Once they were out of the Heralds’ Wing and into the Palace proper he breathed a bit easier. Processions of officials going to and from various rooms at any and all hours were perfectly normal sights in the Palace. He nodded affably at pages and passing courtiers, and the others had the wit to do likewise. Through the maze of hallways and passages they went, occasionally interrupting a lovers’ tryst or sending a group of truant pages to find some other hiding place, until they arrived at the substantial door of the Lesser Council Room, which served for meetings of segments of the Council and three Circles most of the hours of the day. At this hour the fire was out, but thanks to the warmth of the evening, the room had taken on no more than a faint chill. He took a taper from the shelf beside the door, lit it at a lamp in the hallway, then went around relighting the room’s lamps himself as the others filed inside. Only when he had seated himself at the head of the rectangular oak table and the heavy ironwood door was firmly closed behind the last of the group did he wait for the others to seat themselves, clear his throat, and look around with an inquiring glance, inviting one of them to start. They all hesitated for a moment except the Captain.
“I don’t know what kind of mind-magic you worked on me out there, Pol,” Captain Telamaine began heatedly. “But as soon as I got back to my office, I came to my senses about that—that—menace in the guise of a boy! I’ve put guards on him, and I went straight to the Lord Marshal—”
“Which I had every intention of doing myself, although I don’t think I would have dared interrupt him if he had already retired for the night,” Pol replied, keeping his own voice calm and reasoned. “As for using mind-magic on you—first of all, I am appalled that you even considered that I would consider doing so, and second, the only ‘magic’ taking place during our interview with Lavan was the exercise of your own good sense, which you seem to have lost between Healer’s and here.”
“Well said,” Jedin muttered, low enough that only Pol heard him.
“As for the guards,” Pol continued, raising an eyebrow with studied surprise. “What, precisely, did you intend for them to do? The boy is hardly going to evoke his Firestarting Gift on purpose—you saw for yourself that he is terrified of what he can do—and even if he did it by accident, how do you propose to stop him with a guard? Have them shoot him dead? Assuming they can, of course. It is possible that the fires would protect their progenitor.” The carefully nuanced eyebrow rose again. “And wouldn’t killing a Trainee create a fine and confident climate among the rest of our Trainees? A good half of them are afraid of their own Gifts; how are they to take it if members of the Guard start executing people for using Gifts?”
Telamaine flushed, then blanched, then flushed again. “I—” he began, and couldn’t get any farther.
The Lord Marshal took pity on him. “You responded as a Captain of the Guard to a situation outside your training, Telamaine,” the old man said gruffly, actually reaching out to pat the Captain’s shoulder. He rubbed his bushy gray eyebrows with his hand, and then ran the same hand over thick, gray hair. “Putting guards on the boy until you had further orders was in accordance with not knowing what to do about it.”
“And now we will make a reasoned and reasoning response to the situation and correct things before they become a problem,” Pol pointed out smoothly. “We need thought, cool heads and tempers, and one thing made perfectly clear. The boy has been Chosen. The mare Kalira is no youngster. Furthermore, she made it known in no uncertain terms to my Companion Satiran—who happens to be her sire—and to me personally, that she can and will control his Gift.”
“Gift?” the Seneschal yelped, both eyebrows leaping up like a pair of startled caterpillars. “You call that a Gift?”
“Cool and reasoned,” murmured Trevor, placing a cautioning hand on the Seneschal’s arm. Pol couldn’t blame the poor man; he was much younger than any of the others, having come to this position from his previous post as the Seneschal of Theran’s country estate. When he wasn’t confronted by impossible situations, he was quite a handsome young fellow, and very much the target of the mothers of unwedded maidens.
Seneschal Greeley ran a nervous hand through a thick thatch of brown hair that was growing grayer by the month. Trevor murmured something Pol couldn’t hear, and he rolled his eyes, but didn’t add any more little comments.
“Nevertheless,” Captain Telamaine persisted. “That so-called boy caused the deaths of four of his own schoolmates. Just what are we supposed to say to their parents?”
“A damned good question!” Greeley seconded, nodding vigorously.
All four Heralds exchanged a glance. King’s Own Jedin took over from Pol. He had more authority than any of the others, and Pol was perfectly glad to let him handle the discussion from this moment on.
“Tell them that there was a terrible accident that occurred while their offspring were bullying this boy,” Jedin said flatly. “That we think there was—lamp oil stored there, one of them threw the boy Lavan into the stack of containers, they broke open and spilled into the fireplace. That was how and why the fire happened so quickly.”
For one long moment of absolute silence, the non-Heralds stared at Jedin in disbelief. Finally Captain Telamaine broke the silence with a gasp of protest.
“But that’s not true!” he sputtered. “Nothing like that happened!”
Herald Jedin gazed at him from beneath his heavy, black eyebrows. He was a great granite cliff of a man, with a craggy face, precisely barbered black hair, and a naturally forbidding expression that he used to great effect. “I am well aware of that.”
“But—” Telamaine protested.
