Valdemar Books

by Lackey, Mercedes

  It was odd, but when she’d chosen to run away, their certain excommunication hadn’t seemed so great a price to pay for freedom; but somehow now, after all her hopes for forgiveness had been raised only to be destroyed by this one note—

  Never mind; once again she was on her own—and Herald Teren would hardly approve of her sniveling over the situation. “It’s all right,” she said, handing back the note to the Herald. “I should have expected it.” She was proud that her voice trembled only a little, and that she was able to meet his eyes squarely.

  Teren was startled and slightly alarmed; not at her reaction to the note, but by her immediate iron-willed suppression of it. This was not a healthy response. She should have allowed herself the weakness of tears; any child her age would have. Instead, she was holding back, turning farther into herself. He tried, tentatively, to call those tears back to the surface where they belonged. Such suppression of natural feelings could only mean deep emotional turmoil later—and would only serve as one more brick in the wall the child had placed between herself and others around her.

  “I wish there was something I could do to help.” Teren was exceedingly distressed and tried to show that he was as much distressed at the child’s denial of her own grief as with the situation itself. “I can’t understand why they should have replied like this.”

  If he could just at least get her to admit that the situation made her unhappy, he would have an opening wedge in getting her to trust him.

  “Perhaps if we sent another envoy to them, later—” he offered, trying to hold her gaze.

  Talia dropped her eyes and shook her head; there was no return for her, at least not as the triumphal Holderkin Herald. To even her closest kin she would be a total stranger, and “Talia Sensdaughter” had never lived. She had violated the Holy Writ that a girlchild be totally obedient in all things; she was outcaste, and they would never change their minds.

  “But—”

  “I’m going to be late—” Talia winced away from his outheld hand and ran, wishing that Teren had been less sympathetic. He’d brought her tears perilously close to the surface again. She’d wanted, above all other things, to break down and cry on his shoulder. But—no. She didn’t dare. When kith and kin could deny her so completely, what might not strangers do, especially if she exposed her weaknesses? And Heralds were supposed to be self-sufficient, self-reliant. She would not show that she was unworthy and weak.

  Fortunately, the next class—History, which as far as Talia was concerned was no less than one never-ending tale—was engrossing enough that she was able to concentrate on it and ignore her unhappiness. Lake many of the classes it was structured cyclically, so that a student could drop into it at any point, completing it when the point at which he’d entered came around again. An elderly woman—Herald Werda—taught this class. Today the lecture and the discussion that followed were fascinating; enough to make her forget for a while.

  And Geography was nearly as enthralling. All Heralds at the Collegium for more than a few days taught it in turn, covering their own home areas as they came under study. Teren’s conclusion of the Orientation class brought him to lead this one for a time, since it was covering the Lake Evendim area.

  This class was not just the study of maps, but a study of everything that made up the environment of the area, from the topography and vegetation to the weather. These things were then related to the people who lived there, and how their lives had been shaped; how changes in these factors might affect them. This too was engrossing enough to hold her attention away from her rejection.

  Teren made a tentative gesture in her direction when the class was dismissed—Talia pretended not to see it and hurried on to the next, pan of the crowd, and yet apart from it.

  Following this class was Mathematics; Talia had never been overly fond of figures, but Herald Sylvan seemed to love the precision and intricacies of her subject so much that some of that enthusiasm was bound to be contagious.

  Talia’s newest class, just before lunch, was something called “Courtly Graces”; she was feeling very uneasy about it. She was certain that she’d look as out of place at Court as a goat. Most especially did she dread it now, when she was so knotted up inside and out of balance. She almost feared meeting the instructor, picturing some stiff-necked, gilded aristo, and anticipating ridicule.

  She crept in, and hid herself behind several of her taller classmates before the instructor entered. She slumped into her seat as the buzz of conversation ended, hoping to remain unnoticed.

  “Isn’t Talia here? I thought she was joining us today,” the puzzled voice was very familiar and startled Talia into raising her head.

  “Bright Havens, child,” Housekeeper Gaytha smiled, “we ought to put stilts on the bottoms of your boots—you’re almost too tiny to see!”

  “You’re not—” Talia blurted, then blushed.

