Once the things on the bed were put away, he reflected, looking at the clothing hanging in his wardrobe, that he was going to have a little difficulty getting used to wearing something other than faded black. At least it wasn’t as grindingly cheerful as the things his mother tried to make him wear. And as a color, gray wasn’t that bad . . . though he still couldn’t get his mind wrapped around the notion of himself in pure white. The uniforms were comfortable, and the boots, so he’d discovered, were the one things that were made exactly to the measure of every Trainee. Ill-fitting footwear was worse than none at all in the active life of Herald or Trainee, and boots were never handed down. He had one pair on his feet now, and two more in various stages of construction in the cobbler’s workshop.
That left the still-unpacked crate in the center of the room, which by the weight had been stuffed with far more than the few things he had requested. :At least it won’t be clothing,: Kalira pointed out mischievously. :No matter what they’ve sent you, even your mother won’t dare send Bardic or Healer colors to a Heraldic Trainee.:
He untied the latch, reflecting that the sturdy wooden crate itself would be useful for storage, and threw the top back on its hinges.
“Huh!” he said in surprise, examining the wealth of blankets and a down comforter that graced the top few layers. They were all brand new—and, thank the gods, in reasonable, muted earth colors, mostly shades of gray and gray-brown. But he hadn’t been brought up in a cloth-merchant’s household without recognizing that these bedclothes were made of the very finest of materials. The comforter was stuffed with pure goosedown and protected with a soft cover of wool plush. The blankets were woven of chirra wool, patterned in wide stripes and checks.
He wondered what had prompted such generosity—not that he was going to object! With a bed placed right underneath a window, the more warm coverings he had, the better. Still, he doubted that his parents indulged even themselves in such luxury; such things were for the highborn and the astronomically wealthy. Granted, there was a great deal of profit figured into the prices of such luxuries, but that didn’t make them cheap, even for a cloth merchant.
“Maybe they’re trying to make up for not listening to me,” he muttered to himself.
:A guilt offering? That’s certainly possible,: Kalira agreed. :In fact, I think that’s probably the answer. They were not very apt at apologizing the other day; this may be their apology. At least it came in a useful form!:
He removed the bedcoverings in heavy armloads and laid them on his plain, rough-woven linen coverlet, then tackled the next layer. Cushions, this time, three of them that fluffed up fat and soft, and as luxurious as the blankets. Then a lighter bedspread of ramie and linen, also new, probably for summer. Then, at last, the books and personal keepsakes he had asked for.
After distributing these objects on desk, window ledge, and wardrobe top, he turned back to the box again. The one final layer proved to be rugs and small tapestries—geometric designs rather than pictures, something he recognized as weavings from the south-western Border. At first he laughed at the idea of putting things up on the walls; wasn’t that just like his mother to want to priss things up for him?
:Wait now, look around a bit.: Kalira cautioned. :It looks like the inside of the room at Healer’s—are you sure you want all that white wall around you when it’s nothing but snow outside?:
He considered that for a moment, and reluctantly agreed that she was right. With the help of a hammer and a few nails, the tapestries did a lot to soften the hard whiteness of the walls, and the two rugs fit nicely by the side of the bed and in front of the hearth.
When he was finally done, he broke into a surprised smile and a quiet laugh. Now this was more like it! Somehow, despite almost all of this being a guilt gift and brand new, it was closer to his real room in Alderscroft than he’d ever expected. His old room had been much like this, without any sign of his mother’s meddling hand. The real difference was that there the bedcoverings and things had been old and worn, commonplace, or scavenged from the attic, and the walls hadn’t needed anything, since they were already hung with the old tapestries that had been there for generations.
:Makes me wish that I was human so I could curl up by your fire!: Kalira chuckled. :That’s quite a cozy little nest you’ve built for yourself!:
Just then, the bell for luncheon sounded, and he started a little at the sound. This wasn’t a small hand-bell, it came from a bell tower on the roof and could be heard all over the Collegia and Palace and their grounds.
