Crucible

by Mercedes Lackey

It wasn’t that she didn’t like people—she simply didn’t like large groups of them. Aliant seemed to be the same way.

  Syrriah wished Riann weren’t on Circuit; perhaps she could have gotten through to the boy better.

  :Zhiol says he’s fine,: Cefylla said. :He’s just not very sociable.:

  Indeed, as soon as Aliant finished his meal, he stood, picked up his tray, bid her a gracious good day, and left.

  “Guess it’s just you and me, Cefylla,” Syrriah said.

  :Always, my dove. Always,: Cefylla said.

  • • •

  That afternoon she had weapons training. Normally they practiced in the salle, a wooden building with high, clerestory windows. But it was too beautiful to stay indoors. The bright, mild spring day had infected everyone, it seemed: all the Trainees were in high spirits, bantering as they sparred and ran through various exercise drills.

  Even the instructors seemed more inclined to suggest drills that were less like work and more like games. Laughter floated on the breeze.

  Syrriah’s laugh was among them. She might not have been as fast or as agile, but sometimes she saw opportunities where others didn’t.

  Swordplay was clearly not her forte; she and the instructors had learned that quickly enough. She couldn’t successfully spar with the younger children because she was just too . . . big, and the older ones tended to hold their blows with the wooden practice swords, not wanting to bruise someone who, quite frankly, reminded them of their own mothers.

  It was different with Weaponsmistress Kayla, who was fierce and muscled and strong. She might have had more wrinkles than Syrriah, but her hair was still jet black. No student worried about holding their blows with her.

  By contrast, Syrriah had gained the rounded shape of a woman past her birthing years, and silver had begun to thread through her hair. That said, she’d already seen changes to her body since she’d begun training, her arms and legs leaner, her spine stronger.

  Syrriah continued to train with swords as part of her fitness regime, and the instructors sometimes used her to demonstrate techniques, so she got some real practice in. While she would never master the weapon, it was important she be able to defend herself to some degree.

  The better plan, of course, would be to not get into a situation where she needed to.

  During a break, the twenty students sprawled on the cool grass in a loose circle. Syrriah realized for the first time that Aliant was part of the class—to her surprise, she realized she hadn’t really noticed him before, although as she thought back, she realized he’d been there all four months. He was just so quiet and unassuming. Even now he sat a bit separate from the others, quietly stretching and drinking from a reddish-brown leather waterskin.

  Syrriah pulled an apricot out of her pouch and sank her teeth into the juicy, sweet flesh. The rest were chattering excitedly about some competition, and Syrriah asked about it.

  “The blues have issued us a challenge,” explained Laella, the third-year girl who sat next to her. She was taller than Syrriah, and wore her long, auburn hair in two intricate braids. “There will be swordplay, wrestling, archery, sparring, foot races, and Kirball and balls-and-hoops. Maybe more.”

  The “blues” she referred to were the unaffiliated students at Collegium, who wore pale blue uniforms as opposed to the Herald Trainees’ gray, the Healer Trainees’ pale green, and the rust-brown of the Bardic Trainees. Often highborn children, the unaffiliated students represented two distinct groups: the scholars, who were there for the general education, and the artificers, who studied to become inventors and builders and technicians.

  “So we’re trying to choose who should represent us in each contest,” said Confrey. “Four in each, except for the Kirball and balls-and-hoops teams, of course.”

  Confrey was on the short side but had a sturdiness to him, and he was one of the best sword fighters because he was so fast. One moment you’d be swinging at him, and the next he was nowhere near where your sword was going.

  “Confrey will definitely be one of our swordspeople,” Tanrea said, confirming what Syrriah was thinking, and Confrey lowered his eyes modestly. He was a kind and fair boy on and off the field; Syrriah had more than once seen him taking the time to help some of the younger children with their drills.

  Tanrea, nearing the completion of her fifth year and soon to be preparing for her training Circuit, was soft-spoken and slight but was emerging as a clear leader. Others followed, and would continue to follow her, out of respect and love.

