Vanyel nodded ruefully, stretching sore muscles. “Stupidity, mostly.”

Jervis snorted. “My ass. Wasn't stupidity so much's puttin' yourself in harm's way. Right, so tell me this - a mere like me, he puts himself on the line for money. Knows what he bought himself into, knows what he'll get out of it if he lives. An' he only gives so much; what he was paid for, but not past it. But – you - you Heralds? What's in it for you? I mean, look at you right now - you've about wore yourself down to a thread, somethin' no mere would do. And you showed up here in th' same state. What for?”

Vanyel shook his head. “It's hard to tell you; it's a feeling, more than anything. Something like a priestly vocation, I would guess.” He looked inside himself for the answer, an answer he hadn't really looked for since he first realized what it was that had made Tylendel need to be a Herald. “I do it because I have to. Because I'm needed. There isn't anybody - I'm not boasting, Jervis, you can ask Savil - there isn't anybody else in the whole Kingdom that can do what I can do. I can't give up, I can't just shrug things off and tell myself somebody else will take up the slack, because there isn't anybody else. There are too many people out there who need my protection; because I'm this powerful, I have an obligation to use that power. I'm the lone Guard at the Gate - I daren't give up, because there's nobody behind me to take up what I lay down.”

Jervis' face went absolutely still. Vanyel wished he knew what the old man was thinking. “Nobody?” he asked.

Vanyel shook his hair out of his eyes. “Nobody,” he echoed, staring into space. “I have no choice; it's that, or know my inaction dooms others. Sometimes lots of others. Too many times, others I know and care for.”

Jervis's eyes grew deep and thoughtful, and Vanyel could feel them on his back as he left, headed for the bathhouse.

There was a light tap at Vanyel's door that woke him from the nap he was trying to take - in part to make up for the sleep he had been losing to Melenna. It hadn't been a very successful attempt. He was still too on edge; his mind was too active. He yawned, and then grinned, identifying Medren by a stray thought-wisp. So we've recovered from the measles, hmm? And about to have a little moment of truth with Uncle Vanyel. Or rather, though he doesn't know it, Herald Vanyel.

“Come,” he said, sitting up and stretching, then swinging his legs off the bed.

“Vanyel?” Medren plodded into the room and sagged down into the window seat. “Can I hide up here? I just found out from young Meke that old Jervis is gonna have some 'special demonstration' this afternoon, and you know what that means.” The boy shuddered. “Good old Medren for pells.”

“Actually, no, not this time,” Vanyel grinned. “It means 'good old Radevel for pells.' I've been teaching Rad my style, and the pells plan on giving Jervis as good as he gets. Then you and Radevel will have at each other while I coach so Jervis can watch. He says he wants to know my style 'because sooner or later he's going to get another puny 'un.' And some time this week, my young friend, you will have another sparring partner; once I recover, you and I are going to pair off. And I'll run you around the field for a while. And meanwhile we'll find out what Tashir is good for.”

The boy's mouth dropped open, and Vanyel continued mercilessly.

“This is for your benefit. Bardic Collegium includes bladework for Bards right along with the music lessons, and I wanted you to have as much of a head start as possible. A Bard's duty has been known to carry him into some dangerous places, and the Bardic Circle can't spare Guards to tag along behind you to keep you out of trouble.”

The boy's mouth worked, but for a long moment, no sound emerged.

“Oh -” he said weakly. “I – ah -”

“Medren, I have a very serious question to ask you.” Vanyel let the smile drop from his mouth and eyes, and moved to stand over the boy. “When you were fishing for my sympathy, what else were you doing? And don't tell me that you weren't doing anything. We both know better than that.”

“I...” the boy gulped, and dropped his eyes. “I was trying to make you feel sorry for me. That's why I was kind of ... playing while I was talking to you; singing but not singing, you know? Putting music behind what I was doing. I ... it feels sort of like when I really get taken up by a song. Like I'm pushing something. Only with the inside of my head.”