:And on that most opportune note, I’m going to go have a gallop and a bite. Shall I see you at the Field after lunch?: Kalira’s casual tone did a great deal to offset the nervous lurch of his gut at the idea of lunch in a room full of strangers. After all, he didn’t have very good memories of his last similar experience.
Hesitantly, he left his room, and stepped out into the hall. A steady stream of people, ranging in age from around ten to at least eighteen and about equally divided between males and females, were all heading in the direction of the dining room that Pol had shown him. They chattered away at the tops of their lungs quite cheerfully, a welcome contrast to the nervous demeanor of the students of his school.
“Heyla, are you Lavan?” someone called from behind him. He turned to see a boy his own age emerging from the room next to his. There could not be anyone more unlike his friend Owyn; he was covered in freckles, with bright green eyes, hair of a carrot red, and a huge, gap-toothed grin. His sturdy frame marked him as country-bred, and Lan felt an instant kinship with him.
Lan nodded, and the boy clapped him on the back. “Good to have you! I’m Tuck. I’m from a little village up north, you won’t have heard of it.”
Lan felt an unaccustomed urge to smile as they joined the rest of the Grays streaming towards their meal. “Try me,” he suggested archly.
“Briarley Crossing—” Tuck began.
“Between Lower Devin and Endercott, just off the Nodding Hill Road,” he interrupted, and had the pleasure of seeing Tuck’s jaw drop.
“I won’t ask how you know that, it’d spoil the fun. Want to sit with me and m’mates?” the boy asked, full of admiration. “And would you mind sussing out where they come from if I ask?”
“I can try,” he said modestly, secretly pleased not only by Tuck’s reaction, but by his invitation.
They entered a room which was physically nearly identical to the Merchants’ School dining hall—but, oh, what a difference in the contents of the room! The first thing that struck Lan was the noise—the babble of dozens and dozens of people freely chattering, well mixed with laughter. The second was the monochromatic austerity—a sea of gray, interrupted here and there with small groups of white. Tuck led him over to a table with benches lining both sides, already crowded with other students. “Shove over, then,” he laughed good-naturedly, tapping two of his friends on their shoulders. “This’s Lavan; he’s going to be eating with us. He’s just arrived.”
With giggling and a little elbowing, the others made room for both of them, and one of them passed down plates, mugs, and eating utensils to the rest from stacks on the end of the table. A basket of bread followed by a dish of butter went up and down the table; a student came by and left pitchers of water and cider, a second followed with a huge bowl of stew. Both got shared out in an egalitarian, if somewhat random fashion, while eating and talking went on simultaneously. A student came ’round at intervals with more bread and stew, offering more helpings to those who were still hungry.
During a gap in the chatter, Tuck called out to a girl on the other side of the table, “Hey Fyllia, tell Lavan your village!”
“He won’t have heard of it,” the thin, dark-haired girl protested.
Tuck grinned. “Just tell him.”
“Forbay,” she said, with a shrug.
“On Lake Evendim, a little south of the midpoint, the end of the Hollyton Road,” he said instantly. Fyllia’s mouth formed a little “O” of surpr
ise, and everyone at the table clamored to see him perform.
By the time the baked apples in cream came around, he had attracted the attention of the occupants of the tables on either side. He was greatly enjoying himself when the bell rang, sounding clearly over the chatter, warning them all that it was time for classes again.
The rest of the Trainees hurried off to their classes, except for the ones whose task was to clear up after the rest. Although it was not strictly his job today, he decided to help, his spirits buoyed by his first encounter with his fellow Trainees.
“Thanks,” said one of the older girls, one of the ones who was probably about eighteen, as he handed her a stack of plates. She piled them into the hatch of the contrivance that took them down into the kitchen. “You were with that scamp Tuck, weren’t you? What were all of you chattering about over there?”