Jedin held up his hand, cutting off the protests before they began. “But would any good be served by telling them the truth? Telling them the entire truth? Including the fact that their sons were essentially torturing other children on a regular basis, ordering them to commit theft and falsehood? Telling them that their sons died because one of their victims was so abused and terrified that he lost control of a powerful Heraldic Gift? And then telling them that the boy who killed their children is being made into a Herald himself?”
“Which would, of course,” King Theran boomed from the door, “Substantially erode public trust in the Heraldic Circle, upon which we all depend.”
They all shoved their chairs back hastily and began to rise, only to have Theran wave them back down into their seats. Pol alone rose and vacated the head of the table; Theran assumed his proper place smoothly, and Pol took another seat farther down along the side, relieved that the pressure was now entirely off him.
Theran looked like a King; Pol had often heard children presented at Court exclaim in satisfaction that “he looked just like I thought he would!” Tall, muscular, with even, regular features, a fine head of blond-streaked brown hair that hung down past his shoulders, and a thick, neatly trimmed beard and mustache that matched perfectly, he was one of the most physically commanding men Pol had ever seen.
“I have heard about everything so far,” Theran said, without specifying that it was his own Companion that had told him what had gone on. He didn’t need to; Theran had a singularly close bond with his Companion, which meant that he knew everything that any Companion in Haven knew. He met the eyes of each of them in turn. “I can appreciate the concerns that the Guard has with this boy,” he said, resting his eyes on Captain Telamaine and the Lord Marshal. “Please believe me, I do. I do not make my decisions lightly here, but if this Kingdom is to survive and prosper, there are some fundamental principles that we must believe in without question, and one of the most crucial is that our Companions do not make mistakes when they Choose new Heralds, and that when they tell us something is true, we can believe it without question.”
The Heralds around the table nodded, relieved that Theran had put this into such plain language. The others looked crestfallen and uncomfortable, but in tentative agreement.
“Now, this child’s Companion has told us that she can control his rogue
abilities, although he cannot as yet. We must believe this, and Captain Telamaine, this should alleviate any security issues you have.”
Telamaine got a stubborn set to his chin, but Theran wasn’t done. Whatever the Captain wanted to say would have to remain unsaid. The King held the floor, and was not about to relinquish it. Theran was a powerful man, overmatching even his very powerful King’s Own Herald. Jedin could defeat anyone in Court and Collegium at wrestling and practice combat, even the Weaponsmaster and professional fighters—except the King. Theran rarely used his physical presence to dominate. He didn’t have to. And that alone said much about him.
“It seems that his—outbreaks—occur when he undergoes great emotional stress. Therefore I suggest to you that you leave the guards on him, but instruct them to quickly remove anyone who seems to be causing this boy such stresses before they trigger another incident.” Theran and his Herald exchanged a brief look (barely more than a flicker of amusement) as Captain Telamaine sighed with relief. This was something that the Guard could accomplish, and having a task defined evidently made him feel that he had some control over the situation. And without a doubt, Theran had been well aware of this before he even began issuing his edicts and orders.
Theran continued gravely, now giving his attention to his Seneschal. “His Companion also tells us, after minute examination of his memories, that the boy had no intention of killing or even seriously injuring his persecutors. We must also believe this, and thus, in a very real sense, what happened after that was an accident in truth.” Theran waited, and this time it was the Seneschal who objected with a raised finger.
“You only said seriously injure—” he protested, his hair standing on end from his ceaseless toying with it, giving him the look of a frazzled heron. “So the boy was willing to hurt them!”
Theran snorted; his long friendship with his Seneschal allowed him to handle the man differently than the Guard Captain. “Oh, come now, Greeley! The boy had been beaten to a pulp, slammed into walls, and they’d started flogging him! What do you expect? It would take a saint or a martyr to be forgiving under that sort of circumstance, and although I do require many things of my Heralds, I do not require them to be more than human! Of course he wanted to hurt them! So would you, so would I, and so would any other man. If these juvenile tyrants weren’t already out of my jurisdiction, I would be doing significantly more than merely hurting them, and with a certain grim pleasure, might I add! I am sorely tempted to administer a little royal justice to the ones that didn’t die!”
Seneschal Greeley ran his hands one more time through his tousled hair, sighed, and shrugged, seeing the justice in the King’s statement.
“Now, lastly, the point is that Kalira Chose this boy. Of all things, we must believe that where Companion’s Choice is concerned, Companions are the final authority.” He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his thoughts—or perhaps, consulting with his own Companion. “Given that, what are we to do with this boy, if not to accept that, and accept him into the Collegium for proper training? Kalira has no intentions of repudiating him. Are we to try and forcibly separate them? I submit that this would be the worst idea yet. Are we to banish them to some remote place? That accomplishes nothing, and leaves the boy untutored, uncounseled, undisciplined. That is an idea as poor as the first. So we accept him. We teach him, we make a Herald of him, we learn what he can do and we make proper use of it.” King Theran stood up and swept them all with a challenge in his eyes. “That, as ever, has been and will be your duty, and it is a familiar one to all of you. And I will leave you to it.”