“Did you ever think about whether that was a good idea?” Vanyel asked, with no inflection in his voice.

“No. Not really.” A long pause, then Medren hung his head. “It isn't, is it?” he asked, in a very small, and very subdued voice. “I was doing something I shouldn't have. I ... I guess it's something like being a bully because you're bigger than somebody, isn't it?”

Vanyel nodded, relief relaxing his shoulders. Good. He knows, now. He saw it for himself. He'll be all right. But he spoke sternly. “It is. And if you do it at Bardic, they'll have the Heralds block your Gift, and they'll turn you out. That is your Gift; this ability to make people feel what you want them to feel through music. And there are only three times it's permissible for you to use that Gift: when you're performing, when you're helping someone who needs help, and at the King's orders.”

“Yessir,” Medren whispered, head sunk between his shoulders, where he'd pulled it when Vanyel spoke of having his Gift blocked and being turned out of the Collegium. “Nossir. I'll remember.”

“You'd better. On this, you get one chance. Now, come on, lad,” Vanyel said with a renewal of cheerfulness, urging Medren up out of his chair and propelling him out the door with a hand behind his shoulders. “Time for you to show those plowhorse cousins of yours how a real fighter does things.”

Nine

They returned to his room after practice; Vanyel had thought to give Medren another music lesson, but even though he hadn't done any fighting, he realized as he directed Medren's movements that he was drained - and that was long before the practice was over.

Medren was no fool; he could see how exhausted Vanyel was. He suggested that the lesson be put off; he even offered to have servants bring Vanyel's dinner to his room.

Vanyel accepted both offers; he bolted the food as soon as the servant brought it, and threw himself facedown on his bed again with a groan. The bed had somehow been made up in his absence, despite all the hurly-burly in Treesa's bower. Baby Heralds wrecking rooms, adult Heralds making magic Gates and then falling through them half-dead, a possible war on the Border, and still somehow the beds get made. What a world.

He tried to think of what he would have done if Tashir hadn't run berserk, and realized he hadn't yet spoken with Yfandes. She probably knew what was going on, of course; since the moment he had first accepted the notion of becoming a Herald she had made a habit - which he encouraged - of eavesdropping on just about everything as a kind of silent observer in the back of his mind. He didn't in the least mind her using his eyes and ears; it saved a lot of explaining, and if there was something he didn't want her “present” for, he'd tell her. But it was very rude of him not to have said something, at least in greeting, before this. He rolled over on his back and closed his eyes.

:'Fandes?: he called, tentatively. :I'm sorry - I got tangled - and then I fell on my nose for a while - and then I had a visit to make - and then I had a visitor myself.:

She chuckled. :So I saw. You’re forgiven.:

:Have you got anything for me? I'm sorry I made you run all the way home instead of taking the shortcut.:

:You're forgiven. And oddly enough,: she replied promptly, :I have got something for you. Brightest gods, let me tell you, it hasn't been the easiest information to obtain. And I am not sorry I was apart from you for a bit; I am very glad you were far away by the time you completed the Gate. I felt your pain quite enough as it was.: The love in her mind - voice softened her words. :The Young One - I have taken to calling him “Ghost,” for he has been haunting this place like the veriest spirit, never coming near enough to touch and only rarely to be seen, and frightening the farmers no end. He is quite closely locked into his Chosen's mind. I can speak with him, but only distantly; most of his attention and his concentration are with Tashir. But I can Mindtouch with him as you cannot his Chosen; Mindtouch does not frighten him. And so, because of the close bond between him and the youngling, I can sometimes pick up things as if I was in Mindtouch with Tashir.: Overtones of deep uneasiness. :The youngling is something less than steady; his mind is fragile and unbalanced. There are terrible things which haunt him, and which he fears to tell, and which he even blocks from his thoughts. Still. Ghost may yet balance him, if he can regain balance; the stallion is something of a MindHealer. :