Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Herald-Mage Vanyel Ashkevron:

I hope I find you well, and that you will forgive me for being unspeakably gauche and coming straight to the point. I am in something of an unusual situation, and in need of your assistance. Two weeks ago in Three Rivers, a young man with the Bardic Gift was arrested for using his Gift to enthrall passersby, while his accomplice picked their pockets. Quite a tidy little racket, I’d say. They probably could have gotten away with it indefinitely, had the accomplice been less greedy. Enough people noticed that every time they stopped to hear the lad perform, they ended up minus their purses or other valuables, that the local city watch began an investigation and caught them in the act. However, the local magistrate feels that the matter is outside her jurisdiction, since the lad is Bardic Gifted. But since he’s not and never has been a Bardic trainee, we have no actual authority over him; compounding the issue is the charge of fraud, and that is certainly not a matter for the Bardic Circle to deal with. The situation is without precedent, and neither of us knows what to do with the boy. I am, frankly, at my wits’ end. I would be forever in your debt if you would agree to arbitrate the case. Since you have the Bardic Gift yourself, I feel you are our best choice of Herald in this matter. I have already enclosed the specifics of the case, so you can familiarize yourself with them, if you are available to do so.

Your most thankful servant,

Bard Dellar, Dean.

***

Stefen could hear footsteps and the jangling of keys coming down the corridor, and they could not have come soon enough. This cell didn’t have a window, so he had no way of gauging time; his imagination, sometimes gift, sometimes curse, never inactive, had tormented him all night with visions of being forgotten in this little corner of hell forever. There was a lantern at the end of the hall that gave off just enough light for his imagination to really let loose. Shadows and rustling noises were probably only rats, but you never knew, could be the ghost of the last poor sod to get left in here, so he was actually a little relieved to see the implacable and slightly squashed face of the jailer this morning.

The routine never varied. One of his wardens came—one was much like the other, and Stefen had long ago given up any hope of trying to garner sympathy from either of them—and gave him breakfast, either plain boiled oats, or a piece of day-or-two old bread, no hope of butter. This he consumed as quickly as possible, because he knew it was all he would get for the day, and that if either of them thought he was “dawdling”, they weren’t averse to speeding him along by means of a cuff to the ears. Then he was shuffled off to the prison wagon (they expected him to have already attended to the necessary bodily functions before they arrived, as Stefen had discovered to the near ruin of his only pair of breeches early on), there to spend the day lurching along roads that were actually only a little bit of road and a lot of hole.

Once on the road, there was little to do but stoke his anger at Gadrek, the bastard son of a whore who’d got him into this mess. Bad enough he’d taken far more than he’d told Stef he had, and kept more than half of it for himself, but as soon as the watch had him, instead of keeping his damn mouth shut about Stefen’s role in the scheme and acting like he was just taking the opportunity to fleece a few marks, he’d made some kind of bargain with the investigators to get a reduced sentence in exchange for information. He told them that everything was Stefen’s idea, and that Stefen had forced him to do it. And nevermind that Gadrek was the one who had proposed teaming up with Stefen in the first place, oh no. And hindsight being perfect, Stefen could see exactly why he had done so; Gadrek was a miserable pickpocket unless his marks were good and distracted. And the worst thing about it was he damn well knew Gadrek was an untrustworthy bastard; he’d figured Gadrek would hold back some of the takings, but that was alright, as long as Stef was getting most of his fair share. But Stefen had made the fatal assumption that Gadrek was, well, smart. Stefen wasn’t a pickpocket himself, but he had known one or two, and it was unspoken rule not to take too much from the same place. Take too much, too often, and people start to notice; people start putting two and two together, godsdammit. So late the next night, after yet another day trying to scrounge up enough money for his rent, the watch had come crashing in his door and dragged him off to jail.

Amazingly enough, at the venerable age of fifteen (or thereabouts) Stefen had yet to acquire a criminal record. At first he’d thought to just act like a scared kid (which he wasn’t embarrassed to admit was not difficult at all) and try to wriggle his way out of it by claiming there had been some misunderstanding. When that didn’t work, he admitted to the fraud with artful tears streaming down his face (oh, to be able to make his stomach growl at will; as it was, hunching over and holding his stomach—which really was empty—would have to do). He hoped that as a first time offender, and as a mere accomplice instead of the one actually doing the stealing, an appropriate display of remorse would get him off the hook relatively easy. But it was no use, and by the time he’d realized he was well and truly in it, there wasn’t a single watchman or investigator who was willing to give Stef a fair shake. They kept talking about this “gift” he supposedly had, and were all convinced he’d use it on them at the first opportunity (to do what, Stefen had no idea). It didn’t matter how much he protested that he had no idea what they were talking about, it all came back to the gift. At first, he wondered if maybe they were talking about the thing he used to do for Berte when she was aching and hungover, but he knew he hadn’t been doing that because he knew what it felt like when he did, and in any case when he’d tried to explain how he used to make Berte’s pain go away, the investigator had accused Stef of lying and trying to confuse the issue. And the bitch of it was they wouldn’t even let him sing; if any of his guards heard him even so much as humming to himself, they threatened, they’d gag him. Stef was always thinking up new rhymes and tunes, and this was the cruelest—not to mention most nonsensical—part of the whole ordeal.

