He got the answer to his question a lot sooner than he'd guessed he would.

“Oh, Van, that was lovely,” Treesa sighed, then dimpled again. “You know, we haven't been entirely without Art and Music while you've been gone. I've managed to find myself another handsome little minstrel, haven't I, 'Lenna?”

Melenna glowed nearly the same faded-rose as her gown-one of Treesa's, remade; Vanyel definitely recollected it. “He's hardly as good as Vanyel was, milady,” she replied softly.

“Oh, I don't know,” Treesa retorted, with just a hint of maliciousness. “Medren, why don't you come out and let Vanyel judge for himself?”

A tall boy of about twelve with an old, battered lute of his own rose slowly from where he'd been sitting, hidden by Melenna, and came hesitantly to the center of the group. There was no doubt who his father was - he had Meke's lankiness, hair, and square chin, though he was smaller than Mekeal had been at that age, and his shoulders weren't as broad. There was no doubt either who his mother was - Melenna's wide hazel eyes stared at Vanyel from two faces.

The boy bobbed at Treesa. “I can't come close to those fingerings, milord, milady,” he said, with an honesty that felt painful to Vanyel.

“Some of that's the fact that I've had near twenty years of practice, Medren,” Vanyel replied, acutely aware that both Treesa and Melenna were eyeing him peculiarly. He was not entirely certain what was going on. “But there's some of it that's the instrument. This one has a very easy action - why don't you borrow it?”

They exchanged instruments; the boy's hands trembled as he took Vanyel's finely crafted lute. He touched the strings lightly, and swallowed hard. “What -” his voice cracked, and he tried again. “What would you like to hear, milord?”

Vanyel thought quickly; it had to be something that wouldn't be so easy as to be an insult, but certainly wouldn't involve the intricate fingerings he'd used on “My Lady's Eyes.”

“Do you know 'Windrider Unchained'?” he asked, finally.

The boy nodded, made one false start, then got the instrumental introduction through, and began singing the verse.

And Vanyel nearly dropped the boy's lute as the sheer power of Medren's singing washed over him.

His voice wasn't quite true on one or two notes; that didn't matter, time, maturity, and practice would take care of those little faults. His fingerings were sometimes uncertain; that didn't matter either. What mattered was that, while Medren sang, Vanyel lived the song.

The boy was Bardic Gifted, with a Gift of unusual power. And he was singing to a bowerful of empty-headed sweetly-scented marriage-bait, wasting a Gift that Vanyel, at fifteen, would willingly have sacrificed a leg to gain. Both legs. And counted the cost a small one.

It was several moments after the boy finished before Vanyel could bring himself to speak - and he really only managed to do so because he could see the hope in Medren's eyes slowly fading to disappointment.

In fact, the boy had handed him back his instrument and started to turn away before he got control of himself. “Medren - Medren!” he said insistently enough to make the boy turn back. “You are better than I was, even at fifteen. In a few years you are going to be better than I could ever hope to be if I practiced every hour of my life. You have the Bardic-Gift, lad, and that's something no amount of training will give.”

He would have said more - he wanted to say more - but Treesa interrupted with a demand that he sing again, and by the time he untangled himself from the concentration the song required, the boy was gone.

The boy was on his mind all through dinner. He finally asked Roshya about him, and Roshya, delighted at having actually gotten a question out of him, burbled on until the last course was removed. And the more Vanyel heard, the more he worried.

The boy was being given - at Treesa's insistence - the same education as the legitimate offspring. Which meant, in essence, that he was being educated for exactly nothing. Except – perhaps - one day becoming the squire of one of his legitimate cousins. Meanwhile his real talent was being neglected.

The problem gnawed at the back of Vanyel's thoughts all through dinner, and accompanied him back to his room. He lit a candle and placed it on the small writing desk, still pondering. It might have kept him sleepless all night, except that soon after he flung himself down in a chair, still feeling somewhat stunned by the boy and his Gift, there came a knock on his door.

“Come -” he said absently, assuming it was a servant.

The door opened. “Milord Herald?” said a tentative voice out of the darkness beyond his candle. “Could you spare a little time?”

Vanyel sat bolt upright. “Medren? Is that you?”

The boy shuffled into the candlelight, shutting the door behind him. He had the neck of his lute clutched in both hands. “I - ” His voice cracked again. “Milord, you said I was good. I taught myself, milord. They - when they opened up the back of the library, they found where you used to hide things. Nobody wanted the music and instruments but me. I'd been watching minstrels, and I figured out how to play them. Then Lady Treesa heard me, she got me this lute. ...”

The boy shuffled forward a few more steps, then stood uncertainly beside the table. Vanyel was trying to get his mind and mouth to work. That the boy was this good was amazing, but that he was entirely self-taught was miraculous. “Medren,” he said at last, “to say that you astonish me would be an understatement. What can I do for you? If it's in my power, it's yours.”

Medren flushed, but looked directly into Vanyel's eyes. “Milord Herald-”

“Medren,” Vanyel interrupted gently, “I am not 'Milord Herald,' not to you. You're my nephew; call me by my given name.”

Medren colored even more. “I-V - Vanyel, if you could - if you would - teach me? Please? I'll -” he coughed, and lowered his eyes, now turning a red so bright it was painful to look at. “I'll do anything you like. Just teach me.”

Vanyel had no doubt whatsoever what the boy thought he was offering in return for music lessons. The painful - and very potently sexual - embarrassment was all too plain to his Empathy. Gods, the poor child - Medren wasn't even a temptation. I may be shaych, but - not children. The thought's revolting.

“Medren,” he said very softly, “they warned you to stay away from me, didn't they? And they told you why.”

The boy shrugged. “They said you were shaych. Made all kinds of noises. But hell, you're a Herald, Heralds don't hurt people.”

“I'm shaych, yes,” Vanyel replied steadily. “But you - you aren't.''

“No,” the boy said. “But hell, like I said, I wasn't worried. What you could teach me - that's worth anything. And I haven't got much else to repay you with.” He finally looked back up into Vanyel's eyes. “Besides, there isn't anything you could do to me that'd be worse than Jervis beating on me once a day. And they all seem to think that's all right.”

Vanyel started. “Jervis? What - what do you mean, Jervis beating on you? Sit, Medren, please.”

“What I said,” the boy replied, gingerly pulling a straight-backed chair to him and taking a seat. “I get treated just like the rest of them. Same lessons. Only there's this little problem; I'm not true-born.” His tone became bitter. “With eight true-born heirs and more on the way, where does that leave me? Nowhere, that's where. And there's no use in currying favor with me, or being a little easy on me, 'cause I don't have a thing to offer anybody. So when time comes for an example, who gets picked? Medren. When we want a live set of pells to prove a point, who gets beat on? Medren. And what the hell do I have to expect at the end of it, when I'm of age? Squire to one of the true-born boys if I'm lucky, the door if I'm not. Unless I can somehow get good enough to be a minstrel.”