  Syrriah was almost certain Tanrea and Confrey were in a relationship, although they showed no outward displays of affection. Even now they sat apart, but Syrriah felt the yearning between them. It reminded her of her early days with Brant and made her smile. She hoped they would have even half the love she had shared with her husband.

  “You know,” Confrey said, “Syrriah’s a fine shot with a bow.”

  “Thank you,” Syrriah said, feeling inordinately pleased. She’d been shooting since she’d been younger than he was now, and she and Brant had often hunted together to add food to their table. She was glad she’d found a weapons form at Collegium in which she could excel.

  “But you’re . . .” Laella trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Too old?” Syrriah finished, amused. It wasn’t something she could take offense at, as it brushed against the truth.

  “Not ‘too old’ in the sense that you couldn’t beat any of the blues,” Tanrea said. “It’s more a problem that the blues might feel your age gives you too much of an advantage.”

  “Because I have more experience,” Syrriah said, nodding. “I understand, and they would have a very good point. The contests should be between students who’ve had the same opportunities to practice their skill.”

  “Perhaps we could find another way for you to participate,” Tanrea said.

  “I oversaw a manor for twenty years,” Syrriah said. “I could help with organizing. But first, tell me who else you’ve been considering for the different contests.”

  A jumble of voices spilled over her as the entire group tossed out their suggestions.

  “What about Aliant for the foot races?” Syrriah asked.

  “Aliant . . . ?” Laella frowned, then her face cleared and she looked over her shoulder at him. Everyone else looked, too, and they met his startled expression, which clearly asked Me?

  “That’s true,” Conrey said. “You do run a lot—I’ve seen you in Companion’s Field.”

  “The second day’s race is a long one; we’re setting up a course that’ll go all over the Field,” Tanrea added. “You’d be a perfect addition to the team.”

  Aliant’s mouth worked, and then he said, “Just running? I don’t have to play Kirball or anything?”

  “Just running,” Tanrea said with an encouraging smile.

  He huffed out a breath. “All right, I’ll do it.”

  Syrriah smiled, too, pleased that he’d been willing to get involved. Still, when the bell rang to call them to their next classes, he didn’t join the still-chattering group, but walked by himself. She didn’t feel the spark of energy she’d felt when she’d spoken to him briefly at lunch, when he’d told her about his Companion.

  She couldn’t quite place what she felt from him; it buzzed in the back of her head like an annoying, biting fly she wasn’t fast enough to swat.

  • • •

  The first day of the competition had been sunny and warm, and excitement had been high. The second day, however, drizzled with rain, and the spirits of the competitors and spectators—at least on the Herald Trainees’ side—was as glum as the low gray clouds, thanks to the fact that they hadn’t done as well as they’d hoped the day before.

  They were behind by only a few points, though, and Tanrea did her best to encourage this day’s participants while Syrriah tended to the schedule and
made sure everyone had what they needed.

  The cross-country race started at midday. On the Herald Trainees’ side were two boys and two girls; the blues had only one boy and three girls, including one tall, long-legged redhead who moved like a racehorse, vibrating with energy.

  Companion’s Field was several acres of rolling meadow, with low hills, copses of shady trees, and meandering small streams. Home to all Companions, it also included a heated stable, granary, and large tack building that, with its two large fireplaces, was also a comfortable place to gather. The Companions chose to stay in the warm, dry stable on this damp day, although Zhiol remained outside, under the eaves, watching for any time Aliant came into view.

  The course wasn’t set up to be full of obstacles, but the ground would sometimes be uneven, and there would be some streams to cross and rocks to avoid. Syrriah had no doubt the tall girl could leap over them all with ease. But, she also knew Aliant was very familiar with the terrain and could use that to his advantage.

  Syrriah also stood under the eaves with a huddle of other spectators to watch the start of the race. Her heart sank when she saw the other runners take off at a faster pace than Aliant. He had a comfortable, ground-eating lope, to be sure, but within a short time he was in last place.