So instead of having a regular trial, he had to be transported to Haven, to some kind of special court, because he, Stefen, was such an apparent big deal that even the magistrate over the entire district had passed his metaphorical coin rather than try him herself. The whole thing was beyond absurd; all Stefen wanted to do at this point was shout at them that he was just a down-on-his-luck street singer, and the worst thing he’d ever done up until now was steal the occasional piece of fruit or bread from a sufficiently inattentive street vender, and on one noteworthy occasion, a cloak from a second hand clothing stall, but they were all making a huge fuss over him being a Bard and abusing this “gift” he supposedly had, and while Stefen was certainly aware that he was a lot better than most of his peers, the idea of Stef being good enough to be a Bard was laughable. And that was what everyone seemed to think was the worse of the two offenses, which made no damn sense.

Over the last few dreary weeks, his youthful confidence that there was no situation that he couldn’t finagle his way out of had faded. Now all that was left was the certainty that whatever he was headed towards, it was something he couldn’t get out of by being the starving artist/child. If the local jays couldn’t be swayed by a pair of big teary eyes, then certainly the ones in Haven wouldn’t. Right now he was figuring his best option was to be honest. Although he couldn’t make up his mind if he should act scared or maybe like a street urchin in a play (it was amazing how easy it was to break into the attic of the theater on Sheaf Street; the unwanted children of Three Rivers were the most cultured beggars in the kingdom, probably, if only bearing a superficial resemblance to a street urchin in a play). Ha ha, caught me your honor, joke’s on me, can’t really blame a body for trying. It depended on the judge, he guessed.

Life up until now had been straightforward. His biggest concern (other than not having enough money) was staying out of the way of the various gangs that ran the streets in the only part of town he could afford to stay in. Since old Berte died, he got to keep all the pennies he sang for on street corners and in the occasional tavern, and it was just barely enough to make sure he had enough money to throw at his landlord. He was damn lucky that he was still able to get enough money by begging during the times he’d been sick and his voice was hoarse from coughing. It helped that he was still small enough he could pass for younger than he was, but it was only a matter of time before he was short on his rent and back on the street, this time without the dubious protection of Berte. Gadrek’s plan had seemed like a solid one, and it likely would have been with anyone else to execute it. If pressed, Stefen would have to admit he felt a little bad about it, true; there were some familiar faces who always tipped generously, but then again a few generous patrons weren’t enough to get by on, and there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to make sure he never had to sleep on the streets again.

But now his plan to try and get ahead a little bit, just enough to let him get a toehold on a slightly better life had fallen through, and he was on his way to the capitol, awaiting trial for he didn’t even know what, anymore. And even if he actually got out of this, he couldn’t go back to Three Rivers, not now that everyone knew what he’d done. He couldn’t hope to get so much as a bent penny there anymore, assuming he wasn’t run out of town the minute he dared to show his face. He sighed dispiritedly. Even staying mad at Gadrek wasn’t helping; his calculating brain kept reminding him that, determined to survive or not, he was completely fucked, and there really wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

Chapter Text

Dellar owes me for this, Vanyel thought viciously as he and Yfandes made their way through the streets of Haven. The previous night had seen a downpour, but the storm clouds had yet to move on by morning, and were still intermittently drizzling. Combined with the chill of late autumn, it was a miserable day for a trip into the city.

:You could have told him no,: Yfandes said, sidestepping a steaming pile of fresh manure.

:I certainly could have, if I wanted to offend him and the rest of the Bardic Circle.: He heard cursing as the people behind him weren’t so observant.

:So let them be offended. It’s no skin off your nose, and there’s no reason the Herald assigned to the city courts can’t handle the case instead. In fact, they should be doing that in the first place, instead of bothering you,: she said, aggrieved.

:Dearest, take it from me, you don’t want one Bard upset at you, much less all the most powerful Bards—in both the Gifted and the political sense—in the kingdom.:

:Still, I think Dellar overstepped himself here. He just wants the prestige—:

:There’s no point in getting upset over it now. Hopefully this will be over quickly, and you can get settled back in your stall until this miserable weather is over.:

She snorted her disbelief at this, and shook her mane at his apparent naiveté.

:It’ll be over quickly if I have anything to say about it,: he replied to her unspoken comment.

:And what makes you think you have anything to say about it?:

Vanyel pondered his possible replies to this, then pondered his experiences on the grand council and arbitrating disputes at the high court, and admitted, :Point.:

***

Vanyel took his place in the judge’s seat in the small courtroom that had been reserved for their use. It felt decidedly odd to be called upon in this capacity; as a battle mage on the front lines, and now as the head of the Heraldic Circle, he was rarely required to exercise his judiciary powers. Well, it’s a change of pace, at least. He had spent most of the last several nights—which he would have ordinarily spent with ‘Fandes in Companion’s Field, or practicing music—studying the case and doing research in the legal library, trying to find out if there had ever been a similar case and if so, what had been done about it. So far it appeared Dellar was right, and there was absolutely no precedent; certainly people with the Bardic Gift had abused their Gifts before, but they were either full Bards or apprentices, and under the authority of the Bardic Circle.

The rest of the Circle followed behind him, until all seven of the council members were seated on either side of him on the dais. Breda was the only one he knew well; he was acquainted with Dellar from sitting on the Grand Council, and the rest he only knew by sight or reputation.

