The Collegium had sent reports about her children, but Syrriah had never asked for additional information, trusting the missives she’d received. It hadn’t meant she was anything less than proud, though.
She refocused on the current issue. “Were there any other indications Keliana was cheating, any other dishonorable behavior?”
He shook his head. “No, but she will neither defend nor explain her actions.”
“May I ask how she cheated? What exactly did she do?”
He leaned back in his chair and considered. Then he leaned forward again. “She was found in Herald Lurias’s office, looking at a test he had prepared.”
Syrriah hadn’t taken any classes from Lurias, but she knew who he was; most of his subjects were for the younger students, subjects she hadn’t needed instruction in.
That fact solidified her suspicion.
“Was Keliana taking any classes from Lurias?” she asked.
Elcarth sat back again, this time with surprise and then clarity shaping his expression. “I . . . don’t believe so.”
“Was her sister, Keysa?”
A slow nod. “I believe she was.”
“And how is Keysa doing in her studies?”
He drew a deep breath in through his nose. “Like Keliana, she’s very bright. She does very well, but . . . she’s solidly in the middle of her classes, I would say.”
“Not in danger of being asked to leave because of poor performance?”
“Not at all. She’s a fine student, just not a remarkable one.”
They didn’t have to discuss the proposition that lay in the air between them: that Keliana had been looking at the test for Keysa’s benefit.
“Well,” the Dean said thoughtfully, the word rolling in his light voice, “I think we need to speak with Keliana again.”
“No,” Syrriah said quickly, and then realized she’d spoken as if he were her peer, which despite the relative closeness of their ages (closer to her than the average student, to be sure), he wasn’t. She flushed. “I’m sorry. I’d like the opportunity to speak with her. I think she might be more willing to open up to me, because I’m not an authority figure. My daughter is also a good friend of hers, so . . .”
“This is very unusual,” Dean Elcarth said.
Syrriah smiled. “I’m a very unusual Trainee.”
• • •
In the end, he agreed.
Natalli was less agreeable.
“I’d hoped you’d stay out of this,” she said.
“I’m on Keliana’s side,” Syrriah said. “I think I know what happened, and if she’s willing to tell the truth, her place here at the Collegium may be reinstated.”
Natalli chewed on her lip, a habit she’d recently picked up, if the chapped condition of her mouth was any indication. “I’ll ask her if she’ll speak with you,” she said finally.
Keliana was willing. To talk, at least. What she was willing to say, well, that would make all the difference.
Despite the cold, they walked outside. Everyone else was smart enough to stay inside, in the warmth, so they had privacy.
Keliana’s dark eyes were red-rimmed but dry, and her mouth was set, as if she’d accepted her fate and would face the consequences with dignity. She had a mien that seemed above her years, Syrriah mused.
“I’ve already told the Dean I have nothing more to say,” Keliana said. “I went into Herald Lurias’s office to look at the test. It was against the rules and dishonorable, and I know I should be expelled.” Her voice was tight. She was clutching something inside, something she was terrified of letting out.
Syrriah still had much to learn about her Gift of Empathy. Shielding herself had been the first lesson, the most important one. Now she focused on what else she’d been taught, and did what she could to encompass Keliana and herself with a feeling of safety. She knew she couldn’t change someone’s emotions, but hopefully she could help Keliana feel she could speak freely.
“But you didn’t look at the test for yourself, did you?” Syrriah asked, her voice soft.
Keliana’s breath hitched—surprise and then a sob. She turned to Syrriah, the sudden movement making her foot slip on the icy path, and she caught herself with a hand on Syrriah’s arm. Her fingers squeezed. “Please, whatever happens to me, tell them to let Keysa stay here. She didn’t know what I was going to do—she’s innocent—she needs to stay.”
“I believe you,” Syrriah said. “I may not have much influence, but I’ll do what I can.”
She was about to add that Keliana ought to explain everything to the Dean, when the girl’s defenses shattered. Tears spilled, and she flung herself into Syrriah’s arms, nearly knocking them both down.
“Natalli told me how wonderful her parents were, but I didn’t believe it,” she whispered. “I had no idea . . .”
And slowly, the truth spooled out of her, a trembling thread she’d kept so tight it had nearly snapped.
Her parents weren’t proud, exactly—they were difficult taskmasters . . . to the degree that Keliana was punished any time she deviated from perfection. Because of how well she’d been doing, she’d been safe here from their wrath . . .
Keysa was another matter. As the Dean said, she was bright and hard-working but not spectacular. The fact that you had to be exceptional just to secure a place at Collegium as an unaffiliated student apparently wasn’t enough for her parents.
So Keliana had hoped to give Keysa some support. She’d been tutoring her younger sister, and when that hadn’t been quite enough, and she’d known Keysa was faltering, she’d chosen to put her own honor at risk.
“I just don’t want Keysa to be sent home,” she said, her voice trembling. “My parents had put their focus on me, and they’ll be angry enough at me. If Keysa’s there, too . . . if they think she’s failed, too . . .”
Syrriah couldn’t imagine putting that kind of pressure on her children, much less punishing them if their honest efforts didn’t lead to perfection. Perfection was impossible.
That they tried, and that they were loved, was infinitely more important.
“We need to talk to the Dean,” Syrriah said, but she didn’t push. Her hands and feet might be numb from the cold, but this was a decision Keliana had to make on her own.
A hesitation, and then Keliana nodded. She pulled away, swiped at her nose. Some of the tears had left frozen tracks on her pink cheeks.
As they walked back, Syrriah saw that they hadn’t been alone after all. Standing by the doorway to the dormitories—well out of earshot but watching from the distance—was Natalli.
The moment Keliana spotted Natalli, she broke into a run. Not quite a full run, given the treacherous ground, but as close a gait as she could.
When Keliana reached the building, Natalli hugged her, then cupped Keliana’s face in her hands, her thumbs swiping at the tear tracks.
Syrriah stopped.
The realization, the understanding of what Natalli and all the others had kept from her, swept through her . . . a breath of a moment before she watched her dearest daughter kiss the girl who meant far more to her than just a friend.
• • •
Syrriah and Natalli walked from the stables together. The weather had warmed—not enough to melt the snow; they were still in full winter—but enough that they could not be bundled up as tightly.
The previous afternoon, after hearing Keliana’s explanation (which she told with Syrriah’s presence and support), talking to Keysa, and then consulting amongst themselves, the Dean and the instructors agreed that while Keliana had gone against the rules of Collegium, there had been extenuating circumstances. She would be censured but not expelled, and the information would not be shared with her parents.
She had shown not only honor but courage in trying to help and protect her sister.
“Thank
you,” Natalli said again to her mother now. “I’m . . . I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I just . . . I didn’t think you would understand.”
Syrriah squeezed Natalli’s gloved hand. “You don’t have to apologize anymore.”
“I thought . . .” Natalli took a deep breath. “I thought you’d say I was too young for a relationship.”
Ah. Despite all the talking they’d done while grooming their Companions, they hadn’t gotten to the real heart of the matter until now.
“It’s not about your age,” Syrriah said. “There are other, more important factors that determine whether you’re ready for a relationship. Most importantly, I want you to be happy and safe.”
“I am—I am now,” Natalli amended. “We know things will change when I leave to ride Circuit. A Herald’s life isn’t easy, and we don’t know what will happen. What we have is enough for now.”
Despite her words, Syrriah felt the twinge of fear and sadness Natalli still hid, deep within herself. The first broken heart is the hardest, even if the girls parted as friends and the circumstances of their lives kept them apart.
A pairing between a Herald and non-Herald was possible, but it was far from easy.
They were near the Collegium building when the sweet ringing of bells filled the courtyard.
The throng of students parted, creating a pathway for a riderless Companion, its coat winter-white but warm.
A Companion that walked, sure-footed and deliberate, to stand before a dark-haired unaffiliated student.
The expression of pure joy on Keliana’s face was a beautiful thing to behold, more radiant even than the sun sparkling on the snow.
“It looks like you have less to worry about right now,” Syrriah said.
Then she felt arms around her, and gathered Natalli into her embrace.
“Thank you,” Natalli whispered again, and Syrriah, content, rested her chin on her daughter’s head and smiled.
Her children were growing up, becoming the adults they were meant to be, and she loved them all the more for it.
Patterns
Diana L. Paxson
Deira jerked around at the sound of a child’s cry, shrill with fear. As she caught her breath, she heard hoarse shouting from the Exile’s Gate, which she had just passed through herself a minute ago.
Was it another riot? The campaigning season had begun, and a new influx of refugees from the Tedrel Wars was pouring into the confusion of suburbs that spread beyond the Old City’s walls. Valdemar’s capital was called Haven, but it was becoming a city of fear, where suspicion was the enemy.
Deira’s rooms were in a safer neighborhood just below the first wall near the gate to the South Trade Road, but the market on the eastern side of the city was a place to find bargains. This had been her last chance to buy washed fleeces from the spring shearing. She had made a down payment on a wagonload to be delivered the next day.
She hoped it would arrive. When every day brought new tales of Karsite agents and Tedrel atrocities, Haven vibrated like an overstressed thread on the loom.
She shifted the sack of Rethwellan lambswool roves she had bought and looked back up the narrow street. At their old home in Evenleigh, the raw materials of her trade were available at the nearest farm, but two years ago, her daughter Selaine’s thirst for knowledge had proved stronger than her love for the village, and she had been admitted to the Healer’s Collegium here. Fortunately, Deira had found a market for her more ambitious rugs and tapestries in the capital as well.
The street was emptying. Two leaning houses shadowed the lane, flaking plaster exposing weathered beams. As the noise increased, a small figure darted into the light, tripped, and sprawled at her feet. An instinct swifter than thought brought her forward, full skirts swirling, as the first pursuers appeared.
“Get’em, get’em!”
“Where’s the rat got to, then?”
City toughs, thought Deira, dropping the bag of wool on top of the child. Youths not big or skilled enough to go to war, but dangerous to a woman or a child. There were six of them—hair spiked and slicked in a clumsy imitation of a recent court fashion, faces red with exertion and nasty glee.
