He arrived at the kitchen just in time to get a plateful of his favorites, leavened with a bowl of stewed greens to keep from overdoing it on the fried-stuff. He sat down with the rest of the helpers and servers at the crowded kitchen table and gave himself over to enjoyment. On a “fry-day,” the helpers had to take turns eating, since the fried foods didn’t keep well, and tended to turn tough and nasty when cold. Although everything else could be, and was, prepared in advance, the actual frying had to be done fresh, with the platters being filled and carried off immediately.
The aroma wafted through the Collegium, and most people were as enthusiastic about the rare treat as Lan, so the dining hall filled quickly. Lan was one of the first of the servers to be finished, so as soon as he washed off his sugar-sticky fingers at the pump, he got a platter, waited for someone to fill it, and hurried it out to the hungry Trainees.
Platter after hot platter went out and came back empty; once or twice, Lan paused long enough to fill up a forgotten corner with another sugared pillow, then dove back into the fray. Everyone seemed to eat twice as much on these occasions; it might have been Lan’s imagination, but he didn’t think so. He wasn’t the only person who was addicted to Cook’s special fry-ups.
At last, when the greediest of the lot was stuffed full and contentedly trailing out of the dining hall, the servers got to collapse, fortify themselves with the leftover bits of dough and batter fried up and eaten with a sharp sauce or honey according to taste, wash their hands, and hustle off to a class or to a free period, leaving the kitchen to those who were assigned to clean up.
Lan had a free period; study was impossible after being so stuffed, so he usually went for a walk out to the Training Field and the Salle instead. Since his next class was with the Weaponsmaster, he had to walk off his lethargy. The last thing he wanted to do was give the Weaponsmaster an excuse to make him an example.
Not that the Weaponsmaster was cruel or sadistic; on the contrary, he was an incredibly kind man. And he would tell you, sincerely and sometimes with genuine distress, that in order to save your life at some later date, he had to make it miserable now. No one ever doubted him; if they had, the number of full Heralds who returned to thank him in person after their first circuits, bubbling over with gratitude for the Weaponsmaster’s gentle, implacable drive to perfection, would have convinced even the most skeptical.
Nothing was or ever could be good enough for Weaponsmaster Odo, an oddly proportioned fellow, muscular in the legs and shoulders, back and arms, but so narrow in the waist and hips that he looked like a caricature of a man. Odo had been in the Guard before being Chosen, and he had been the Weaponsmaster there, too, so he was often found teaching certain of the Guard some of the specialized skills he had acquired over the years, including mastery of particular techniques and odd weapons.
Snow lay about ankle-deep on the ground, but the paths were pounded hard and sanded for good footing. Snow wouldn’t stop Herald Odo from having his pupils work outside; if anyone objected, he would point out patiently that when they were on their circuits, attackers wouldn’t wait politely until they were under the shelter of a roof before assaulting them. His logic was impeccable, and most new Trainees didn’t bother trying to change his training plan for the day after the first few fruitless protests.
:Out early?: Kalira asked, when he reached the Training Field. He squinted against the glare of sun on snow and looked around; she was nowhere to be seen, but a white Companion in the distance wasn’t exactly visible against the snow. The sky didn’t hold a cloud that was bigger than his hand today, and the packed snow reflected as much light as the sky held. Trees were inky sketches against the blue, still and stark. There wasn’t a breath of breeze, and his own breath puffed out in frosty puffs to vanish in the still air.
:I need to walk off my greed,: he told her with a chuckle. :I don’t want Odo to get any more advantages than he’s already got.:
:I’ll come keep you company.: Off in the distance a flock of crows rose from one of the trees in Companion’s Field, cawing derision as they flapped away toward the Palace.
After a moment of walking, with the hard-packed snow creaking under each step, he heard the distant sound of hooves on snow, and turned to wave at her. She came on at a trot, tail flagged, ears up; she looked wonderful with the sun shining on her satin coat, just like an image in an illuminated manuscript. Every movement was achingly graceful, smooth as a trained dancer. Not even Rolan was as lovely as she was, with the blaze of the sun full on her and her mane and tail streaming behind, banners of whitest silk.
:Why, thank you for the compliments! That was quite poetic, dearest!:
:You’re very welcome, gorgeous!: he replied, in high good humor. He tucked his hands under his armpits to warm them; he didn’t want to touch her with cold hands.
:Oh, my—keep saying sweet things like that and I’ll make sure to stick around you!: She had reached him by then and nuzzled his cheek, blowing her sweet breath into his hair. Her breath was warm, a soft caress against his cheek, and he reached up to caress her velvety nose. :Now, am I correct in thinking our plans for Midwinter have been changed, thanks to Tuck?:
He reached farther up with his gloved hands and scratched the places behind her ears she could never get at; she sighed, and rested her chin on his shoulder, closing her eyes in bliss. “Tuck’s parents invited me to stay with them on their farm. We can go in for the Midwinter Night Feast; it’s close enough to Haven, Tuck says.”
