Stefen laughed, his sense of humor rapidly being restored. “That's why I was telling myself I was an idiot. I was letting them run me into the ground, but I couldn't think of a way to get them to stop. They can be damned persuasive, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” Medren took the other chair and sprawled in it gracelessly. “I know. Heralds are the same way; they don't seem to think ordinary folks need something besides work, work, and more work. I've watched Uncle Van drive himself into the ground a score of times. Once or twice, it's been me that had to go pound on him and make him rest. And speaking of Uncle Van, that brings me right back to the question I started with: what went wrong? You still haven't really told me anything. Take it from the beginning.”
Stefen gave in, and related the whole tale, his frustration increasing with every word. Medren listened carefully, his eyes darkening with thought. “Hmm. I guess -”
His voice trailed off, and Stef snapped his fingers to get his attention. “You guess what?”
“I guess he's gotten really shy,” Medren replied with a shrug. “It's the only thing I can think of to explain the way he's acting. That and this obsession he has about not letting anyone get close to him because they'll become a target.”
Stefen felt a cold finger of fear run suddenly down his back. “He's not wrong,” he told his friend solemnly, trying not to think of some of the things he'd seen as a street beggar. How during “wars” between street gangs or thief cadres, it was the lovers and the offspring who became the targets - and the victims - more often than not. And it was pretty evident from the Border news that a war between the nations and a war between gangs had that much in common. “It's a lot more effective to strike at an emotional target than a physical one.”
Medren shook his head. “Oh, come on, Stef! You're in the heart of Valdemar! Who's going to be able to touch you here? That's even assuming Van is right, which I'm not willing to grant.”
“I don't know,” Stefen replied, still shivering from that odd touch of fear. “I just don't know.”
“Then snap out of this mood of yours,” Medren demanded. “Give over, and let's see if we can't think of a way to bring Uncle Van to bay.”
Stefen had to laugh. “You talk about him as if he was some kind of wild animal.”
Medren grinned. “Well, this is a hunt, isn't it? You're either going to have to coax him, or ambush him. Take your pick.”
At that moment, one of the legion of Healers that had been plaguing Stefen appeared like a green bird of ill-omen in the doorway. “Excuse me, Bard Stefen,” the bearded, swarthy man began, “but -”
“No,” Stef interrupted.
“The Healer blinked. “What?”
“I said, 'no.' I won't excuse you.” Stefen stood, and faced the Healer with his hands spread. “Look at me - I look like a shadow. You people have been wearing me to death. I'm tired of it, and I'm not going to do anything more today.”
The Healer looked incensed. “What do you mean by that?” he snapped, bristling. “What do you mean, we've been 'wearing you to death'? We haven't been -”
“I meant just what I said,” Stef said coolly. “I've been using a Gift, Healer. That takes energy. And I don't have any left.”
Now the Healer did look closely at him, focusing first on the dark rings under his eyes, then looking oddly through him, and the man's weathered face reflected alarm. “Great good gods,” he said softly. “We never intended -”
“Probably not, but you've been wearing me to a thread.” Stefen sat down again, feigning more weariness than he actually felt. The guilt on the Healer's face gave him no end of pleasure. “In fact,” he continued, drooping a little, “if you don't let me alone, I fear I will have nothing for the King....”
He sighed, and rested his head on the back of the chair as if it had grown too heavy to hold up. Through half-closed eyes he watched the Healer pale and grow agitated.
“We can't - I mean, King Randale's needs come first, of course,” the man stammered. “I'll speak to - I'll see that you aren't disturbed any more today, Bard Stefen -”
“I don't know,” Stefen said weakly. “I hope that will be enough, but I'm so tired -”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Medren with his fist shoved into his mouth, strangling on his own laughter.
“Never mind, Bard,” the Healer said, strangling on his own words. “We'll do something about all this - I -”
And with that, he turned and fled. Medren doubled up in silent laughter, and Stefen preened, feeling enormously .pleased with himself.
“I really am tired, you know,” he said with a grin, when Medren began to wheeze. “I honestly am.”
“Lord and Lady!” the Journeyman gasped. “I know but - good gods, you should go on the stage!” He clasped the back of his hand to his forehead, and swooned theatrically across the back of his chair. “Oh la, good sir, I do believe I shall fai - ”
The pillow caught Medren squarely in the face.
All right, Stefen thought, carefully putting his gittern back in its case. I've left you alone except for simple politeness for three days, Herald Vanyel. Let's see if you respond to being ignored. He began tightening the buckles holding the case closed. I've never known anyone yet who could deal with that.
He suppressed a smile as he caught Vanyel making his way through the crowd, obviously coming in Stefs direction. Looks like you won't be the first to be the exception to the rule.
“Bard Stefen?” Vanyel's voice was very low, with a note of hesitancy in it.
Stefen looked up, and smiled. He didn't have to feign the hint of shyness that crept into the smile; Vanyel still affected him that way. “I can't get used to that,” he confessed, surprising himself with the words. “People calling me Bard Stefen, I mean. I keep looking around to see who you're talking to.”
Vanyel smiled, and Stefen's throat tightened. “I know what you mean,” he said. “If it hadn't been that I spent the winter with the Hawkbrothers and had gotten used to wearing white, I would have spent half every morning for the first couple of months trying to figure out whose Whites had gotten into my wardrobe.”
Do I - no, I don't think so. Every time I've tried to touch him, he's started to respond, then pulled back. Let's keep things casual, and see if that works.
“I sometimes wish I'd never gotten Scarlets,” Stef said, instead of trying to touch Vanyel's hand. “I never have any time for myself anymore. And I don't recognize myself anymore when I look in the mirror. I used to know how to have fun. . . .”
Vanyel relaxed just the tiniest bit, and Stefen felt a surge of satisfaction. Finally, finally, I'm reading him right.
The crowd was almost gone now, and Stefen wondered fleetingly what business had been transacted this time. He wouldn't know unless someone told him.
“You did a good day's work, Bard Stefen,” Vanyel said, as if reading his mind. “Randi was able to judge three inter-family disputes that have been getting worse for the past year or more. I'll make you an offer, Stefen - if you promise not to get so intoxicated you can't navigate across the grounds.” Vanyel smiled, teasingly. “We'll have dinner in my quarters, and you can show me those bar-chords you promised to demonstrate the night you played your fingers to bits.”