“Hey, Nanny—seen one o’ them Southron ratlings scuttle this way?” said the first, looking her up and down with an insolence from which her nearly forty years and status as a master weaver usually protected her. For a moment the years fell away, and she was a girl scarcely older than this lad, pregnant and fleeing her burning home.
“Thieves, ever’ one of ’em,” a second boy chimed in. “Th’ men take our work, and the littles lift what’s not nailed down!”
“Do your mothers—” Deira began, gathering her forces for the tongue-lashing they so richly deserved. She closed her lips as a quiver at her feet reminded her there was more at stake than her pride, and as the child pressed against her ankles, bent her knees so that her skirts brushed the ground.
“You talk kinda funny, maybe you one o’ them Southrons what say the Sun’s th’only god?”
“I am a respectable widow from Evenleigh,” she said coldly. And there is no One True Way in Valdemar! Her thought ran on, but this was no time to argue theology. “I see no fugitives here—”
The other toughs were already moving on. With a last glare, their leader hurried off to get in front of them.
Deira stood for several long moments before lifting the bag of wool. A boy of three or four years with fluffy, fair hair crawled from beneath her skirts and stood, staring around him like a startled owl. For a moment her gaze was caught by the complex pattern bordering the scarf around his shoulders. As the child gathered himself to run, she grabbed him.
“Carry this so it hides your face, and stay close!” she hissed. “Do you understand?” The roves were light but loose, and the bag was as big as he was. She thrust it into his arms.
She felt the tension in the small shoulder ease and loosened her grip, but she did not release it until they had turned the corner. Then she took the bag from the boy’s arms and tipped up his chin to get a better look at him.
“Mis’tess! I not bad boy, not steal!”
Deira nodded, relieved that she could understand him. Many peoples had gone into the making of Valdemar, and some of their dialects might as well have been foreign tongues.
“What is your name, boy? And where are your mother and father?”
“Name Affi—” he replied, his flushed face crumpling in grief. “Boys chase me. Mata lost, Vata lost . . .” He shook his head in despair.
Somewhere there was a mother in anguish. As I fear for Selaine. Deira thought. But at least my daughter is studying to be a Healer, not a Herald. Far too often the wind brought an echo of the tolling bell that announced the loss of another Herald in the Tedrel Wars.
In upper windows, lights were beginning to glow. From down the street she could hear raucous laughter as the Blue Boar opened its doors. The days were getting longer, but it would be full dark soon. Night was no time for respectable folk to be abroad in this part of town.
“Do you smell that sausage?” she asked softly. “I have some at home. Will you help me eat it? We can look for your Mata and Vata in the morning.”
The boy sniffed, but after a moment, he nodded. Deira held out her hand.
• • •
Deira and Affi were sorting yarn when she heard footsteps on the stairs that led to her second-floor studio. Two days had passed since they had gone back to the market to search for his parents. There had been many with the brightly patterned clothing of folk from the southeastern borders, but none whose garments bore that odd, meandering pattern she had seen on Affi’s scarf. All she could do was leave word as to where he could be found.
Affi had wept silently all the way home, but he seemed to be bouncing back with the resilience of the very young. Deira shuddered to think what might have happened to destr
oy that sunny nature had she not been there.
Leaving Affi to hold the yarn, she went to the door.
Below the woven awning that identified her house and her trade stood a man with the lean build of the hill folk and a smaller woman swathed in a woolen wrap whose borders matched the one Affi wore. Deira stepped quickly aside as the boy galloped past her and into his mother’s arms.
“No need for introductions,” she said, smiling. “Be welcome here!”
Presently she had them seated at her table, and Affi, presented with a fresh scone, fell silent at last.
“Mistress, we be thankin’ you,” the man said with dignity. “We been losin’ our home, but we still live—not so if we losin’ our child.”
“You are from the southeast?” she asked.
“From near Cebu Pass. I hight Jilander Thornsson, my wife, Shireie. I have sheep, ’til t’ Tedrel came.” Bitter memories darkened his eyes. “They kill all. Don’t even eat ’em. We run, but noone needin’ sheepherder with no sheep. Folk say in Haven the men all go fight, they wantin’ folk to work, so we come here. . . .”
While her husband spoke, Shireie looked around, her dark eyes bright as a bird’s. Deira had gotten the place cheaply because it was a single large room. Her rolled bedding and a chest filled one corner, but the room was dominated by the standing loom Affi’s mother stared at now.
Deira looked back at the woman’s shawl, whose border, like the one worn by her son, was woven into the selvage of the cloth.
“Is that your work? If so, you have a valuable trade—”
“What good a weaver got no loom?” Shireie asked bitterly. “We be livin’ now in shed by stable. I cook oats the horses spill. Jilander clean stalls.”
If any of the patrons left him a tip, thought Deira, noting his lean cheeks, it’s clearly going for better food for the boy. She had done the same herself in the days when she was a refugee, scrubbing pots in an inn to feed herself and her child. She winced, visualizing what would become of Affi, growing up in the slums. If he survived the bullies, he would become one himself and trade that sweet smile for a snarl.
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