  :Don’t worry,: Cefylla said. :Zhiol says this is a distance race, not a sprint. Aliant knows how to pace himself, and the others will tire and falter before long.:

  “I hope that’s true,” Syrriah said. After the runners had all disappeared down a slope, she found herself straining to reach out to Aliant. May the wind be at your back, she thought.

  The race would take close to an hour, the way the course meandered and twisted through the Field. Whenever a runner would appear in the distance, topping a hill or bursting out of a copse, the onlookers would cheer. Syrriah kept her thoughts on Aliant. Even if he didn’t win the race, surely it would be a positive experience for him, and help him integrate better with his fellow students.

  She shivered a little and wished she had thought to bring her gloves.

  :You can come inside to warm up,: Cefylla said. :And while you’re here, I wouldn’t mind a few strokes of the currycomb.:

  Syrriah laughed at his cheekiness. “That’s not a bad idea,” she said. As she turned to go inside, pain stabbed through her left ankle, and she gasped, grabbing hold of the smooth, white-painted stable wall for support.

  :Are you all right?: came Cefylla’s voice, laced with concern.

  “I . . . I think so,” Syrriah said, slowly rotating her foot. The pain was already fading. “I don’t know what I did—I just took a normal step.” She hoped it wasn’t another sign of aging: she expected to have a lot more walking to do before she was through!

  :That’s odd,: Cefylla said, but before Syrriah could agree, her Companion continued. :Zhiol says Aliant just twisted his ankle on a rock in the trail.:

  “Will he be all right?” Syrriah asked. Her heart sank, joy turning to despair. Yet a moment later, before Cefylla even answered, she felt a tentative hope again.

  :He’s continuing on,: Cefylla reported. :Zhiol says his ankle is tender but is feeling better with every step. Aliant is very stubborn when it comes to things like this, Zhiol says. When he sets his mind to something, he can’t easily be turned from the course.:

  “I think stubbornness is a trait all Heralds share,” Syrriah said wryly. “If it’s all right with you, I’m going to stay out here. I don’t want to miss anything.” Indeed, she wasn’t feeling as cold anymore, as if the blood pumped through her body faster . . . as if she were exercising, too. Curious. She chalked it up to excitement and her hope that Aliant would win.

  Her heart pounded in her chest when the runners appeared from behind a copse of trees. Aliant and the redheaded girl were first by a good distance. Zhiol had been right: Only three were near the front; two more gamely followed soon thereafter, and the final three had clearly exhausted themselves early.

  A crowd of people had gathered, too many to hide under the eaves, but the eaves didn’t matter, because everyone surged out into the rain, to be by the two red-ribboned trees that formed the finish line.

  The swell of cheering grew as Aliant and his competitor neared. First he would be a step or two ahead, then she would . . .

  Syrriah couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so much excitement. Every muscle in her body felt keyed up, as if she were running herself. She clenched her fists, willing Aliant to draw ahead.

  When he did, she felt a surge of energy wash through her. As she watched, Aliant clearly tapped into the last bit of his reserve, the tiny pocket of strength he’d held back for this very moment. The redhead saw what he was doing and increased her pace as well, but not enough.

  Aliant shot between the trees two steps ahead of her, winning the race and putting the Herald Trainees’ overall score above the blues’.

  The crowd surged forward again, this time to encircle Aliant. The other students called out congratulations, patted him on the back, chanted his name.

  Syrriah’s chest twisted. Suddenly she felt as though she couldn’t breathe, as though she were being crushed.

  A moment later, agony seized her head, so sudden and forceful that it felt as though her skull had cracked like a walnut, a pop! and then astonishingly searing pain.

  Too much. So many. No, no . . .

  Was she dying? She’d heard of this before, of elderly people who complained of an excruciating headache and then lost consciousness and never woke again.

  Must get away . . . please, let me through . . .