:Well, I suppose it would have to be, as often as they come visit him. Delightful! Dacerie and I get along splendidly; we’ll have a fine time too, just us girls together, being spoiled by Tuck’s sibs! I think I can tolerate having my mane and tail braided and fussed with three or four times a day.: There was no doubt that Kalira was as happy with this plan as Lan was. :Since Tuck’s been back and forth to the farm several times, his parents will know how to house us.:
“Which, sadly, is more than I can say for my parents,” he grumbled. “They haven’t even asked about you. I don’t think they’re even expecting you to come with me, assuming they’ve thought about it at all. Come to think of it, they’ve never said anything about you—anyone would think that you were just a horse.”
:Well, that’s not a problem,: Kalira told him, tossing her head with merry disregard for what Lan’s parents thought. :We’ll come here first, and have them load me up with my formal gear. While we’re at it—make sure you ask for a formal Trainee uniform as well for the occasion; take care of it some time today. There isn’t much call for them, but you can have one any time you ask for one if you give the Housekeeper enough time to have one altered to fit you. When we’re both looking just slighly less than royal, we can go to your parents’ house and make an impressive entrance. Then I’ll come back here. When you’re just about ready to leave, call me. I’ll hear you, no worries. We’ll make an impressive exit as well—I think my arrival all by myself should set some tongues wagging.:
“I should think!” What a wonderful plan! “It should make some eyes pop, too, when they see how beautiful you are!”
:You’re flattering me again,: she teased. :Do keep it up!:
“How can it be flattery when it’s true?” How he loved being with her! Everything seemed so much brighter and sharper when she was at his side; colors were richer, and nothing could ruin his mood. Didn’t people often call their spouses their “better half?” Surely she was just that—his better self.
:I must say that I’m very grateful to young Tuck,: she told him as she walked alongside him. :Make sure and tell him for me, will you? I believe that this will be one of the better Midwinter holidays I’ve ever had.:
Just about then, the first members of his weapons class came trailing toward them over the snow. “Looks like we’re about to hear the bell for the class change,” he observed, and mock-groaned. “I wish you had hands instead of hooves; when Odo gets through with us, I’m going to want a massage so badly!”
:Try a ho
t soak instead,: she said playfully, blew into his hair, and frisked off, cantering back toward Companion’s Field as the bell for class change rang in the distance. He watched her go, floating fluidly across the snow as if she had wings just like the Windrider.
Herald Odo emerged from the Salle, and smiled to see Lan already waiting there. “Walking off the fry-up, lad?” he asked genially. “Probably a good idea, given how much we all seem to eat on fry-days. Start your warm-up exercises anyway. Walking won’t stretch out everything.”
Lan obeyed, toeing the line cut into the hard-packed snow and beginning the arm and upper torso stretches. The Training Field was just a rectangle in the snow, surrounded by a token fence that anyone could step over. When the snow melted, it would go back to its former shape of a rectangle of sand enclosed by timber holding the sand in, with the fence atop the timbers. Before long he was sweating enough that he didn’t need his cloak anymore, and tossed it aside over one of the fence rails behind him. One by one, as the rest of the class of ten arrived, they ranged alongside him and started the same exercises, eventually discarding their own cloaks as well. Odo walked up and down their line and eyed them, correcting a stretch that wasn’t quite right, chiding for not extending a stretch far enough.
When he judged that they were all sufficiently ready, he passed out the wooden swords and shields, paired them up, distributed the pairs evenly across the extent of the Training Field, and bade them go through their exercises.
Lan’s opponent was an older boy who was just a little shorter than he, Trainee Jirkin. This was all very elementary stuff; each sword stroke meant a particular counter, and they took it turn and turn about, attack and parry. Odo wanted the moves to become second nature and completely instinctive; for now, until those moves were drummed into their blood and bone, they made their strokes to the rhythm of his clapped hands, speeding up as he increased the pace of his clapping. All the time, he strode among the five pairs of students, watching and correcting. Faster and faster the pace went; Lan was sweating furiously now. This was the fastest that Odo had ever taken them, and he felt the strain in every muscle.
:Relax. Don’t fight yourself by thinking. Don’t think, just listen, and do. Let do, love. Let go it all go and just become part of the sword and the shield—:
Don’t think? How was he going to know what counter to use? What in the world did she mean?
:Your body already knows. Trust me. Don’t try, just be. Experience, and become part of the experience.:
Don’t think and don’t try—if he didn’t trust Kalira so much—
But he did, he did; she had never put him wrong yet. Between swings, he told his muscles to loosen; he stopped trying to anticipate the next move—after all, they were working patterns, not actually fighting. Instead of thinking, he felt; getting into the way his muscles strained, the hollow thock of the wooden practice blade on the shield, the vibrations in his hands and arms as each stroke hit. He stopped worrying about when Herald Odo was going to increase the pace.
He began to feel as if he was in a waking dream; his arms and legs stopped hurting, and his body accomplished the moves all by itself. Was this what Herald Odo meant?
“All right!” Odo clapped his hands, breaking Lan’s trance; the student pairs broke apart and dropped their weapons to their sides with groans and sighs of relief. Lan’s arms and legs went back to hurting, and he panted with the rest of them, sweat dripping off his nose and landing on the snow, where it promptly froze.
