:I'II try,: he replied, smoldering. :Maybe I'll bring my sleeping roll down here. Maybe when word gets around that I'm sleeping with horses she'll stop this nonsense.:
:And if she's stupid enough to try and waylay you down here, I'll chase her around the meadow a few times to teach her better manners,: Yfandes sent, irritation of her own coloring her thoughts a sullen red. :This is getting exasperating. I don't care if she thinks she's in love with you, that doesn't excuse imbecilic behavior.:
Vanyel didn't reply; he was too close to temper that could do the woman serious damage. He folded his cloak tidily over his arm, pretending he didn't notice the whispers of the stablehands as he let himself out of the stall and shut the door behind him.
"There was a problem with my bed last night," he told Tarn, the chief stableman and Withen's most trusted trainer.
Tarn was no fool, and he'd been quietly on Vanyel's side since Van was old enough to ride. He was one of the few at Forst Reach who hadn't changed his behavior toward Vanyel when the nature of Vanyel's relationship with Tylendel became known at the holding. Since his wife was one of the cooks, he was quite conversant with "house" gossip. He smiled slowly, showing the gap where he'd had three teeth kicked out. "Aye, milord Van. I ken. There's some invites a body wish t' give hisself."
Van winced inwardly a little, knowing that this was going to do Melenna's reputation no good at all once this tale got around the keep.
The stablehands went back to their chores, and he wound his way past them, out into the yard between the outbuildings and the keep. He blinked at the sunlight, seeing just one other person, a vague, unidentifiable shadow in the door of the armory.
"Vanyel," called a raspy, far-too-familiar voice. "A word with you."
Jervis. The armsmaster moved out past the door of the armory to stand directly in his path and Vanyel felt his stomach start to churn. In no way could he successfully avoid a confrontation this time. Jervis was between him and the keep.
"Yes, armsmaster?" he said.
"I left you messages, Meke told me he'd passed them on." Jervis moved closer, a frown making his seamed and craggy face more forbidding than usual.
Vanyel kept his own feelings behind an expressionless mask. "That you wanted to spar, yes I know. He did tell me. I'd rather not, thank you."
"Why not?"
"Frankly, because I don't feel up to it," Vanyel replied with cool neutrality, though his back was clammy with nervous sweat. Because I know damned well it won't stay polite exercise for long. Because I know you’re going to push me just as far as you can, armsmaster. I'm going to have to hurt you. And dammit, I don't want to let you do that to me.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Jervis growled, his face darkening. "You think this old man isn't good enough for you?"
"I'm worn out, for one thing. I just spent the night in the stable because there was an unwelcome visitor in my room; that's not my bed of choice, and Meke's damned stud makes more noise than a herd of mules. For another - Jervis, I've been on a battle-line for the last year. Youwere a mercenary, what does that tell you?"
I don't want to inflict more pain when I don't have to. And I'm on a hair-trigger; gods, think about this, you old bastard! Remember what it was like, how some things became reflex, no matter how hard you tried to control them.
Jervis narrowed his eyes. "You look in good enough shape to me. There's nothing you can do, young Vanyel, that I can't handle. Unless you're really no better than, say, young Medren, no matter what all those songs say about you."
The reminder of the treatment Medren was receiving at Jervis' hands was the spark to the tinder. Vanyel's temper finally snapped. "On your head be it," he growled. "I take no responsibility. You want to spar so badly, all right, let's get it over with."
He stalked off toward the armory, a sturdy wooden building between the stables and the keep, with Jervis at his heels. He had a set of practice gear here, made up soon after he returned from k'Treva, gear put together at Withen's insistence and unused until now. It was gear unlike any other set at Forst Reach: light, padded leather gambeson; arm, thigh, and shin guards; main - gauche and heavy rapier; and a very light helm, all suited to his light frame and strike-and-run style.
The armory was not dark; there were clerestory windows glazed with bubbly, thick third-rate glass; stuff that wouldn't admit a view, just light. Vanyel found the storage chest with his name on it. He pulled his gear out and stripped off yesterday's tunic, pulling on the soft, thick linen practice tunic, strapping on the gambeson and guards, and gathering up his helm and weighted wooden practice blades.
This armory was new; built since Vanyel had left home. There was enough room for sparring inside; most of the interior had been set up as a salle. Vanyel was just as pleased to see that. The older building had been so small that all practices had to be held outside. So far as Vanyel was concerned, the fewer eyes there were to witness the confrontation, the better he'd like it.
He was shaking and sick inside; he was going to give Jervis a lesson the old man would never forget, and the very idea made his gut knot. He was not proud of what he was going to do.
But the old man asked for it. He wouldn't take “no,” and he wouldn't back down. Dammit, it's going to be his fault, not mine!
Van dwelled on that while he armed up; a sullen anger making him feel justified, and burning the knots out of his gut with self-righteousness and a growing elation that he was finally going to pay Jervis back for every bruise and broken bone.
Until he realized where that train of thought was leading him.
I'm rationalizing the fact that I want to beat him bloody. That I want revenge on him. Oh, gods.
The realization made him sick again.
He went to the center of the practice area, crossing the unvarnished wooden floor with no more noise than a cat. Jervis looked around after donning his own gear - much heavier than Vanyel's - as if he had actually expected Van to have slipped out while he was arming. He seemed surprised to see Vanyel standing on the challenger's side, waiting for him.
I'II let him make the first move, Van thought, keeping himself under tight control. He's probably going to give me a full rush, and I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to hurt me. Damned bully. But I will not lose my temper. I can't stop my reflexes, but I can keep my temper. I will not let him do that to me.
But Jervis astonished him by simply walking up to his side of the line, giving a curt salute that Vanyel returned, and waiting in a deceptively lazy guard position.
Dust tickled Vanyel's nose, and somewhere in the building a cricket was chirping. Well do something, damn you! he thought in frustration, as the moments continued to pass and Jervis did nothing but stand in the guard position. Finally the waiting was too much for his nerves. He rushed Jervis, but he pulled up short at the last second, so that the armsmaster was tricked into overextending. There was a brief flurry of blows, and with a neat twist of his wrists, Vanyel bound Jervis's blade and sent it flying out of his hands to land with a noisy clatter on the floor to Vanyel's left.