  :Syrriah!:

  Cefylla. Yes, she had to get to Cefylla. Cefylla was safe. And if she were dying, there was nowhere else she wanted to be but by Cefylla’s side.

  “I’m . . . coming, dearheart.”

  Syrriah staggered back to the barn, down the long row of stalls, the pain in her head blurring her vision. But she still knew where to go, how to find Cefylla without sight; the Lifebond between them was enough.

  Finally she reached the stall and collapsed in the sweet-smelling hay in the corner. Cefylla’s soft, velvety nose prodded her. :I’ve called for help,: she said. :The Healers are coming.:

  Although the sharp agony in her skull remained, Syrriah’s panic was subsiding. She was safe here. She . . .

  • • •

  Syrriah awoke in her dormitory room. Her head hurt, but now it was more of a gentle throb.

  She reached out to Cefylla.

  :I’m here, my dove,: Cefylla assured her. :Right outside. You’ve had us all so worried.:

  Syrriah sighed with relief. She wasn’t dead, and Cefylla was near. She opened her eyes. The light made her wince. Sunlight streamed in through the curtains, which made no sense because it had been raining.

  She didn’t share the room as most other students did; she wouldn’t have minded, but she understood the awkwardness a normal-aged Herald Trainee might feel. She hadn’t really decorated it because in some ways, it felt temporary; sometimes it seemed unreal that she wouldn’t be returning to Traynemarch Reach anytime soon.

  Woven rugs in muted, dark shades of red, blue, and green warmed the wooden floor. Her bed was surprisingly comfortable, and while the linens were plain, the feather-filled comforter felt almost decadent. Her Trainee Grays were hung neatly in her wardrobe, and her weapons were arranged smartly on a rack. The only concession to her old life was a small portrait of Brant, a lock of hair from each of her children when they were babies tucked beneath the glass and framing him.

  Someone had put a fat bunch of lavender in a simple blue vase, and she knew the sweet scent was useful in promoting calm and rest.

  “It’s good to see you awake,” said a soothing deep voice. “How are you feeling?”

  She turned her head—slowly, to minimize the ache—and saw Andrel, Healer to the Heralds, his red hair contrasting with
his dark green robes.

  “I’m . . . fine,” she said.

  He laughed, not unkindly. “Why is it that when we get to a certain age, we deny that we ever feel unwell?” he asked. He held a cup of water to her lips, and she drank the cool liquid gratefully, because her mouth tasted like socks that had been worn far too long.

  “The truth is, you are fine,” he went on, “insofar as there seems to be no permanent damage. But how do you feel?”

  It was an odd question. Even as she described the pain she still felt—even as that pain was easing as she spoke—she did feel something else.

  Many something elses.

  Emotions roiled through her, and she thought she heard voices, not voices like Andrel speaking to her, but like Cefylla in her head. She strained to hear what they were saying, and the pain flared again.

  “Easy, careful,” he said, even as Cefylla gave a soothing warning. “You need training before you can use your Gift of Empathy effectively.”

  “My . . . Gift?”

  “For most, their Gift manifests in stages, like a flower bud unfurling. But for a few, like you, it builds up like pressure behind a dam; a little trickles through, but the dam can’t hold forever. I suspect it was building up in you for quite some time.”

  :I’ll be here to help you,: Cefylla promised.

  “We have you shielded for the time being,” Andrel said. “You’ll start your training tomorrow. Now, though, if you’re feeling up to it, a few people would like to see you.”

  “Yes, I’d like that,” she said. By the time she’d pulled herself to a sitting position and plumped the pillows behind her, Benlan and Natalli rushed in.

  Tears pricked her eyes as she hugged them close. It took her a while to assure them she was fine, that Andrel had also pronounced her fine, and she could get up anytime and resume normal Herald Trainee activities.

  Only now those activities would include learning about her Gift and how to control it.

  After her children left, her next visitor came in, his steps tentative.

  Aliant.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry you were hurt.”