“Why?” Vanyel asked, much more calmly than he felt, striving with all his might for impartiality. “Why do you want me as a lover?”

Tashir flushed, and his fear deepened. And there was something new: shame. “It - this afternoon -” he stammered. “Lady Treesa - I was so – I - I – she - Vanyel, she -” his voice dropped to a humiliated whisper. “She scares me, ladies scare me - I - ”

“Oh.” Vanyel made the one word speak volumes, not of contempt, but understanding and compassion. ''Now I think I see what the problem is; and why you're here.

My mother frightened you, and women in general frighten you, so you think you must be shay'a'chern, right?”

Tashir nodded a little, and paled again.

Vanyel sternly told his insides to leave him alone. They didn't listen. They ached. He ignored them, grateful that training had made it possible for him to control his voice and his face, if not his emotions. “Well, let's really analyze this before we go making assumptions, shall we? Do you know my aunt, Herald Savil? Have you met her formally yet?”

“The o - the lady who was with you?” Now Vanyel picked up only respect, mixed with the good-natured contempt of the young for the old.

“Does she frighten you?” He half-smiled, stiffly. “She should, you know, she's a terrible tyrant!”

Tashir shook his head.

“How about Kylla? She's the baby who's always getting out of the nursery, usually without a stitch on. I expect she's done it at least once while I was sleeping. Does she bother you?”

Bewilderment. “She's kind of cute. Why should I be afraid of her?”

Vanyel worked his way up and down the age scale of all the women at Forst Reach that he thought the youngster might have seen. Only when he neared women between twenty and Treesa's age did he get any negative responses, and when he mentioned a particularly pretty fourteen-year-old niece, there was definite interest - and real attraction.

From time to time Vanyel dropped in questions about his feelings toward men; not just himself, but Jervis, Medren, some of the servants the youngster had encountered. And at no time, even as he began to relax, did Tashir evidence any attraction to men in general or Vanyel in particular - except, perhaps as a protector. Certainly not as a potential lover. Whenever that topic came up, the fear came back.

Finally Vanyel sighed, and took his hand away. It ached, ached as badly as the injured left did when it rained. He rubbed it, wishing he could massage away the ache in his own heart. “Tashir - let me say that I'm very flattered, but - no. I will not oblige you. Because you've come to me for all the wrong reasons. You aren't here because you know you're shay'a'chern; you aren't even here because you're attracted to me. You're here because women of a certain age frighten you. That's not enough to base a relationship on, not the kind you're asking me for. You don't know what you want; you only know what you don't want. ''

“But -” the youngster said, his eyes all pupil, “but you - when you were younger than me - Jervis said - “

Vanyel had to look away; he couldn't bear that gaze any more. “When I was younger than you I knew what I was, and I knew what I wanted, and who I wanted it with. You're looking for - for someone to like you, for someone to be close to. You're just grasping at something that looks like a solution, and you're hoping I'll make up your mind for you. And I could do that, you know. Even without using magic, I could probably convince you that you were shay'a'chern, at least for a little while. I could ... do things, say things to you, that would make you very infatuated with me.” He paused, and forced a breath into his tight chest, looking back down at Tashir 's bewildered eyes. “But that wouldn't solve your problems, it would only let you postpone finding a solution for a while. And I truly don't think that would help you in the least. Any answers you find, Tashir, are going to have to be answers you decide on for yourself. Here - “ He offered the youngster his hand. Tashir looked at it in surprise, then tentatively put his own hand in Vanyel's.

He looked even more surprised when Vanyel hauled him to his feet, put his palm between his shoulderblades, and shoved him gently toward and out the door. “Go to bed, Tashir,” Vanyel said, trying to make his tones as kindly as he could. “You go have another chat with Jervis. Go riding with Nerya. Try making some friends around the Reach. We'll talk about this later.”

And he shut the door on him, softly, but firmly.

He began to shake, then, and clung to the doorframe to keep himself standing erect. He leaned his forehead against the doorpanel for a long time before he stopped

trembling. When he thought he could walk without stumbling, he turned and went back to his chair, and sat down in it heavily.

He hurt. Oh, gods, he hurt. He felt so empty - and twice as alone as before. He stared at the candleflame while it burned down at least half an inch, trying to thaw the adamantine lump of frozen misery in his stomach, and having a resounding lack of success.

:You did the right thing, Chosen.: The bright voice in his mind was shaded with sympathy and approval both.

:I know I did,: he replied, around the ache. :What else could I do? Just - tell me, beloved - why can't I feel happy about it? Why does doing the right thing have to hurt so damned much?:

She had no answer for him, but then, he hadn't really expected one.

If I were just a little less ethical - and how much of that is because he looks like 'Lendel? Gods. It isn't just my heart that hurts. And I'm so damned lonely.

Eventually he slept.

It took a week before he felt anything like normal. Challenging Jervis when he had been straight out of his bed had been pure bluff. He wouldn't have been able to stand against the armsmaster for more than a few breaths at most. He wondered if Jervis had guessed that.

Arms practice was interesting. He and Jervis circled around each other, equally careful with words and blows. There was so much between them that was only half-healed, at best, that it was taking all his skill at diplomacy to keep the wounds from reopening. And no little of that was because it sometimes seemed that Jervis might be regretting his little confession.

But they were civil to each other, and working with each other, which was a damn sight more comfortable than being at war with each other.

“That boy's got more'n a few problems, Van,” Jervis said, leaning on his sword, and watching Tashir work out with Medren. The young man was being painstakingly careful with the younger boy, and he was wearing the first untroubled expression Vanyel had seen on his face.

And for once, there was no fear in him. For once, he was just another young man; a little more considerate of the smaller, younger boy than most, but still just another young man.

“I know,” Vanyel replied, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left. “And I know you aren't talking about fighting style.” He chewed his lip a little, and decided to ask the one question that would decide whether or not he was going to be able to carry out the plan he'd made in the sleepless hours of the last several nights. “Tell me, do you feel up to handling him by yourself for a bit? You'll have Savil in case he does anything magical again, though I don't think he will, but I don't think he'll open up to Savil the way he will to you.”

Jervis gave him a long look out of the corner of his eye. “And just where are you going to be?”

Vanyel looked straight ahead, but spoke in a low voice that was just loud enough for Jervis to hear him. The fewer who knew about this, the better. “Across the Border. All the answers to our questions are over there, including the biggest question of all - if Tashir didn't rip a castle full of people to palm-sized pieces, who did? And why?”