And he knew to the depths of his soul that he would never be able to do what she had just done.
Oh, he tried; when she prompted him to sing the next Windrider ballad while she played, he gave it his best. But he could tell from the look in his fellow classmates' eyes - interest, but not rapt fascination - that he hadn't even managed a pale imitation.
As he sat down and she gestured to the next to take a ballad, he saw the pity in her eyes and the slight shake of her head - and knew then that she knew he'd overheard the conversation in the hallway. That this was her way of telling him, gently, and indirectly, that his dream could not be realized.
It was the pity that hurt the most, after the realization that he did not have the proper material to be a Bard. It cut - as cruelly as any blade. All that work - all that fighting to get his hand back the way it had been - and all for nothing. He'd never even had a hope.
Vanyel threw himself onto his bed, his chest aching, his head throbbing -
I thought nothing would ever be worse than home - but at least I still had dreams. Now I don't even have that.
The capper on the miserable day was his aunt, his competent, clever, selfless, damn-her-to-nine-hells aunt.
He flopped over onto his stomach, and fought back the sting in his eyes.
She'd pulled him aside right after dinner; "I asked the Bards to see if they could take you," she'd said. "I'm sorry, Vanyel, but they told me you're a very talented musician, but that's all you'll ever be. That's not enough to get you into Bardic when you're the heir to a holding."
"But - " he'd started to say, then clamped his mouth shut.
She gave him a sharp look. "I know how you probably feel, Vanyel, but your duty as Withen's heir is going to have to come first. So you'd better resign yourself to the situation instead of fighting it."
She watched him broodingly as he struggled to maintain his veneer of calm. "The gods know," she said finally, "I stood in your shoes, once. I wanted the Holding - but I wasn't firstborn son. And as things turned out, I'm glad I didn't get the Holding. If you make the best of your situation, you may find one day that you wouldn't have had a better life if you'd chosen it yourself."
How could she know? he fumed. I hate her. So help me, I hate her. Everything she does is so damned perfect! She never says anything, but she doesn’t have to; all she has to do is give me that look. If I hear one more word about how I 'm supposed to like this trap that's closed on me, I may go mad!
He turned over on his back, and brooded. It wasn't even sunset - and he was stuck here with his lute staring down at him from the wall with all the broken dreams it implied.
And nothing to distract him. Or was there?
Dinner was over, but there were going to be people gathered in the Great Hall all night. And there were plenty of people his age there; young people who weren't Bard trainees, nor Herald proteges. Ordinary young people, more like normal human beings.
He forgot all his apprehensions about being thought a country bumpkin; all he could think of now was the admiration his wit and looks used to draw at the infrequent celebrations that brought the offspring of several Keeps and Holdings together. He needed a dose of that admiration, and needed its sweetness as an antidote to the bitterness of failure.
He flung himself off the bed and rummaged in his wardrobe for an appropriately impressive outfit; he settled on a smoky gray velvet as suiting his mood and his flair for the dramatic.
He planned his entrance to the Great Hall with care; waiting until one of those moments that occur at any gathering of people where everyone seems to choose the same moment to stop talking. When that moment came, he seized it; pacing gracefully into the silence as if it had been created expressly to display him.
It worked to perfection; within moments he had a little circle of courtiers of his own flocking about him, eager to impress the newcomer with their friendliness.
He basked in their attentions for nearly an hour before it began to pall.
A lanky youngster named Liers was waxing eloquent on the subject of his elder brother dealing with a set of brigands. Vanyel stifled a yawn; this was sounding exactly like similar evenings at Forst Reach!
"So he charged straight at them - "
"Which was a damn fool thing to do if you ask me," Vanyel said, his brows creasing.
"But - it takes a brave man - " the young man protested weakly.
"I repeat, it was a damn fool thing to do," Vanyel persisted. "Totally outnumbered, no notion if the party behind him was coming in time - great good gods, the right thing to do would have been to turn tail and run! If he'd done it convincingly, he could have led them straight into the arms of his own troops! Charging off like that could have gotten him killed!"
"It worked," Liers sulked.
"Oh, it worked all right, because nobody in his right mind would have done what he did!"
"It was the valiant thing to have done," Liers replied, lifting his chin.
Vanyel gave up; he didn't dare alienate these younglings. They were all he had -
"You're right, Liers," he said, hating the lie. "It was a valiant thing to have done."
Liers smiled in foolish satisfaction as Vanyel made more stupid remarks; eventually Vanyel extricated himself from that little knot of idlers and went looking for something more interesting.
The fools were as bad as his brother; he could not, would never get it through their heads that there was nothing "romantic" about getting themselves hacked to bits in the name of Valdemar or a lady. That there was nothing uplifting about losing an arm or a leg or an eye. That there was nothing, nothing "glorious" about warfare.
As soon as he turned away from the male contingent, the female descended upon him in a chattering flock; flirting, coquetting, each doing her best to get Variyel's attention settled on her. It was exactly the same playette that had been enacted over and over in his mother's bower; there were more players, and the faces were both different and often prettier, but it was the identical seript.
Vanyel was bored.
But it was marginally better than being lectured by Savil, or longing after the Bards and the Gift he never would have.
" - Tylendel," said the pert little brunette at his elbow, with a sigh of disappointment.
"What about Tylendel?" Vanyel asked, his interest, for once, caught.
"Oh, Tashi is in love with Tylendel's big brown eyes," laughed another girl, a tall, pale-complected redhead.
"Not a chance, Tashi," said Reva, who was flushed from a little too much wine.
She giggled. "You haven't a chance. He's - what's that word Savil uses?"
"Shay'a'chern," supplied Cress. "It's some outland tongue."