Meanwhile the courtroom itself was filling up with spectators and witnesses: victims and their families, watch investigators, and Bards. The faces showed a range of emotions, from eagerness to curiosity, mild irritation to outright anger.

:They’re probably also upset at having to travel all the way from Three Rivers. This has been dragging on for a lot longer than it should have,: Yfandes reminded him.

:True. Well, let’s get this over with.:

“Enter the accused,” he said to the watchwoman posted at the main entrance. She saluted and opened the door, signaling to the watchmen outside.

Whatever Vanyel had been expecting, it wasn’t this. The boy being led to the front of the courtroom, chains rattling around his bony wrists, was much younger than he’d thought; Vanyel had expected someone perhaps in his late teens or early twenties, but this boy could have been anywhere from twelve to sixteen. His hazel eyes widened at the sight of Vanyel in full Court Whites and the array of Bards in their equally ostentatious Scarlets.

“Stefen—“ Vanyel glanced down at his notes. “Have you a surname?”

“No, milord,” he said, in a voice that quavered slightly. Hardly the voice of the depraved and dangerous rogue Bard the report had made him out to be.

Watch it, Herald, he chided himself. The boy could very well be a master manipulator. Vanyel lowered his shields a little, and extended his Empathy as far as it would go—which was little enough. He did feel a sense of cunning, of trying to find a way to turn the situation to his favor, but that was quickly being overwhelmed by genuine fear and confusion. And Vanyel was picking something up from the crowd, as well. There was the expected anger and desire for justice, and the irritation that Yfandes had perceived, but also a feeling of…betrayal? Curious, that. Letting his eyes unfocus a bit, he looked at Stefen with his Othersight, and could See that Stefen did indeed have a very powerful Bardic Gift.

“You needn’t address me as ‘lord’. ‘Herald’ or ‘sir’ will suffice. You have been brought before this court because you are charged with fraud and willful use of the Bardic Gift with malicious intent. How do you answer the charges?”

“I did help steal, sir. But sir,” the boy said desperately. “I’m not a Bard! And I never tried to pass myself off as one, either! I dunno what the jays wrote down in those reports, but I’m nothing but a plain street singer.”

“A plain street singer?” Bard Hallam sneered. “A plain street singer who beguiled innocent citizens, citizens who were already giving you coin for your performances!—and then proceeded to rob them blind while they were under your influence? Oh, indeed.”

Stefen looked down at his feet, and Vanyel felt the faintest feeling of remorse coming from him. Well, that explains the betrayal I’m getting from the crowd, I suppose.

“Must I ask the council members to please restrain their outbursts?” Vanyel said, with an irritated glance at Hallam. Hallam didn’t look at all cowed—none of them did—but he kept quiet. Returning his focus to Stefen, he continued.

“It requires more than simple musical prowess to make someone a Bard,” Vanyel explained. “Do you even know what the Bardic Gift is?”

“No, sir. The watch keeps sayin' I got it, but none of 'em will say what it is or why it's bad,” Stefen said. Now Vanyel was picking up something else from him; he seemed to be mastering his fear, and now he was getting a hint of indignation from the boy. He really was telling the truth, Vanyel realized.

I am going to have words with whoever is in charge of his case, Vanyel fumed. This is Valdemar, for gods’ sakes, not some petty dictatorship. We don’t just arrest and try people without bothering to fully explain why. He felt Yfandes’ silent agreement in the back of his mind.

Vanyel took a deep breath and let it out slowly to calm his temper. “Stefen, the Bardic Gift is akin to projective Empathy.”

“Oh really, Herald Vanyel, must you play along with his charade? Any—“

“Bard Hallam, this matter may pertain to the Bardic Circle, but it is nonetheless a legal matter,” Vanyel said, summoning all his authority as head of the Heraldic Circle. “One more interruption and you will be brought up on charges for contempt of court.”

He turned back to Stefen, who had managed to go several shades paler. “The Bardic Gift is similar to projective Empathy.” At Stefen’s blank look, Vanyel clarified. “Empathy is one of the Heraldic Gifts; a person who has it can feel what other people are feeling. I don’t mean simply know what they feel, an Empath feels other’s emotions as if he himself was experiencing them. Do you follow?”

“I…think so. Sir.”

“A projective Empath can make other people feel what he wants them to. The Bardic Gift is like projective Empathy, except that Bards can only influence the emotions of others through music.” Now Vanyel was reading doubt and puzzlement, so he continued the explanation.

“Say for example, you were reciting a poem…a tragic poem about a death. Some of the people you were reciting it to might be more deeply affected than others, but still, for all of them, it’s only pretty words. It isn’t real to them. But if you, or any of the Bards in this room, were to set the poem to music and sing it, you could make people grieve. You could make them believe that the things in the song are true, and happening to them. That is what the Bardic Gift is.”

“So,” Stefen began hesitantly. “So you’re saying I can do that. Make people feel things when I sing.” The boy was still certain that there was a misunderstanding at play.

“Yes, you absolutely can. From what I can see of your Gift, it’s very possible that even though you are completely untrained, anyone who heard even a few notes of your song would have been compelled to stop and listen to you,” Vanyel said, sensing the mounting impatience of the other Bards and ignoring it. I'm damn well doing this properly, whatever you think. “Bard Hallam, I believe a demonstration is in order. Would you favor the court with a small performance?” The look Hallam bestowed upon him could not be truly said to be dirty, but it conveyed a number of meanings, not least of which being I know exactly what you’re up to and two can play this game.

