They could be treating me like a leper because I'm shay'a'chern, instead of treating me like a godlet because I'm Herald-Mage Vanyel Demonsbane.” He grimaced. “Gods, that sounds pretentious.”

She slowed her pace a trifle. :It isn't that important - is it?:

“It's that important. I'm a very fallible mortal, not an Avatar. Magic is a force - a force I control, no more wonderful than a Mindspeaker's ability, or a Healer's. But they don't see it that way. To them it's something beyond anything they understand, and they're not sure it can be controlled.” He sighed. “Or worse, they think magic can solve every problem.”

:You thought that, once.:

“I know I did. When I was younger. Magic seemed to offer solutions to everything when I was nineteen.” He shook his head, and stared out at the horizon. “For a while - for a little while - I thought I held the world. Even Jays respected me, came to be a friend. But magic couldn't force my father to tell me I'd done well in his eyes - or rather, it could force him, when I wanted the words to come freely from him. It couldn't make being shay'a'chern any easier. It couldn't bring back my Tylendel. It was just power. It's dividing me from ordinary people. Worse than that - it seems to be doing the same between me and other Heralds - and 'Fandes, that scares the hell out of me.”

:You won't be getting any of the godlet treatment from your kin, I can promise you that.:

“I suppose not.''

It was getting warmer by the moment. He bundled his cloak, and wondered if he should get out his hat. Gods! Change the subject-before you brood yourself into depression again. “Do you think Father will be able to keep Mother off my back?”

:Not to put too fine a point upon it, no.:

“I didn't think so.” His shoulders were beginning to hurt again. He clasped his arms behind him and arched his back, looking up at the blue, cloudless sky. “Which means she'll keep trying to cure me by throwing every female above the age of consent within leagues at me. I could almost feel sorrier for the girls than I do for myself.”

:You ought to, Van.:

He looked down at Yfandes' ears in surprise.

:Did it ever occur to you that you could well have broken a fair number of susceptible young hearts?:

He raised an eyebrow, skeptically. “Aren't you exaggerating?”

:Think! What about the way you charmed that poor little kitchen girl back at the Palace?:

He winced a little, recalling the romance in her eyes, but then irritation set in. “ 'Fandes, I've never done anything other than be polite to any of them.”

She snorted. :Exactly. Think about it. You're polite to them. Gallant. Occasionally even attentive. Think about the difference in your station and that kitchen maid's. What in Havens do you think she was expecting when you were polite to her? What does any young man of rank want when he notices a servant or a farmer's daughter?: