“So—” Mags began. Nikolas interrupted him with one of his rare smiles.
“For right now, unless something changes drastically, the answer is ‘no, it would be wrong.’” The right side of his mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. “I will make a point of speaking with Herald Caelen about some more lessons I would like you to have—specifically, one which will be less a class and more a series of ethical puzzles.”
Mags scratched his head. “Not sure I follow—what’s a ethical puzzle?” He knew about puzzles, of course, and riddles. Those were games; he had been introduced to riddle games by his new friends. But why would you take a class in such things?
Nikolas chuckled. “Questions like you just asked me. Ethics—that is the slippery side of ‘right and wrong.’ Some things are very obvious, but some aren’t—like when it is ethical to use your particular Gift. You are by no means the first youngling to be concerned with this sort of thing. Normally, Bards and Healers take these classes—they are confronted with the need to make ethical decisions about how to use their Gifts all the time. The Bardic Gift, for instance, is the ability to use music to influence people, make them understand or feel the song you are playing. And that can be a good thing; it causes your audience to connect with you and with the music. But if you use it to influence someone outside of that music—well, your result as well as your intention must be very pure indeed. So we require all Bards with the Gift to take this class.”
Mags’ brow wrinkled. “But wouldn’ that make me stand out? Thought we didn’ wanta do that.”
Nikolas nodded. “That is correct—but anyone with Mindspeech as strong as yours should attend these exercises, too. There will probably be at least one other Heraldic Trainee there, and maybe more, depending on whose Mindspeech is looking strong enough to need something like this. We can’t disguise the strength of your Gift, since nearly everyone that is a Herald is already aware of it. The very best thing we can do, in fact, is to make it very clear that you are strongly aware of how it can be used and misused. And after that—we trust the Companions. As long as the Companions are sure you are still trustworthy, then you should be treated as such by every Herald, at least.” He sighed. “Even if some of us are convinced that the rest of us are so wrongheaded about the founding of Heralds’ Collegium that we should have our ears boxed.”
Mags looked at him soberly, very much troubled. “Sir—there be that many Heralds bein’ at odds with each other? With what’s happenin’?”
Nikolas closed his eyes as if in pain and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “That is just the problem, you see. I don’t know. Some of them have very vocally come up and told me off to my face, but others ... there are surely others festering in silence. And I would not care about dissent if I knew that it would result in healthy dialogue. I do not in the least mind a good argument, and I think the mere fact that the Companions are in favor of this idea should weigh heavily with those who are in dissent and will eventually sway everyone. But it is possible that some of them may be used by other people whose motives are anything but pure. We Heralds don’t know everything, our Companions don’t know everything, and very clever people who are good at manipulation can use peoples’ resentment against them, and against the rest of us. I’m not out to expose or expel anyone, Mags. I just want to keep an eye on the people around them, so I can, I hope, head off any dangers.”
He hates this, Mags realized and, obscurely, that made him feel better.
Then Nikolas looked up and smiled wanly. “And hopefully this will all prove to be the workings of my overstrained imagination and my tendency to worry about everything.”
Mags nodded somberly. “Hope so, sir.”
“Now, let’s try that exercise again ....”
14
THE days of the holiday flew by. What he had thought were going to be empty and lonely times turned out to be neither. When Herald Jakyr did not appear until Midwinter’s Eve, Mags had actually forgotten he was supposed to come at all, and his arrival came as something of a surprise.
For once, the salle was empty. The mercenaries, so the rumor at breakfast said, had gotten into a drinking contest down in a tavern in the city. They had won—barely—but two workmen who had seen them brought back up again in a hired wagon told everyone within earshot that it was unlikely they would be moving swiftly this morning. If at all. From the condition they had been in, and the fact that they were brought up just at dawn, well, the workmen were taking bets on whether they would be seen in public at all that day.
So Mags had the salle all to himself, which he rather liked. He’d been able to set up an archery target inside, something he rarely had a chance to do, which was a vast improvement over standing in the snow to shoot. When he had shot his required fifty arrows, and had decided that throwing knives at his current skill level was going to be hazardous to the big glass mirrors, he switched to simple exercises to round out the workout. He was working out against the pells alone when he heard someone enter the salle. He didn’t look up, however, until he heard a familiar voice say, “Fancy trying your skill against me, youngling?”
And then he whipped his head around and grinned with delight. “Herald Jakyr! I—”
What he was about to say was I forgot all about you coming, but fortunately he stopped himself. That would be—very impolite. Jakyr weighed a practiced blade in one hand and said, with a look of embarrassment touched with a bit of apprehension, “I know you were expecting me, but I was detained. And I can’t stay—”
“Well, you come at last, so I c’n give ye my little somethin’!” Mags replied happily, resolutely tightening his shields against Jakyr’s thoughts. He didn’t want to know what the man was thinking ... but guilt gave them such force that a little of it leaked through anyway .... not someone else, clinging to me, strangling me ...
“Little something? Mags, you didn’t get me a Midwinter Gift—” Jakyr betrayed more apprehension, although if he hadn’t been getting those lessons from the King’s Own, Mags probably wouldn’t have seen it. “That is really unnecessary.”
“Come on, ’s just a bit of nonsense, but Dallen said ye might like it.” He put up his practice blade and headed for the door, and Jakyr had perforce to follow. “I was makin’ stuff for m’ friends for Midwinter, ’cause Dallen said ’twas the thing to do, an’ he reckoned ye’d like these. I got two good friends who are Trainees—ye’d laugh t’ see us—one’s Healer, one’s Bard.” He chattered on about Bear and Lena, and watched Jakyr’s tension slowly ease, in the set of his hunched shoulders that straightened, and in the uncreasing of his brow. So. Jakyr probably had delayed his arrival because he had been afraid that Mags was going to be ... needy. He had assumed he would be the only “friend” Mags had.
Huh. Reckon I’m learnin’ more than I thought I was. He hadn’t been able to read Jakyr nearly so well before. It had seemed that nothing could shake Jakyr—but it appeared that beneath his facade, Jakyr was just as fallible as anyone else. And just as human. This must be Jakyr’s big flaw, that he was skittish about being tied down to anyone, afraid of demands on himself. Well, whatever his reason for that was, it wasn’t Mags’ to sort out.
And he still liked Jakyr, even with having “heard” that unflattering thought. But now he had a lot more sympathy for the Bard that had been his lover. If that was how the man felt about her—well, no wonder she was sharp with him. Being thought of as a weight around someone’s neck—that was enough to make anyone angry. Especially if they were perfectly competent on their own and had no thought to make demands. It was sadly clear that Jakyr saw such things where nothing of the sort actually existed.
In Mags’ case, he had not wanted Jakyr to be a father (as the man seemed to fear he did), nor a brother, nor a mentor, nor even a protector anymore. He had Dallen as a brother, he had friends—and as for a mentor, in a real sense, he had Herald Nikolas, who seemed to have appointed himself as mentor. As for a father, well, he had gotten this far wit
hout one. He supposed he could continue to function without one.
Protector—well, that had always been up to him, to protect himself.
:And you have me,: said Dallen. : I will always protect you.:
He smiled a little. That was no small thing. :Aye, I have you.:
They headed up the hard-packed snow path, the clear, bright light of a cloudless winter day making both of them squint against the glare. The buildings loomed darkly against the hard, bright sky, and with so little activity about the sound of hammering and sawing rang out in the clear air. Jakyr turned toward the Collegium; Mags had to correct him. “I got a room in th’ stable, there ain’t ’nuff room up there. I like it. An’ it lets me be near Dallen.”
Jakyr frowned and looked as if he was about to be angry. “The stable? That hardly seems ... right. A Trainee doesn’t belong in the stable, like some—stablehand.”
Mags only smiled. “What ain’t right is th’ way they got them Trainees packed in rooms up there, like sheeps all penned up t’gether. I got privacy! Ye’ll see—” By this time they were inside the stable, and half a dozen Companions beside Dallen whickered a welcome. Mags waved to all of them, then flung the door of his room open and bowed Jakyr inside.
The older Herald looked around and rolled his eyes a little. Mags was glad he had neatened it up that morning; the small window let in a lot of light, even if the panes of glass were thick and bubbly and no bigger than his hand. The thick walls kept out the drafts better than some rooms at the Collegium did at this moment, what with doors being left open, and access to the roof, too. His back wall radiated warmth, since the ovens had been pressed into use by the Palace kitchens to bake bread for the Midwinter Feasts taking place each night. His bed had been neatly made, and over the course of the last few weeks he had managed to get extra blankets, cushions, even a rug. Candles on the table, an oil lamp on the wall; not even the best rooms at the Collegium were better than this.
Jakyr nodded a grudging approval. “All right, this is reasonably cozy. If things are as crowded up there as you say—I’d probably prefer this, too.”
“Here,” Mags said, taking the little package from the shelf where he had left it, and thrusting it at Jakyr. “Happy Midwinter, sir. Jest a liddle thing, kinda t’ thank ye fer bein’ persistent ’bout getting’ me outa there.”
“Nonsense, it wasn’t—” He opened the package and blinked.
“Jesses! Aylmer jesses! And I take it this is Dallen’s hair! But how did you—”
“Dallen said. Ain’t much Dallen don’t know about,” Mags said with pardonable pride. “Him an’ me, we worked t’gether on these things. Taught me t’ make the braids, he did. Made page markers fer m’ other friends, down th’ hill. Master Soren Mender’s niece an’ her lot. Been spendin’ most of the holiday with ’em, since Bear and Lena’re gone.” He did not add that the page markers were his excuse to see them and vice versa, if they needed to get information from him directly. Just undo the braiding a little, and bring it to him to fix. Or send a message asking him to bring another.
Jakyr blinked. “Soren Mender? Councillor Soren Mender?” At Mags’ nod, he shook his head. “Lad, you are not only like the cat that lands on his feet, you are the cat which has landed on his feet in front of a bowl of cream, and had a trout leap out of the water to land beside him. Next, I’ll probably learn that the King’s Own has decided to be your mentor.”
Mags managed not to choke. Fortunately, Jakyr was looking down at the jesses, which were round horsehair braids with a knot on one end, each about twice as long as Jakyr’s hand. Mags hadn’t the foggiest clue what they were for, but Jakyr seemed very taken with them.
“In any event, I was hoping you could spend the rest of the morning with me. Have you that time free?” He smiled. “Since you’ve been so kind as to give me these, I thought you might want to see my bird hunting.” Since Jakyr looked as if he meant it, Mags nodded.
Together, they took Jakyr’s falcon out for some exercise and enough hunting to satisfy her—she was more than happy to rid the Palace of a couple of pigeons—and Jakyr showed Mags how the little braided jesses worked on the falcon’s legs. She had something on each leg that Jakyr called a “bracelet” that was a bit of leather with metal grommets hammered on each end. When Jakyr came to get her, she had something he called “Mews jesses” slipped through the grommets. These had a loop on the ends that was tied off to a leash. When Jakyr popped a kind of eyeless hat that he called a “hood” on her head, and picked her up, he changed these out with the ones that Mags had made.
“You see, if she decides not to come back, these will pull out of the bracelets, and they don’t have a slit on them to get caught on a branch,” Jakyr explained. “Once the jesses are off, she could rid herself of the bracelets, too.”
He seemed unperturbed at the notion that she might not come back as he took the hood off, let her see the pigeons feeding, and sent her aloft. In less time than it took to think about it, she had struck down one of the feeding birds. Jakyr came to take her up, and she mantled her wings over her kill so that he had to move up very slowly and ease his hand under her from behind, taking her up with her kill. She seemed an aloof and bloodthirsty creature to Mags, and he said as much as Jakyr stowed the pigeon in a game bag.
Jakyr laughed at that, as he sent her in pursuit of another pigeon. “Hawks are not pets, Mags. It’s a rare hawk that shows you even a morsel of affection. Generally, the best you get from them is tolerance as a hunting partner and provider of food and shelter. I never know when I cast her from my wrist if she is going to come back this time. And do you know, I don’t really mind that. I know being with me has made her a better hunter. If she decides never to come back, well, that is how it goes.”