Hallam rose from his seat, and with all the ponderous dignity he could muster, he sang a verse from the currently popular version of Sun and Shadow.

Sun and Shadow, dark and light
Child of day and child of night
Who can set our tale aright?
Is there no future but sorrow?

For a moment, he was Sunsinger, longing for what he could never have, and his pain echoed Vanyel’s own. Even as the effect of the song wore off, his heart continued to ache; this pain was entirely his. With an effort, he shook it off, and then felt a brief flash of anger—did he do that on purpose, knowing—.

For his part Stefen looked completely stunned; some of the people sitting in the courtroom seemed close to tears.

“Now do you understand?” Vanyel asked. He was gratified at least that his voice remained steady; his chest still felt tight.

Stefen shook his head slowly. “I don’t—I can’t—I can’t do that,” he said, voice shaking.

Vanyel sighed. “You can, child. Perhaps not as well as that, but you can and have done it, according to several Bards, who were brought in by the watch for the consultation about your case.” Frowning in thought, he made a decision. “I believe that the willful use charge should be dropped, and replaced with accidental use of the Bardic Gift resulting in harm. No one can willfully use an ability they did not even know they possessed. How do you answer that charge?”

Stefen looked—and felt—completely uncertain of what to do. He still can’t quite grasp that he’s Gifted. His Empathy offered him another insight; he doesn’t understand how he can be worth all this trouble.

“Stefen, for the trial to proceed, we need to enter your plea,” Vanyel said, gently. “Do you plead guilty or not guilty to accidentally misusing your Gift?”

Stefen swallowed, and said, deflating, “If you’re saying I did, then, sir, I guess I did.”

Nodding his head at the bailiff, he called for the first witness.

Madam Ava Sands, a middle aged woman and a shop owner, was one of the first to suspect what was going on. With due solemnity, she agreed to testify under the first stage truth spell. She had been a regular, well, patron, for lack of a better word, and had lost quite a lot of money to the scam, having once been robbed while she stopped to listen to Stefen on her way to the counting-house to deposit a day’s profits. And so it went, quicker than he’d expected it to, but the rest of the day would still be a loss. All the townsfolk who had fallen victim to the scam expressed shock and disappointment over what had happened; it seemed that Stefen was a relatively well-known fixture of Three Rivers (at least in certain neighborhoods) and had been singing on the streets and charming pennies from them for years before his enterprise took its illegal turn.

Finally Stefen himself took the stand. He assented to being under truth spell with another subdued, “Yes, sir.”

“Councilors, since the matter of fraud is no longer in doubt, I believe that this time I shall leave the questioning of the accused to you,” Vanyel said.

“I think the question on all of our minds is, why did you do it?” Dellar asked. “Why turn to thievery and dishonesty for your living, when according to the witnesses and watch reports, you are quite talented?”

“Not a good reason, I guess,” Stefen began, not willing to look anyone in the face, and staring down at his hands. ”Just…didn’t see another way. All I was ever good at was singing. I don’t have any family to rely on. Can’t get a job in town, in shops and taverns and the like. I tried, plenty of times, but shopkeeps won’t hire anyone without references, when they’re willing to hire someone outside the family. Can’t buy an apprenticeship, can’t do heavy labor. Just sing. And,” here he dared to cast a defiant look up at the courtroom, “there isn’t a lot of money in busking. There’s plenty of days I go hungry, ‘cause I can either rent a room to live in, and be hungry, or have enough to eat but sleep on the street. Sometimes I get lucky and a tavernkeeper lets me sing for one or two nights in return for meals, but it’s never been something I can count on. There’s lots more singers than there are taverns and street corners to sing in. And I don’t have an instrument, and most innkeepers would rather have someone who can play, too. There’s always instruments in pawnshops, so I figured, if I could just get enough money to buy something, anything, and figure out how to play it, maybe then I could get a permanent place in a tavern or inn.”

“But why not just steal an instrument?” Stella asked.

Stefen turned to her with a wry expression. ”’Cause that’s a quick way to get both your thumbs broken.” Pawnbrokers being a hardier breed of shopkeeper, it seemed.

“Yes, but by all accounts, you stole more than enough money to buy one,” Bard Tomlin pointed out.

“But I didn’t know Gadrek was taking that much!” Stefen said, desperate. “A lot of times when I sing, I get kind of…not confused, really, but like I can’t think about anything but the song, so I didn’t know he was robbing that many people. I was going to stop as soon as I had enough, I swear, but he kept most of it and lied to me about how much he was taking.” The blue glow of the truth spell never wavered.

Well, damn.

“If there are no more questions, Councilors?”

“No, Herald,” Bard Dellar said in resignation. “I think we’ve heard all we need to hear.”

“Then we shall begin the deliberations,” Vanyel said. Stefen was dismissed from the stand, and Vanyel and the Bards rose and retired to the office behind the courtroom.

***

Vanyel refrained from giving in to the urge to sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. Now comes the fun part, trying to figure out and agree on what to do with the boy.

Dellar opened. “If only we could have gotten our hands on him sooner,” he said with regret. “To think of such talent gone to waste like that.”