He nodded to them all, and left the room as he had entered it, calm, strong, and utterly in control, leaving behind silence.
Finally one voice broke the silence; Herald Jedin.
“That, my friends,” he said in a voice full of admiration, “is a King.”
LAN slept through the night with a gentle murmur of reassurance accompanying his dreams. When he woke, it was to a cheerful whicker outside his window and a :Come on, lazy one, you can’t lie abed forever!: in his mind. He never had a moment to doubt that this was all real; Kalira saw to that. She was a presence in his mind all night long.
When he woke, with the first morning sun streaming down outside the window, he saw her watching him from the other side of the glass. He didn’t exactly leap out of bed—it was more of a crawl—but in spite of what had happened last night, he was still stronger than yesterday. The first thing he did as soon as he got to the other side of the room was to open the window so that Kalira could put her head inside. Throwing his arms around her neck, he put his forehead against hers and closed his eyes, reveling in the mere fact of her presence for a long, blissful moment.
:Do you know how wonderful you are?: he asked her silently, already at ease with this strange form of communication, perhaps because it was with her. Already it was easier than talking aloud; instinctive and comfortable.
:Silly boy,: she replied affectionately. :I’m neither more nor less wonderful than any other Herald or Companion.:
He didn’t argue with her; he didn’t exactly have a basis for comparison. :All I know is that you are the most marvelous person I’ve ever known.:
She whickered a chuckle and rubbed her muzzle against his cheek. :And I feel the same about you.: She cocked her head to the side, and her eyes twinkled merrily. :Convenient, isn’t it?:
He had to laugh at that, and she shook her head, tossing her mane. :Well, what are they going to do to me today?: he asked her, certain that she would know.
:Pol and Satiran will be coming for you in a little. You should be ready for them,: she suggested. Loath though he was to take his arms from around her neck, he acknowledged the wisdom of her suggestion, and pulled reluctantly away.
This time he dressed himself, though his hands shook and his knees trembled with weakness. When one of the young Healer-Trainees, a pretty little chestnut-haired girl with a lithe graceful figure, entered with his breakfast, she looked blankly at first at the empty bed, then when he moved a little, her heart-shaped face betrayed her surprise to see him sitting at the open window.
“You don’t need any help, then?” she said, her surprise turning into a smile. “Good for you!” She brought the tray to him and set the tray down on the window seat beside him, and he saw that she had eyes of mingled green and brown. “You’ll be seeing my father in a bit, after he talks with your Healer. You’re going to be a bit more complicated to settle in than most Trainees.”
“Your father?” Lan asked, and then managed to put two and two together. “You mean that Herald that was here last night is your father?”
She dimpled charmingly. “Oh, I’m afraid so; Herald Pol is my father. It does get rather trying, sometimes, having a father who can keep track of you no matter where you go. I’m Healer-Trainee Elenor, temporarily at your service.” She bobbed an impudent curtsy. “My mother is Healer Ilea, but she’s in service on the Southeast Border right now. At least I don’t have both parents hovering over me all the time!”
Lan smiled tentatively at her; he wasn’t exactly used to having pretty girls dimple at him, but it was a pleasant experience. She looked to be just about his age, which probably meant she was a great deal farther along in her studies than he. “When did you start here? How long are you going to be a Trainee?” he asked.
“Oh, I’ve been a Trainee for more than five years, but I won’t be one for much longer. Maybe a year,” she told him with great confidence, looking around, then seating herself on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know how long you’ll be one; I suppose it will depend how much you already know. A lot of the Heraldic Trainees arrive here barely able to read and write, so the classes are all planned around that eventuality. Most of them aren’t Chosen until they’re twelve or thirteen, and they generally get their Whites by eighteen no matter how little they knew before they got here.”
“Well, I do know a little more than that,” he said, warming to her cheerful manner. “Am I rea
lly going to be a Heraldic Trainee?” It was hard to believe; he could picture himself in the Guard, he could easily picture himself as a Caravan Master, but a Herald? He’d never seriously entertained the idea of himself in Whites.
Elenor gestured at Kalira, who was watching both of them with sparkling blue eyes the color of deep water. “You’ve been Chosen, that makes you a Heraldic Trainee. I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice!” She laughed. “It’s not a job you can volunteer for or decline, it seems!”
For a brief moment, he felt uncertainty; did he really want the rest of his life decided for him? Hadn’t he been trying to escape his own parents’ plans for his life? But then he looked into Kalira’s eyes and knew that she was worth any sacrifice.
“At least you know what Heralds do,” Elenor continued. “Some Trainees don’t even know that. Poor things. They are terribly confused; they’ve got no idea why they’re here or what they’re supposed to do, and when their Gifts start emerging—”
She stopped abruptly, and blushed, as if aware that his Gift was the source of a great deal of trouble, anguish—and tragedy.
“Gifts,” he said bitterly. “That’s what they’re called, isn’t it? But it’s hardly a Gift if you don’t want it and can’t control it. It’s not a Gift if all it does is bring harm.”
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