She made her second kill, but now the pigeons were all scattered or in hiding.
He sent her aloft again, then looked up at the circling bird, disappointed that all the pigeons were in hiding. He took out an odd contraption of a pair of wings mounted on a stuffed form, all on the end of a long string. He began swinging it around and around his head, whistling as he did so.
The falcon folded her wings and dropped from the sky, opening them at the last minute, hoping to grab the thing. Jakyr jerked it out of the way just in time, and she shot back up into the air.
He let her make another half-dozen passes at this thing—which he called a “lure”—before fastening a bit of her last kill to it. Once more he whistled and swung the lure, once more, she dove for it, and this time he let her catch it.
She hunched over her prize, wings spread, glaring at them both. Carefully, Jakyr came in behind her and worked her and her bit of bloody pigeon back up onto his gloved hand. “So, she didn’t leave, and I am her keeper for another day,” Jakyr said lightly. “Or rather, the Royal Falconer is. I have an assignment, and it’s not somewhere I can take her.”
———
Jakyr took his leave of Mags at the stable, just before luncheon, pressing a little bag that jingled into his hand as he did so. “I didn’t have time to find you anything, so go and find what you want,” the Herald said. “I am not very good at getting people presents.”
Mags had the shrewd notion that Jakyr hadn’t even tried to get him a present, but that would not have been from lack of generosity on his part. No, it would have been because he had been afraid that a gift would provoke a bond. And a gift of money was impersonal enough—many would say, “too impersonal,” which would make it just right so far as Jakyr was concerned.
Jakyr’s Companion was already saddled, with everything Jakyr needed for yet another journey stuffed into the saddlebags. Both of them looked ready to be gone. And now Mags had to wonder, just what kind of a personality Jakyr’s Companion had, if he fitted well with someone who didn’t want any ties on him.
:It is not that Jakyr doesn’t want any ties. It is that he doesn’t want any more than he already has.: If Dallen had had a voice, it would have been very dry. :And in his defense, he does do
some very dangerous things, and he does not want anyone around him who can’t take care of himself.: There was a lot there that Dallen wasn’t saying, and Mags got the feeling, the very distinct feeling, that Jakyr’s Companion was a lot like his Chosen.
Still, none of that harmed Mags—
:True.:
“Ye didn’ need t’ give me a thin’—but I ain’t likely t’ turn it down,” Mags said gratefully. He was actually going to have a coin or two of his very own! Not that he needed money, but ... what if he wanted to get Lena or Bear a present? He couldn’t keep making things from Dallen’s hair, or soon the poor fellow would be snatched bald. “Thankee, sir. Reckon I owe ye again—”
“You don’t owe me anything, Mags. That is why it is a present.” The words were said with more ease than Jakyr had shown earlier this morning, and the Herald even reached out and ruffled Mags’ hair. “Looks like you’re doing well, settling in and getting on. I am happy for you. I never would have dreamed that under all that mud was a fine young Trainee when I first saw you.”
Mags stretched his mouth in a grin. “Me neither, sir. Tha’s Dallen’s doin’. Seems he managed t’ housebreak me.”
Jakyr laughed aloud. “You get on down to Master Soren’s house and your friends. I have a bit of a ride ahead of me, and the sooner I start, the less ground I will have to cover after dark.”
Mags waved to him as he headed off down the road to the Herald’s Gate, but didn’t linger. Tonight was a highly significant night in a week of special days. It was Midwinter’s Eve, the longest night of the year, and the reason for the holiday in the first place. Mags had permission to spend the night at Master Soren’s house, by express invitation. Soren Mender was unusually casual in most things, but it seemed he was unusually sober in one; he kept the Midwinter Solstice in the old-fashioned way, or so he said.
Now there had been enough priests prattling about the mine for Mags to have picked up that most religions considered the night significant. And Dallen had explained the whole year-turning religious business to him—how this was, in most of Valdemar’s religions, the night that the dark forces tried (and failed) to keep the mother-god from giving birth to the god, or in some, to keep the dead god from rising and being reborn. And none of that really mattered much to Mags—
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