“Go back to stretches, and cool down, Trainees,” Odo ordered with some satisfaction. “Then take five laps around the Training Field, at an easy jog. Don’t race. Then come on inside and get a small drink.”
Lan put his mock weapons aside with the rest and jigged and shook out his cramps. His hands were the worst; it was always hard to get his fingers to let go of the hilt of his wooden sword. He wasn’t the first to start running around the edge of the field, but he wasn’t the last either.
When everyone had finished running, Herald Odo brought them into the Salle and passed out cups of lightly salted cider. It had an odd taste, but they all craved the salt and drank down their brew without complaint. There in the Salle, he had them practice hand-to-hand moves, looking into a mirror so they could see their own faults. Kicks, punches, blocks, and counters, over and over. Lan stared at his own reflection fiercely, alert for mistakes. He liked this better than the sword practice. There was something very satisfying about it, knowing that using this knowledge, he could probably get away from any bullies in the future.
This building, called the Salle, was one large open space, with an office and storage partitioned off at one end. This was where all of the practice weapons were kept and where Odo spent most of his day. It had a wooden floor, sanded smooth but not polished, wooden walls, and a mirror all along one side. Lan didn’t want to think about how much that much mirrored glass had cost; several families could have eaten well for years, surely. But it was worth the expense; Trainees could see their mistakes with their own eyes and correct them immediately, or at least know to ask for help in getting positioned.
There were no windows on the walls; instead, south-facing clerestory windows near the peak of the roof let in generous amounts of light. No danger of getting the sun in your face in here—though Odo would, no doubt, introduce them to the joy of fighting when sun-dazzled in due course.
There was no fireplace in here, so it was pretty chilly, but better than outside. A certain amount of heat radiated from the one wall where the chimney from the fireplace in the office made a break in the expanse of wood paneling.
When they had practiced long enough, Odo had them cool down a second time, then worked with them individually. When it was Lan’s turn, Odo showed him a new move, the way to break someone’s hold on his wrist, and had him practice it until he got it right. “Now, combine that with what you know,” the Herald said, and grabbed for him.
Much to his own shock, Lan evaded the rush, broke Odo’s grip, tumbled the Weaponsmaster to the floor, and spun out of reach.
“Now what do you do, boy?” Odo called from the floor.
“I run like fury!” Lan replied, making good his words and fleeing to the opposite end of the Salle, much to the amusement of the rest of his mates.
Odo got up off the floor and dusted himself off. “Don’t laugh, Trainees; he’s right. As long as you have an escape, take it. Run. Never stand and fight unless there’s no other choice. What if you’re carrying a vital message? What if it’s bandits that ambushed you and you have to get the Guard? You’re not in the business of being heroes, you’re in the business of being Heralds, and that means staying alive to do your duty.”
He walked over to Lan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Lavan has the right of it. Incapacitate your enemy, and run like fury.” He winked broadly. “Of course, if I had been in his place, I’d have broken a few things to make certain my enemy stayed where I put him for a while, but you aren’t up to that yet. When you are skilled enough to hold back your full force, then we’ll practice those moves on each other.”
Lan took his place with the others as Odo called another Trainee out for a session. He hadn’t expected to like weapons’ training; he was a passable shot with a bow, but he’d expected that the bigger, older boys would be all over him. But there were no bigger boys in this class; there were several who were older, but none bigger. It wasn’t all Heraldic Trainees, either; three of the boys were in Bardic Trainee rust, and three were in the pale green of Healer Trainees. The Trainees of all the Collegia took the basic weapons’ courses. Bards were out in the wild parts of the world alone at least as often as Heralds, and not everyone believed in Bardic immunity. Healers weren’t molested very often, but they might find themselves forced to defend a sick or injured patient. Some of the Trainees from the other two Collegia stuck with it through the entire weapons’ curriculum, too. Not every Bard or Healer found skill with sword and bow incompatible with his or her other training.
“Off with you!” he said, flapping his hands at them, looking as if he were shooting geese. “Same time tomorrow, and try not to overeat!”
Lan trudged out into the snow with the rest of them, then like the rest of them, broke into a trot, drawn by the prospect of a hot bath to ease their aches and bruises before the final two classes of the day. If they hurried, it could just be managed; it was planned into their schedule.
I’m beginning to think that they think of everything, it occurred to him, with a sense of wonder.
:Well, I should certainly hope so. We’ve had enough practice at it by now!:
He laughed, and picked up his pace. The hot water was going to feel very, very good.
THIRTEEN
SHIVERING with cold, but smiling nonetheless, Tuck and Lan waved good-bye to the last of their friends at the door of the Collegium. As soon as the last flick of Charkan’s tail vanished past the gate, they rushed back inside chafing their half-frozen hands. The Collegium wasn’t empty yet, but it would be soon, probably within the next day or two. Those whose parents or relatives were close to Haven were generally the last to leave. Those who had far to go were often granted a few days extra leave time for travel.
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