  “I’m not a courtier, as such, and I’m not a Herald either—but before I accepted this position I was Governess to House Ravenscroft; that’s why I teach this class,” Gaytha explained patiently. “A Governess sees the court from a unique viewpoint; within it, yet invisible. For this reason I can teach you all the manners that smooth the way, and the means of seeing the poison fangs hid by the velvet tongues. Make no mistake about it, if you retain the habit of speaking before thinking, the fangs will be felt!”

  The tiny, gentle smile she wore softened the rebuke.

  Perhaps Courtly Graces wasn’t going to be as horrid as Talia had thought.

  In fact, it was rather fascinating; a convoluted, intricate dance of manners—though Talia had cause to wonder more than once if she’d ever truly understand it all, much less feel comfortable treading the measures of it.

  A free reading hour spent in the Library followed lunch and that class, and it would have taken drawn daggers to keep her out of that room of wonders. Remembering Davan’s tale of the beginnings of the Kingdom, she chose a book from the very front of the section on History.

  Today she wasn’t Cook’s helper, so following her reading hour was an hour spent in the sewing room, a cramped but well-lit room, crowded with tables holding baskets of uniforms in various stages of disrepair. It was here, with her hands full but her mind unoccupied, that she found she could no longer keep her loneliness at bay—especially not with the other students laughing and chattering away about things and people she had no acquaintance with whatsoever. She found a corner partially in shadow and screened by a mound of things to be mended, and took her basket of work there. The misery had to come out sooner or later, and this was a good time and place; one where she wouldn’t be noticed. The torn hose acquired a certain salty dampness before the hour was over.

  At least today she wasn’t forced to deal with the demonic Alberich—he had delegated the ex-thief Skif as her tutor instead. She had found herself warming shyly to the boy during the past week. Skiff seemed to sympathize with her awkwardness, and was endlessly patient with her. Without rebuke, he helped her position her rebellious limbs and slowed his own movements down enough that she could see exactly what she was supposed to be doing. When she looked downhearted, he cheered her with ridiculous stories about the preposterous things he’d supposedly done back in his days as a street-child, beggar, and pickpocket. She responded tentatively to his open friendliness, and he seemed to know when to reach out to her and when to back down.

  From there she went to archery practice, and then to Rolan.

  Once in her Companion’s presence the ache of loneliness vanished. They worked over the obstacle course until they were both tired, then went off to a far corner of the Field to cool off together and to be alone. Again, simply being with him worked some kind of alchemy on her spirits. When she thought about how lonely she’d been even with her two closest kin—and how fulfilled she felt when she was with Rolan—the price she had paid for coming here no longer seemed so high. By the time Rolan was brushed and curried, Talia had very nearly regained her cheer. Whenever she was with
him, she knew without doubt that she was loved and that he would never leave her friendless.

  Either she was growing used to the pace or her endurance was increasing; she was not tired enough to stay indoors after supper, so she decided to explore the gardens that abutted the Collegium grounds.

  It was there that she learned why Sherrill had warned her not to confront the unaffiliated students alone.

  She was walking the graveled paths between the mathematically-laid-out flowerbeds, as the sun set and the coming dusk seemed to thicken the air and turn it blue. The scent of the roses mingled with that of the nightblooming flowers that were only just beginning to open. She was half daydreaming and didn’t notice that there was anyone about until someone spoke.

  “Do I smell manure?” a male voice behind her sniffed superciliously. “I really believe that I do!”

  “Perhaps the gardeners have manured the flowerbeds?” It was a girl’s voice this time, and one with a nasty edge to it.

  “Oh, I think not,” the first replied. “This smell is most decidedly fresh, and altogether goat-like.”

  Talia turned, startled; there were four or five adolescents in blue uniforms lounging in the shadow of a hedge.

  “Why, what have we here?” the first speaker feigned surprise at seeing her. “I do believe that I’ve found the source of the odor!”

  “No doubt of it,” the girl at his side replied, “since it’s that wench from the Border. What a pity—they’ll allow anything into the Collegium these days. Still, you’d think they’d bathe it before letting it roam civilized surroundings.”

  They watched her with expressions of sly anticipation. Talia had first thought to give them word for word, but thought better of the idea at once. There were five of them, and she was alone—and from what Sherrill had said, they weren’t likely to stop with insults, nor to fight fairly.