“Well, it’s a sad situation all around, but the fact is, he has the Gift, and he’s already proven he can’t be trusted with it. I’m afraid I don’t see any other way of dealing with the boy other than excising his Gift,” Hallam said.

There was an outcry from the rest of the council. “That’s barbaric,” Breda said, standing up. “It’s no different than cutting off his hand if he were unGifted.”

“It’s the only way,” Hallam persisted. “An orphan, raised in poverty? Without any sort of moral or ethical education? He might be genuinely sorry for what he did, and he might even have every intention of never doing it again, but in a year? Two years? He will be tempted. He’s abused his Gift once; you can be sure he’ll do it again. And in the future he will take precautions not to get caught. We don’t dare take the risk.”

“What you’re talking about doing is punishing him for having the bad luck to be poor, not breaking the law,” Vanyel said, taking up the thread. “To say nothing of the madness of preemptively punishing someone for something he might do in the future! Furthermore, I was Empathically reading Stefen during the entire trial. There was no maliciousness in my readings, and you all heard his testimony. He had no intention of the scam going as far as it did. Can any of us fault someone for using whatever abilities he has to survive?"

“Oh, be reasonable, Herald Vanyel! He broke the law and abused his Gift, whatever his intentions were. Just what, exactly, do you propose we do? Accept his apology and turn him loose on the population, with no safeguard other than his promise to never do it again?”

Vanyel felt his temper rising, despite his efforts to control it. “I propose that you do what we in Valdemar have always done with our Gifted youth. Train him.”

That had the expected reaction. “You mean you want us to admit him to the Collegium? A lawbreaker?” Dellar said in disbelief.

“On probation, of course,” Vanyel added.

“Oh, of course, probation solves all the problems that will undoubtedly arise. As if the Bardic students aren’t bad enough as it is without an example like this set before them! They’ll see it as a reward for his behavior! Not to mention what it will do to our reputation; how many of our students will we lose when their parents find out we’ve admitted a common thief and choose to find an alternate means of educating their children?” Hallam countered.

“How much prestige will you lose, you mean,” Vanyel said angrily. “And Dellar, you already said you would have admitted him to the Collegium if he were younger. Well, what difference does his age make? He’s a bit old to begin, I’ll grant you,” he added, “but that’s no reason to deny him the opportunity to better himself.”

“But he’ll need sponsorship,” Hallam said desperately, playing his final card.

“Then I will sponsor him,” Vanyel cut him off.

“That is…highly irregular, Herald,” Dellar said.

And well I know it, Vanyel thought, wondering at his reaction. The notion of admitting Stefen to Bardic had been completely spontaneous, but it seemed to him to be the best option they had. But it went deeper than that; the thought of him wandering around the streets, hungry and cold and singing for his bread and a place to sleep, or worse, languishing in jail, made him feel protective. Which is what he wants, Vanyel thought wryly. He knows how to use his appearance to his advantage. He’s canny. He’s probably been taking care of himself for a long time. But he’s still a only a child. He deserves this chance.

“Well, my vote goes with Herald Vanyel and Bard Breda,” Bard Tomlin broke in. “Taking away Stefen’s Gift should be a measure of absolute last resort, and I hardly think what he’s done merits that. And if we want to ensure he doesn't abuse his Gift again, then what better way than to give him the means to earn an honest living?”

“Precisely,” Breda added, relieved there was someone else agreeing with her. “If he had been using his Gift to enthrall and rape women, I can see that warranting excision. But for pickpocketing?”

“So are we supposed to wait for it to occur to him that he can do that?” Hallam exclaimed, half rising from his seat.

“If we admit him to Bardic—which, in case you had forgotten the fact, includes a course on ethics, then if it ever occurs to him, he won’t,” Breda said, rising to meet him.

“Do any of us really know that he wouldn’t, though? Think about it for a minute. I know we teach ethics, but there’s some of it that needs to be learned early on. If we admit him, and he goes on to misuse his Gift again, it could be a huge scandal, aside from the damage he could potentially cause,” Stella added.

“Would you all, for the love of the gods, please stop obsessing over the ‘what ifs’ and ‘he coulds’?” Vanyel interjected. “The issue of possible misuse is a cogent one, but it’s one that could potentially apply to every Gifted person. Any of our trainees are capable of gross misconduct—“

“And you would know,” Hallam interrupted, eyes narrowed to slits.

Everyone went completely silent; the shock and disbelief in the room was almost palpable. Vanyel felt himself go cold, and returned the glare. Do you really think throwing that in my face is going to get me to back down, you supercilious old bastard? Clenching his jaw, he said, “Better than most.”

For a moment no one said anything. But Lynelle, who had a reputation for being rather irrepressible, soon picked up the thread of the debate. “Hallam, you’re a horse’s ass.” Irrepressible doesn’t begin to cover it, Vanyel thought, suddenly fighting the urge to grin. “Sometimes, you just have to have faith in people. Hell, with the Gift as rare as it is, it would be damn near criminal to either turn him loose without training him first, or snuffing it out. Give the boy a chance. If you're right and it ends up being a mistake, well, Bardic has weathered scandals in the past.”

With Lynnelle firmly on the side of Breda and Tomlin, everyone in the room cast surreptitious glances at Chadran, the only Bard who had yet to voice an opinion. “Everyone has raised some valid points." Chadran said, before taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, the sound of a man who is about to commit to something he still has reservations about. "But I think the boy may be worth the risk. Certainly we’ll need to keep a closer watch on him, but who knows, maybe he’ll surprise us and end up one of the better students?”

