Magic's Pawn

He turned over, and stared into the darkness above him, feeling his eyes burn. I wish I could die. Now.

He tried to will his heart to stop, but it obstinately ignored him.

Why can’t they just leave me alone ?He closed his burning eyes, and bit his lip. Why?

He lay in his bed, feeling every lump in the mattress, every prickle in the sheets; every muscle was tensed until it ached, his head was throbbing, and his eyes still burning.

He lay there for at least an eternity, but the oblivion he hoped for didn’t come. Finally he gave up on trying to sleep, fumbled for the candle at his bedside, and slid out into the stuffy darkness of the room. He grabbed up his robe from the foot of the bed and pulled it on over his trembling, naked body, and began crossing the floor to the door.

Though the room itself was warm - too warm - the tiled floor was shockingly cold under his feet. He felt his way to the door, and pressed his ear against the crack at the side, listening with all his might for any sounds from the corridor and stairs beyond.

Nothing.

He cautiously slipped the inside bolt; listened again. Still nothing. He cracked the door and peered around the edge into the corridor.

It was thankfully empty. But the nearest lantern was all the way down at the dead end.

He took a deep breath and drew himself up; standing as tall and resolutely erect as if he were Lord of the Keep himself. He walked calmly, surely, down the empty corridor, with just as much arrogance as if all his cousins’ eyes were on him.

Because there was no telling when one of the upper servants who had their rooms along this hall might take it into their heads to emerge - and servants talked. Frequently.

And they would talkif one of them got a glimpse of Vanyel in tears. It would be all over the keep in a candle-mark.

He lit his candle at the lantern, and made another stately progress back to his room. Only when he had securely bolted the door behind him did he let go of the harpstring-taut control he’d maintained outside. He began shaking so hard that the candle flame danced madly, and spilled drops of hot wax on his hands.

He lit the others in their sconces by the door and over the bed as quickly as he could, and placed the one he was clutching in the holder on his table before he could burn himself with it.

He sat down heavily on the rucked-up blankets, sucking the side of his thumb where hot wax had scorched him, and staring at his belongings, trying to decide what his father was likely to let him take with him.

He didn’t even bother to consider his instruments. They were far safer where they were. Maybe someday - if he survived this - he could come back and get them. But there was nochance, none at all, that he could sneak them out in his belongings. And if his father found them packed up -

He’d smash them. He’d smash them, and laugh, and wait for me to say or do something about it.

He finally got up and knelt on the chill stone beside the chest that held his clothing. He raised the heavy, carved lid, and stared down at the top layer for a long moment before lifting it out.

Tunics, shirts, breeches, hose - all in the deep, jewel-tones of sapphire and aquamarine and emerald that he knew looked so good on him, or his favorite black, silvery or smoky gray. All clothing he wore because it was one tiny way to defy his father - because his father could wear the same three outfits all year, all of them identical, and never notice, never care. Because his father didn’t give a damn about what he or anyone else wore - and it angered him that Vanyel did.

Vanyel pondered the clothing, stroking the soft raime of a shirt without much thinking about what he was doing. He won’t dare keep me from taking the clothes, though I bet he’d like to. I’ll have to look presentable when I get there, or I’ll shame him- and the stuff Mekeal and the rest scruff around in isnot presentable.

He began rolling the clothing carefully, and stowing it into the traveling packs kept in the bottom of the chest. Though he didn’t dare take an instrument, he managed to secrete some folded music, some of his favorite pieces, between the pages of the books he packed. Bards are thick as birds in a cherry grove at Haven,he thought with a lump in his throat. Maybe I can get one to trade an old gittern for a cloak-brooch or something. It won’t be the same as my lovely Woodlark, but it’ll be better than nothing. Provided I can keep Aunt Unsavory from taking it away from me.

It was all too quickly done. He found himself on the floor beside the filled packs with nothing more to do. He looked around his room; there was nothing left to pack that he would miss - except for those few things that he wanted to take but didn’t dare.

Pretty fine life I’ve led, when all of it fits in four packs.

He got slowly to his feet, feeling utterly exhausted, yet almost too weary to sleep. He blew out all the candles except the one at his bedside, slipped out of his robe, tucked it into the top of the last pack, and climbed back into bed.

Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to blow out the last candle. While there was light in the room he could keep the tears back. But darkness would set them free.

He lay rigid, staring silently at the candlelight wavering on the slanted ceiling, until his eyes burned.

All the brothers and fosterlings shared rooms; Mekeal had shared his with Vanyel until his older brother’s broken arm had sent Mekeal down here a year early. And when Vanyel hadn’t made the move down - Mekeal hadn’t been particularly unhappy.

So for a while he had this one to himself, at which point he found that he really hadn’t liked being alone after all. He liked company. Now, though - at least since late spring - he’d shared with Joserlin.

That had been finewith him. Jos was the next thing to an adult; Mekeal had been excited to have him move in, pleased with his company, and proud that Jos had treated him like an equal. And Jos talked to him; he didn’t talk much, but when he did it was worth listening to. But he’d already said his say earlier tonight - so Mekeal had thought.

So he was kind of surprised when Jos’ deep voice broke the silence right after they’d blown the candles out.

“Mekeal, why are you younglings so hard on your brother?”

Mekeal didn’t have to ask whichbrother, it was pretty plain who Jos meant. But - “hard on him?” How could you be hard on somebody who didn’t give a damn about anything but himself?

“ ‘Cause he’s a - toad,”Mekeal said indignantly. “He’s got no more backbone than a mushroom! He’s a baby, a coward - an’ the only thing he cares about’s his-self! He’s just like Mama - she’s gone and made him into a mama-pet, a shirker.”

“Hmm? Really? What makes you so sure of that last?”

“Father says, and Jervis - “

“Because he won’t let Jervis pound him like a set of pells.” Joserlin snorted with absolute contempt. “Can’t says as Imuch blame him, myself. If I was built like him, with Jervis on my back, reckon I’d find a hiding-hole, too. I sure’s Haven wouldn’t go givin’ Jervis more chances t’ hit on me.”

Mekeal’s mouth fell open in shock, and he squirmed around in his bed to face where Joserlin was, a dark bulk to his right. “But - but - Jervis - he’s armsmaster!”

“He’s a ham-handed lackwit,” came the flat reply. “You forget, Meke, I was fostered with Lord Kendrik; I learned under a realarmsmaster; Master Orser, and he’s a good one. Jervis wouldn’t be anything but another armsman if he hadn’t been an old friend of your father’s. He don’tdeserve to be armsmaster. Havens, Meke, he goes after the greenest of you like you was his age, his weight, and his experience! He don’t pull his blows half the time; and he don’t bother to show you how to take ‘em, just lets you fumble it out for yourselves. An’ he don’t know but onebare style, an’ that one’s Holy Writ!”