"Melenna and Mekeal's, Father," Vanyel said forcibly. "He's Ashkevron blood, and by that blood, we owe him. Now just how are we paying him? What future does he have?'' Withen started to answer, but Vanyel cut him off. "I'll tell you, Father. None. There are how many wedlock-born heirs here? And how much property? Forst Reach is big, but it isn't that big! Where does that leave the little tagalong bastard when there may not be enough places for the legitimate offspring? What's he going to do? Eke out the rest of his life as somebody's squire? What if he falls in love and wants to marry? What if he doesn't want to be somebody's squire all his life? You've given him the same education and the same wants as the rest of the boys, Father. The same expectations; the same needs. How do you plan on making him content to take a servant's place after being raised like one of the heirs?"
"I - uh - '
"Now I'll tell you something else," Vanyel continued without giving him a chance to answer. "This young man is Bardic-Gifted. That Gift is as rare - and as valued in Valdemar - as the one that makes me a Herald. And we Ashkevrons are letting that rare and precious Gift rot here. Now what are we going to do about it?"
Withen just stared at him. Vanyel waited for him to assimilate what he'd been told. The fire crackled and popped beside him as Withen blinked with surprise. “Bardic-Gifted? Rare? I knew the boy played around with music, but - are you telling me the boy can make a future out of that?”
"I'll tell you more than that, Father. Medren will be a first-class Bard if he gets the training, and gets it now. A Full Bard, Father. Royalty will pour treasure at his feet to get him to sing for them. He could earn a noble rank, higher than yours. But only if he gets what he needs now. And I mean right now."
"What?" Withen's brow wrinkled in puzzlement.
Vanyel could see that he was having a hard time connecting "music" with "earning a noble rank."
"You mean - send him to Haven? To Bardic Collegium?"
"That's exactly what I mean, Father," Vanyel said, watching Medren out of the corner of his eye. The boy was in serious danger of losing his jaw, or popping his eyes right out of their sockets. "And I think we should send him as soon as we can spare him an escort - when the harvest is over at the very latest. I will be happy to write a letter of sponsorship to Bard Chadran; if Forst Reach won't cover it, I'm sure my stipend will stretch enough to take care of his expenses."
That last was a wicked blow, shrewdly designed to awake his father's sense of duty and shame.
"That won't be necessary, son," Withen said hastily. "Great good gods, it's the least we can do! If - if that's what you want, Medren."
"What I want?" the boy replied, tears coming to his eyes. "Milord – I - oh, Milord - it's -" He threw himself, kneeling, at Withen's feet.
"Never mind," Withen said hastily, profoundly embarrassed. "I can see it is. Consider it a fact; we'll send you off to Haven with the Harvest-Tax." The boy made as if to grab Withen's hand and kiss it. Withen waved him off. "No, now, go on with you, boy. Get up, get up! Don't grovel like that, dammit, you're Ashkevron! And don't thank me, I'm just the old fool that was too blind to see what was going on under my nose. Save your thanks for Vanyel."
Medren got to his feet, clumsy in his adolescent awkwardness, made clumsier by dazed joy. Before the boy could repeat the gesture, Vanyel took him by the shoulders and steered him toward the door.
"Why don't you go tell your mother about your good news, Medren?" He winked at the boy, and managed to get a tremulous grin out of him. "I'm certain she'll be very surprised."
That sentence made the grin widen, and take on a certain conspiratorial gleam. Medren nodded, and Vanyel pushed him out the door, shutting it tightly behind him.
He turned back to face Withen, and there was no humor in his face or his heart now.
"Father-we have to talk."
Five
What?" Withen asked, his brow wrinkling in per -
plexity.
"I said, we have to talk. Now." Vanyel walked slowly and carefully toward his father, exerting every bit of control he possessed to keep his face impassive. "About you. About me. And about some assumptions about me that you keep making."
He stood just out of arm's length of Withen's chair, struggling to maintain his composure. "When I brought Medren in here, I knew what you were thinking, just looking at your expression."
The fire flared up, lighting Withen's face perfectly.
And you’re still thinking it-
Vanyel came as close as he ever had in his life to exploding, and kept his voice down only by dint of much self-control. It took several moments before he could speak.
"Dammit, Father, I'm not like that! I don't do things like that! I'm a Herald - and dammit, I'm a decent man - I don't molest little boys! Gods, the idea makes me want to vomit, and that you automatically assumed I had -"
He was trembling, half in anger, half in an anguished frustration that had been held in check for nearly ten years.
Withen squirmed, acutely uncomfortable with this confrontation. "Son, I -"
Vanyel cut him off with an abrupt shake of his head, then held both his hands outstretched toward Withen in entreaty. "Why, Father, why? Why can't you believe what I tell you? What have I ever done to make you think I have no sense of honor? When have I ever been anything other than honest with you?"
Withen stared at the floor.
"Look," Vanyel said, grasping at anything to get his point across, "let's turn this around. I know damned good and well you've had other bedpartners than Mother, but do I assume you would try to-to seduce that little-girl chambermaid of hers? Have I looked sideways at you whenever you've been around one of her ladies? So why should you constantly accuse me in your mind - assuming that I would obviously be trying to seduce every susceptible young man and vulnerable little boy in sight?"
Withen coughed, and flushed crimson.
He'd probably be angry, Vanyel thought, in a part of his mind somewhere beyond his anguish, except that this frontal assault isn't giving him time to be anything other than embarrassed.
"You - could use your reputation. As a - the kind of person they write those songs about." Withen flushed even redder. "A hero-worshipping lad would find it hard to-deny you. Might even think it your due and his duty."
"Yes, Father, that's only too true. Yes, I could use my reputation. Don't think I'm not acutely aware of that. But I won't - would never! Can't you understand that? I'm a Herald. I have a moral obligation that I've pledged myself to by accepting that position."