Four to three. Thank you, Chadran. “Then it’s decided,” Vanyel said. Hallam said nothing, but sat, fuming. Dellar shrugged his massive shoulders and accepted defeat graciously. “Stefen is to be admitted to Bardic Collegium on probation for, oh, one year seems appropriate. He’ll need someone to stand surety.”

“I will,” Breda volunteered. “Since I’m head of the apprentices anyway.”

“Thank you,” Vanyel said. “If no one else has anything to add?” he addressed the rest of the Circle. “Then let’s proceed.”

They stood up and filed out of the office. :I don’t know about you, Dearheart, but I am not at all sanguine about how everyone else is going to take this.:

:They all heard his testimony, and he didn’t lie even once. I think that most of why they’re upset is because they really did like him, so maybe they’re in a forgiving mood.:

They took their seats, and Vanyel called the court to order for the final time. “Stefen, by your own admission and the testimony of this court, you are found guilty of fraud and accidental use of the Bardic Gift resulting in harm. However, given your youth and lack of a preexisting criminal record, you are sentenced to probation for one year. And in order to prevent you from doing more harm with your Gift—accidental or otherwise—the Bardic Circle has decided that the only appropriate action to take is to admit you to the Collegium.”

I just hope we aren’t setting the fox among the hens.

:I doubt it,: Yfandes interjected cheerfully. :I think it’s more like the cygnet among the chicks. Except the cygnet is a lot cleverer than the chicks. I think Bardic is about to become a much more…interesting place than it already is.

Vanyel his his smirk and replied, :I don't doubt, love.:

Chapter Text

It was an interminable wait, with nothing to do but just stand there with the whole courtroom staring at him while the Bardic Circle decided his fate. He thought almost longingly of the prison wagon; at least no one could see him inside of it. At least then he’d still had the tiniest crumb of hope.

At least he hadn’t known that Herald bloody Vanyel was what he was riding towards—gods, didn’t the man have some demons to slay? What the hell was so damn terrifying and important about Stefen that he warranted this kind of attention? All right, so maybe he really did have this Gift—and he shuddered in memory of the small “performance” he’d been subjected to—but was what he’d done really that bad? Although it was nice to finally know what the hell was going on, but it wasn’t like it mattered because he really was still fucked. He was a stupid, naïve, cocksure idiot to ever think he’d stood a chance of getting out of this.

And now the Bards and Herald Vanyel were coming back in the courtroom. Stefen’s stomach clenched, and he swallowed hard. When he heard the sentence of probation, he felt almost faint with shock and relief, but then—What the hell? Admitted to the Collegium? Stef didn’t have the first clue what a collegium was, and he didn’t like the sound of it, but then he noticed that the one Bard who had really seemed to have it out for him looked like a wet cat—coldly furious and full of bedraggled dignity. Huh. So, he doesn’t like what’s been decided, which means…what, exactly? But the Herald wasn’t done talking, he realized.

“We hope you understand that this is not a reward. This is a second chance,” Herald Vanyel said earnestly. “If you ever again use your Gift to take advantage of people or break the law, we will have no choice but to expel you from the Collegium and put you back in jail, and possibly have your Gift permanently removed, depending in the severity of the offense. I promise you that would not be pleasant, and there is every possibility you could be damaged in the process. I remand you now into the custody of Bard Breda, who is charge of the apprentices. She has agreed to stand surety for you while you are on probation.”

The guardswoman took the chains off his wrists, and he stood there, rubbing where they had chafed, while everyone in the courtroom got up and started leaving. Bard Breda, a middle aged woman with short, graying brown hair, made her way over to him from the dais and said, “All right, let’s get you sorted.”

She glanced at the group of people milling about the main entrance, then took his arm and steered him through the side door she and the other Bards had used. From there it was a maze of doorways and corridors, then out into the streets of Haven.

“First things first: we’ll get you into uniform, grab a late lunch, and find out how much you already know and what classes you’ll need to take,” she told him. “I’m not going to lie to you; right now it may seem that you’ve landed in the cream, but there may very well be times in the future you’d wish you were back in jail. And I’m not talking about all the things you’ll need to learn to catch up with your year group.” She gave him a look out of the corner of her eye. “Over half of the Gifted Bardic trainees are from highborn families. And there are plenty more unGifted highborn who are there to study music or just to take the general classes. The rest are a mix of commoners, some from wealthy families, some not, but, ah, it’s safe to say you are going to become fairly notorious….“

Stefen said nothing to this. He was still trying to figure out what was going on. It seemed completely impossible, but…it almost sounded like they meant to turn him into a Bard. And that couldn’t be true. Could it?

Breda seemed a little taken aback by his lack of reaction, but Stefen had learned a long time ago that when you didn’t know what was happening, the worst thing to do was admit the fact. Better to stall and try to figure it out on your own. But the Bard pursed her lips, and kept talking. And the more she talked about what it took to become a Bard, the more he thought they really did mean to make him one. Why else would she be telling him all this?

Being a Bard was more than just being a superior musician and having the Gift, it seemed. Breda said that sometimes Bards acted as diplomats, or they held important positions in the royal court, so Bards had to be well mannered and well educated, and learning to read and write was only the start of it. Ideally, Bards could read and write and speak other languages, and know at least the basics of history, mathematics, and sciences.