“Tuck found out that I’ve got a pretty good chance of recognizing where a person’s home is,” he said honestly and modestly. “It looks like a conjuring trick, I suppose, but it’s only because I’ve got most of the trade routes memorized, at least in Valdemar proper.”
“You do? That’s better than we can do at your age,” the girl said with surprise. “Are you that youngling from a Merchant family that was in the fire in Haven?”
He nodded, and she tilted her head to one side. “I wondered what it was they could be studying in that school of theirs; trade routes, hmm?”
“And accounting, and currency conversions, and—”
“Enough!” she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender. “Obviously, there’s a lot more to being a merchant than I thought. Forgive me for my uncharitable assumptions!”
He laughed and went back for another stack of plates.
When the dishes were cleared away, he nipped back to his room for his cloak. It was far too cold to venture out without it today. This was going to be his final day of freedom from classes, and he intended to make the most of it.
Out the door he went, wrapping his cloak closely around himself, heading across the gardens to the fence that separated Companion’s Field from the rest of the Palace grounds.
Kalira waited there, the river between her and the largest portion of the Field. :It’s about time,: she teased. :You’re spending too much time with other women. I’m going to get jealous!:
:If you think you’d be of any use cleaning up after a meal, you’re welcome to join me,: he retorted. :The only thing I can think of is to use your tail to dry dishes.:
:Ugh! What a vile idea! I’ll meet you in the stables instead.: She trotted into the long building that housed the Companions in bad weather and cold nights; he sped up to enter the door on his own side.
She had already found a stable hand, or he had found her; the two were standing side by side waiting for him next to a stall with her name over it and her tack hung and draped on its sides.
“Training ride, or pleasure?” the stableboy asked, reaching for one of the bitless bridles that Companions used.
“Pleasure ride,” Lan replied, wondering why he had asked. “Ah, actually, it’s my first ride with her.”
The stableboy turned back to look questioningly at him. “You didn’t arrive here with her, then? Done any riding at all before this?”
“A lot, actually.” Lan wondered why all the questions. “I used to have my own hunter.”
“Ah, then! That’ll be good.” The stableboy grinned, and took down, not a saddle, but a light pad with a bellyband; hardly more than a couple of layers of cloth cut in the shape of a small saddle. He threw this up over Kalira’s back and pulled the girth tight. “D’ye need a leg up, or can you hop up yourself?”
:Is that a bareback pad?: he asked Kalira, not wanting to ask the stableboy.
:It is, and you’ll like this,: she replied.
He’d heard of bareback pads, but he’d never seen one; used either by the most excellent of riders or with the most exquisitely trained horses or both, the pads were a more secure form of bareback riding than doing so with only a blanket as the wild Shin’a’in were said to do. There was just enough material between the rider and the horse to avoid chafing the skin of either.
“I think—” He wanted to say that he could mount without help, but a sardonic glance from Kalira made him change his mind. “I think I’d better get a leg up,” he admitted sheepishly.
The stableboy cupped his hands and braced himself to take Lan’s weight without comment. Lan put his left foot in the hand and tried to put as little of his weight on it for the shortest time he could manage, quickly swinging his right leg over Kalira’s back and settling onto the pad.
“Them reins is mostly to give you something to grab to and balance with,” the boy reminded him with a wave. “Have a good ride.”
Kalira walked out of the stable sedately enough, but once out in the open she broke into a brisk canter. Lan found himself moving with her rhythm within a few paces, and was swept up in the most incredible surge of joy he had ever experienced in his life.
She trumpeted a neigh and moved into a full gallop. The wind caught Lan’s cloak and blew it out behind him, but he was too exhilarated to be cold. They pounded across one of the bridges, Kalira’s hooves making a sound like bells on the hard surface, then out into the wooded expanse of Companion’s Field itself.
She took him on a whirlwind ride around the perimeter; up the river to the wall surrounding the entire complex, then along the wall marking the perimeter. Lan had never gone so fast in his entire life, and Kalira’s pace was so smooth he would never have believed she was galloping.
