"I'm all - ouch!"
Tylendel froze. "Did I - "
"No," Vanyel said around clenched teeth. "Just get that damned boot off before you have to cut it off.''
But Tylendel dithered over the task until Mardic pushed him out of the way and took over, getting the boot off with an abrupt yank that blanched Vanyel to the color of pure beeswax. He clutched Tylendel's hand while Mardic examined the ankle, pronounced it "probably not broken," and bound it up.
"Havens, teacher," Mardic laughed, rescuing his cup from Donni and returning to sit at her feet across from Savil, "Were we as moonstruck as that? Gods, I feel like I'm being smothered in syrup!"
He nodded at the two on the couch, each assuring the other that his own hurts were less than nothing and fussing over the other's injuries.
"For at least the first five or six months," Savil replied dryly, after sipping her wine. "Just as moonstruck, and just as cloying. And even more sentimental." She raised her voice a bit. "You two might thank me."
"Certainly, Savil," Tylendel replied, craning his head around. "If you'd tell us what we're thanking you for."
"Gods. Vanyel, don't you ever listen?"
"I'm sorry, Aunt," he said, looking confused, his hair still trailing over one eye. "My foot hurt so much I wasn't paying any attention; it wasn't a real lecture, after all."
She cast her eyes up to the ceiling. "Give me strength. I just confined you completely to the suite for as long as I care to enforce my decision, you little ninny. I just got you away from the girl-gaggle and gave you orders to stay here indefinitely. Except for lessons, you'll be here waking and sleeping. That includes taking meals here."
"You did?" he said, dazed. "I am? You mean I can stay here?"
"With 'Lendel, and not arouse any suspicions," she interrupted. "That's exactly what I mean. Fact of the matter is, your damnfool father will probably be pleased to hear that you were - "
She broke off, seeing that she no longer had the attention of either of them. Across from her she heard Mardic snicker.
She favored the lifebonded with a sardonic glance. "Don't feel too smug," she told them. "Or I'll start trotting out tales about you two."
"Yes, Savil," Mardic replied, not in the least repentant. "Whatever you say. Would you care for honey in that wine?"
Savil spared a glance back toward the couch. Tylendel was rebandaging Vanyel's ankle, treating it as if it were as fragile as an insect's wing. She made a face.
"I think not," she replied. "We've got enough sweetness around here for one night.''
Tylendel looked up, and stuck his tongue out at her, while Vanyel blushed.
Savil chuckled and sat back in her chair, well content with her world. At least for the moment, she thought, taking another sip of spiced wine, which is all any Herald can reasonably hope for. I'll worry about tomorrow when tomorrow gets here.
Seven
Tylendel sprawled in his favorite chair, and watched Vanyel restringing his lute, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Candlelight reflected in a honey-colored curve along the round belly of the instrument.
Is it time? he wondered. He plays for the girls, but they don't matter. He doesn’t care if he plays well or badly for them. Will he play for someone he loves, someone who does matter? Can he? Has he recovered enough?
Only one way to find out, though.
' 'Ashke,'' he said quietly, extending his little Gift of Empathy as far as it would go. Van lifted his head from his work; he looked rather comical with the old strings dangling from his mouth like the feelers on a catfish.
"Mph?" he replied.
"When you get Woodlark in tune, would you play for me?"
Vanyel froze. Tylendel Felt the startlement - and the ache. And reacted to them.
"Please? I'd like it."
Vanyel took the strings out of his mouth, and Tylendel could sense his withdrawal. "Why?" he asked, bitterly, his eyes shining wetly. "There's dozens better than I am right here at Bardic. Why listen to a half-crippled amateur? ''
Tylendel restrained his natural reaction - which was to go to him, hold him, ease his hurt that way. That would ease it all right, but it wouldn't cure it. "Because you aren't half-crippled anymore," he replied. "Because you aren't an amateur. You're good; the Bards all say so."
"But not good enough to be one of them." Vanyel turned away, but not before Tylendel saw tears in his eyes. And Felt the anguish.
"That's not true," he insisted gently. "Look, Van, it's not that you aren't good enough. It's that you just don't have the Gift. Can a blind man paint?"
Vanyel just shook his head, and Tylendel could sense his further withdrawal. "It's not the same thing," he said, tightly. "The blind man can't see a painting. But there's nothing wrong with my ears."
Tylendel searched for something that might reach this wounded corner of his beloved, and finally found it.
"Ashke, why do you think there are minstrels trained at Bardic? Why do you think that people welcome minstrels when there are Bards about?" He'd asked that same question of Breda, who had all three Bardic Talents: the Gift, the Skill, and the Creativity. Her answer had been enlightening.
Vanyel shook his head, still tightly bound up inside himself. "Because there aren't enough Bards to go around, just like there aren't enough Heralds or Healers."
"Wrong," Tylendel said firmly, "and I have this from Breda. There are times when the Gift gets in the way of the music. ''
"What?" Vanyel's head whipped around in startlement, and Tylendel saw the shine of tears on his cheek. "What do you mean by that?"
"Just what I said." Now was the time to rise and go to Vanyel's side, and Tylendel did just that. "Listen to me; just what is the Bardic Gift, hmm? It's the ability to make others feel the things you want them to through music. But when a Bard does that, you can't keep your mind on the music, can you? You never really hear how beautiful it is; you're too busy with what the Bard is doing. You never really hear it for itself, and when you remember it, you don't remember the music, you remember the emotions. There's another reason; when the Bard performs, you put nothing of yourself into the listening. But when a minstrel performs, or a Bard without the Gift, you get out of the music exactly what you put into thelistening." He chuckled, and reached for Vanyel's limp hands. "Breda said that in some ways it's a little like making love with a paid courtesan or with your lover.
Your lover may not be as expert, but the experience is a lot more genuine."
"Breda said that?" Vanyel faltered.
"In her cups, yes." He didn't add it had been here, in Savil's quarters, the evening she'd tested and failed Vanyel. Breda had a very soft heart beneath that bony chest; she'd not enjoyed destroying Vanyel's hopes, even indirectly. "They do say that there's truth in the bottom of every wine bottle." He paused, and raised one eyebrow at his lover. "She also said that if you weren't your father's heir, they'd snap you up so fast you'd leave your boots behind."