The law courts were already in one of the nicer parts of the city, and Three Rivers itself was a respectable size, but there was nothing in the city he’d grown up in like the mansions that were now lining the road. Many of them were barely visible behind the huge walls surrounding them, and he stared at them enviously, feeling a flash of resentment. Like as not all the Bards and Heralds had houses like that, and what the hell did they know about earning a living? What made them think they could judge what he’d done, when they’d never had to make the choices that he had. They probably got dozens of servants, and never have to lift a finger to help themselves. They can have all the fancy food and fancy clothes they want. And they look down their noses at me, like I don’t have a right to get by. And then tell me I gotta do all this stuff, or go back to jail.

Stefen was hardly in the best of shape after all those weeks of not being able to walk around much. He was starting to get really tired, and he hoped that wherever she was taking him, they would get there soon, because he remembered now she’d said something about lunch, and even if it was more stale bread or porridge, he’d take anything that wasn’t spoiled right now. Then they turned down a new avenue, at the end of which was another set of massive gates, except they weren’t quite massive enough to hide the building behind them.

“The Royal Palace and Collegia Complex,” Breda told him proudly. “Where you’ll live and study for the next few years.”

As they approached, the walls turned out to be grander than anything they’d passed down in the city, intricately carved with images of people and horses—old kings and queens, Stefen guessed, and a horse with wings. Closer, and Stefen could see there was a guard post, checking and inspecting everyone and everything that came to the gate. When it was their turn in the queue, Breda pulled out a little badge set in a leather wallet and showed it to them.

“Bard Breda, with a new apprentice, Stefen.” The guard eyed him dubiously, and Stefen scowled back at him. He let them through, though, into a huge courtyard with paths made from pale stones, front and center of which was a statue of another man and a horse. The statue’s arms were open wide, as if in welcome. Stefen glared at it, too.

She called me a new apprentice. So they really were going to train him to be a Bard. Taking the long view, it was probably a good thing. But in the short term…she said that most of the other Bard apprentices are highborn and rich commoners. And I’m as lowborn as a rat, and a lawbreaker. Won’t this be lovely.

Breda led him down one of the paths, heading away from the big building in the center that must be the palace. They passed through a big garden, and soon the path led them to another building, smaller but still big enough to be intimidating. This must be the Bardic Collegium they were talking about earlier.

Inside the building looked deserted, but there was noise filtering through the closed doors, voices—and music.

“The first floor is where the classrooms and kitchens are located. Meals are taken in shifts depending on which hall you’re in when mealtimes roll around. It’s plain food, mostly, stuff that’s easy to prepare for crowds, but we don’t skimp on quality or quantity. We’ll get you cleaned up and kitted out, then get some decent food in you.”

She stopped at a door, took a key out of her pocket and unlocked it. “Storage room,” she explained, and left him out in the hall while she fetched whatever she meant him to have, and returned a few moments later with a student uniform and handed it to him. Then she led him to a staircase and up to the third floor.

“The entire third floor is the dormitory; this is the boys’ side. The girls’ side is on the opposite end, on the other side of the far wall. They have their own staircase leading up to their side on the other end of the first floor.” She lifted an eyebrow at him. “It should go without saying, but no girls are allowed in the boys’ dormitory, and no boys in the girls’. Now, over here is the bathing room and privies,” she continued. “You’ll be expected to keep your appearance clean and neat at all times. When you’re finished washing, come by my office; it’s right at the bottom of the stairs on the second floor.”

Stefen eyed the conveniences dubiously. Washing, in his previous life, either meant scrubbing down with a pot of water, a cloth and rough lye soap, or paying to use a public bathhouse (which was only nominally used for bathing). The only times he’d ever been completely immersed in water was when he was foraging in the river, and that was hardly a pleasure, when it was partially iced over during the winter and stank to the high havens in summer. And underneath it all, the resentment still simmered. I suppose I’m meant to impressed and grateful. Water closets and bathtubs that could be filled with hot water by turning a spigot, and emptied by the simple expedient of opening a drain in the bottom, were luxuries even for the upperclass in Three Rivers, and if the apprentices had it this good in Haven, then what extravagances did the full Bards indulge in?

Still, his coldly practical side reminded him that no matter how he felt about the situation, there was damn-all he could do to change it, and would he really rather rot away in a jail cell? So he stripped and bathed, and even his stubborn refusal to appreciate the largesse couldn’t withstand the pure pleasure of sinking up to his neck in hot, clean water, and washing with soap that both smelled pleasant and didn’t remove the outer layer of his skin along with the dirt. He stayed in the bath until the water turned chilly, noting the layer of grime left in the tub after the water drained out with a grimace. Pulling on the first pair of clean and new clothes he’d ever had, he made his way down to Bard Breda’s office, feeling slightly more charitable, despite himself.

Breda seemed to have anticipated that Stefen wouldn’t want to eat in the dining room (or perhaps she deemed it best to delay the reckoning a bit longer); there was food waiting for him in her office, and plain it may have been by Bardic standards, but the savory pastry stuffed with vegetables and gravy was the best food he’d ever had, baring the handouts he and the rest of the beggars got from the temples at Midwinter. When Breda assured him that if it wasn’t enough, they could go back to the dining room and get more, he was astounded. He couldn’t remember many times he’d been able to eat until he wasn’t hungry anymore. Being hungry was just a fact of life. But she’d anticipated his appetite, and there was more than enough to satisfy. He only brought himself to stop because it would be a shame to be sick and waste it all.