The wall curved in and out, not following any sort of straight line; trees interrupted by meadows flew by. They rode up and down gentle hills, and twice leaped a meandering stream. Lan had always understood that Companion’s Field was big, but it was enormous!
Without warning, they were at the river again, downstream from where they had left it. Now Kalira slowed down to a trot; even her trot was smooth and easy to sit. They trotted along the river for a bit, then Kalira cut away from the stream and walked into the thick trees.
:How long can you run like that?: he asked her, amazed that she was not even sweating.
:Candlemarks,: she told him matter-of-factly. :A day and a night, more if I have to, but I need a good feed and a long rest after.:
He blinked. He had never owned or ridden a horse that could keep up a gallop for one candlemark, let alone for a day and a night!
:But we aren’t horses,: she reminded him gently. :We only look like horses.:
:I think I’m beginning to understand that.:
They moved deeper into the trees; a thick blanket of leaves rustled and crackled under her hooves. He thought he caught a glimpse of something ahead. Was it a building?
:It used to be,: she answered his unvoiced thoughts. :I’m taking you to see the bell tower and the chapel ruins in the Grove.:
The Grove! He shivered, both in anticipation and with the kind of thrill he got when he was in a place where ghosts were said to walk. Surely if there was any place in the grounds that was haunted, it would be here!
:Heralds and Companions have better things to do than to sit around spooking youngsters when we don’t
need our bodies anymore,: Kalira laughed at him. :Why drift about like a bit of mist when you have a much nicer place to go?:
“Well, what about people who aren’t Heralds or Companions?” he asked. “Haven’t there been enough people who’ve died here to make the place haunted?”
:Not, I think, while we have anything to say about it. This is our place, you know.: This was a new mind-voice, a very masculine one, and Lan saw another Companion waiting to greet them beside the ruins of an old chapel.
This was a stallion, no larger than any of the others, but somehow he gave an impression of being larger and more imposing. He was beautifully turned out, every strand of mane and tail braided, his coat brushed until it shone with the silver gleam of moonlight, hooves polished to the patina of old silver.
:This is Rolan,: Kalira told him, with a nod of respect to the stallion. :He’s the King’s Own’s Companion. He wanted to see you for himself.:
:Yes, and with your permission, I should like to examine you as well, young Trainee,: Rolan told him gravely, with a slow swish of his braided tail. :I mean no disrespect to you or to Kalira, but I wish to be able to assure my Chosen, and thus every Herald in the Circle, that your power, though dangerous, is under control.:
He sighed, a little bitterly. “Even if the control isn’t mine.”
:That is hardly your fault,: the stallion replied instantly. :Your Gift was forced to ripeness, in order to defend itself and you. In a better world, you would have felt it slowly, slowly, stir; in four or five moons, as you began to feel that something odd was happening to you, Kalira would have come for you, and you would have had your Gift come upon you here, and after Pol had identified what it was.: Rolan sighed gustily, and Kalira echoed him, her flanks heaving under Lan’s legs. :It is not a better world, and we must deal with things as they are. May I?:
Belatedly, Lan realized that Rolan was waiting for his answer. He could say no, but why should he? Actually, he felt rather better about the Companion rummaging around in his head than some strange Herald. And at least Rolan had asked permission first. “Go ahead,” he replied.
He didn’t know what to expect; what happened was the oddest sensation of having someone actually in his head with him, taking control of what he was thinking. He was whisked along at blinding speed through his own thoughts and memories; he didn’t even have time to identify what they were before being flown through the next.
It happened so quickly that before he had quite grasped what was happening, it was over.
He shook his head dizzily, clutching Kalira’s mane, the world trying to spin with him as the center.
:My apologies,: Rolan said, as his head steadied and the Grove stopped rotating. :Some effects are unavoidable. Thank you; you have allowed me to confirm Kalira’s judgment and Choice. That can only be good for all of us.:
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