Then she started asking him questions, all kinds of questions, with no rhyme or reason he could discern; everything from did he remember his parents at all and who had raised him, and had he ever learned to read and write and do sums. Most of the questions he answered with a blank stare. The only things he bothered to respond to were the questions about music; rhetoric and multiplication and his family history could go to hell for all he cared, but music—the one thing he’d been denied for nearly a month—he couldn’t have pretended ignorance and nonchalance about that. And being reminded again why exactly he was here, to learn how to play music, well, it made him a little confused. He already hated Breda and the rest of them for their smug certainty that he should be on his knees thanking them for plucking him out of the gutter, but they were going to teach him music, and he supposed he had to be a little grateful for that, and that just made him hate them more.

Breda called a halt to the questioning when someone knocked on her door.

“Enter,” she called, and a gangly, brown haired boy with a lute slung across his back came in and bowed slightly.

“Bard Terris said you wanted to see me as soon as class was over,” he said.

“I did. Meet your new roommate, Stefen. Stefen, this is Medren. As you can see I’ve been putting him through his paces,” she smiled. “I think we’ve done enough for the day, however. I’ve showed him around a bit, but would you mind terribly filling in the gaps and helping him settle in? I’ve got a backlog of work to catch up on.”

“Certainly not, Bard Breda,” he said, and Stef reluctantly rose to follow him out of the office. There were lots of apprentices swarming up the stairs on the way to the dormitory, and they joined the crowd. Stefen noticed he was getting a few sidelong looks, but mostly he was ignored. For the moment, he at least looked like he belonged.

“Room’s this way,” Medren said, jerking his head to the left. “So,” he glanced at Stef. “Where are you from?”

“Three Rivers,” Stefen said tersely.

“Huh, that’s a pretty big town, isn’t it?

Stefen shrugged his shoulders.

Medren glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, clearly expecting elaboration, but Stefen kept his mouth shut. He knew better than to trust anyone here, and anyway it was pointless to try and make friends, when doubtless as soon as Medren discovered his origins he’d turn up his nose at best, and try to make Stefen’s life difficult at worst.

“What instruments do you play?” Medren asked as he opened the door to their room, sixth door on the right, Stefen noted.

Stefen shrugged his shoulders again. “I sing.”

Medren eyed him closely. “Huh. Sponsored?”

Stefen shrugged again. He had no idea what that meant.

“Well, I’m being sponsored, by my uncle. There’s not that many of us that make it in just by being talented enough. You must be really good then.”

Stefen scowled and looked around the room. Two narrow beds were set against opposite walls, with chests at the foot of each. One desk with a stool, one sagging bookshelf, and one chair were all the room contained, apart from a rather nice looking rug. Stefen had eyes only for the bed—a real, honest to gods bed, not a pallet. It suddenly felt like the whole month had just caught up with him, and he desperately wanted nothing more than to crawl into one of the beds and sleep for a solid week. He didn’t, though, looking to Medren for his cues.

Medren, like Breda, seemed thrown off by his taciturn attitude, but he rallied. “I just need to put away my lute, and then I can finish showing you around, yeah?”

Another shrug of the shoulders. As long as he could get away with not saying anything, he would.

Medren, thankfully, got the hint that Stefen was not interested at all in talking about himself, so while Medren walked them back to the first floor and showed him the layout, Medren made up for it by telling Stefen his whole life story, interspersed with bits of Collegium and Palace gossip. As little as Stefen cared about the latter, he knew better than to tune it out. On the streets, survival had depended in no small part in knowing which gang had ascendancy, who’s turf it was safe to busk and beg on, who was owed protection money, who it was safe to curry favors from—and all of these could vary from week to week. Politics: the specifics could vary, but the general rules would be the same, Stefen had no doubt.

By the end of the tour, which had included part of the gardens he had passed through earlier, he was visibly flagging. Medren suggested they go back to their room so that Stefen could rest for a bit while Medren washed up for dinner. Almost as soon as Medren was out the door, Stefen was fast asleep.

He awoke later in total darkness, trying to remember where he was and why he felt so warm and comfortable. The sound of deep, even breathing came from somewhere close by, and the events of the day suddenly rushed back to him. And suddenly he thought I could run away. There’s no guards anywhere at all in this place, and I could sneak out the palace gates easy and be miles gone from here by morning.

By now his eyes had adjusted sufficiently to the darkness and he recalled enough of the layout of the place that he thought he could do it without waking anyone up, and probably pinch a few valuables on the way out and fence them in some other town. The only problem was, if he violated his parole that would make him a fugitive. Turning his head to glare at his roommate, he caught sight of something: the chair he remembered from earlier had been moved close enough to his bed that he could reach his hand out and touch it. There was a lumpy shape sitting atop it. Propping up on one elbow, he lifted the cloth covering, which revealed a plate heaped with food; it smelled completely delicious and he remembered now that he was supposed to have waited up for Medren to take him to dinner. He grabbed the plate and huddled with it in the bed, quietly eating his fill for the second time that day as he pondered the changes in his life.