  “My Lady, these creatures are steeped in filth; a hundred baths couldn’t wash the smell away,” the boy continued maliciously. “Which isn’t surprising, considering that they are also steeped in ignorance. I’m given to understand that this one tried to give its Companion back to the Collegium—that it hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant to be Chosen.”

  Talia’s ears burned with shame and anger.

  “Is it as stupid as it is smelly?” a third asked.

  “It must be, since it apparently doesn’t realize that we’re talking about it,”

  Tears sprang up, and were as quickly suppressed. There was no way that she would let this lot know how their insults had hurt—that would only encourage them. Talia shut her smarting eyes and began to walk away; they moved up on her so quickly that she didn’t realize that she was surrounded until a calculated shove sent her sprawling headfirst into a well-watered flowerbed. She wasn’t ready for the tumble, and landed hard, getting a face full of dirt and dead leaves.

  As laughter faded into the distance, Talia extricated herself. She’d had the breath knocked out of her; the bed had been planted with rose-vines and none of the thorns seemed to be less than an inch long. By the time she got out, her uniform was ruined, and she was scratched and bloody as well as filthy.

  Hot, angry tears slipped over her cheeks; she scrubbed them away with the back of a gritty hand and sprinted for the safety of the Collegium, grateful for the cover of gathering darkness.

  It was early enough that there was no one in the bathing room; she hastily shoved the ruined clothing down the chute. A long soak changed the angry scratches into cuts she could have picked up in practice and the sound of the running water covered her sniffles as she sobbed, half in anger, half in hurt.

  She had no intention of asking Sherrill for help; she couldn’t spend all her time in the older girl’s company, and the minute she was alone she’d be a target again. Besides, despite what Sherrill had told her, Talia had strong misgivings about her real willingness tolerate the constant presence of a child at her side, day in, day out.

  And Talia had had plenty of experience with bullies before this; she knew what to expect. Once they’d started, they wouldn’t leave her alone until they’d become bored with the game.

  And there was another facet to be considered as well. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and regarded the coin-sized scar on the palm of her left hand soberly. How old had she been when Justus had burned that into her hand with a red-hot poker? Nine? Ten? No matter. When the thing had happened, the adults had believed him and not her, when he’d said she’d done it to herself.

  So why should anyone here believe her—she was new, unknown; they were obviously children of ranking courtiers. Given the circumstances, who’d be thought the liar? Better to remain silent. They’d had their fun; perhaps they’d become bored soon if she didn’t react, and leave her alone.

  Her hope was in vain.

  The very next day she discovered that someone had purloined her History notes; the day following, a shove from behind sent her blundering to her knees, bruising both knees and elbows on the floor of the corridor. When she collected her books and her wits, there was no one to be seen that could have shoved her—although she could faintly hear giggles from somewhere in the crowd about her.

  Two days later she was pelted with stones by unseen assailants as she was running to weapons class alone. The day after that, she discovered that someone had upended a full bottle of ink over her books, and there was no sign that anyone had been near them but herself. That had been a nearly unbearable humiliation—to be thought to have been so careless with a book.

  She began to acquire a certain reputation for awkwardness, as she was shoved or tripped at least once a week; more often than that if she dared to go anywhere outside the Collegium.

  And there was persecution of a non physical nature as well.

  She began receiving anonymous notes; notes that appeared mysteriously in her pockets or books, notes that picked her shaky self-confidence to tiny pieces. It got to the point where the mere sight of one would bring her to the edge of tears, and she couldn’t show them to anyone because the words faded within moments after she’d read them, leaving only common bits of unmarked paper.

  And she didn’t dare to confide in anyone else—for there was no evidence to her mind that the perpetrators were confined to the Blues. Granted, if things were as they seemed, it was wildly unlikely that any of her fellow trainees was part of the group tormenting her—but Justus had hidden his sadism behind an angelic expression and a smiling face. Things were not always as they seemed. No, it was better to bear things alone—at least there was always Rolan.

  But Keren had seen that something was wrong. She’d already had her twin’s report on the note Talia had received from her family; a session with Elcarth had convinced her that she might be just the person to get the child to emerge from her shell of isolation. She had seen no evidences of clumsiness when she’d worked with Talia, and the reports of constant accidents sat ill with the evidence of her own eyes. There was something amiss, badly amiss.

  As a child Keren had schooled herself to develop incredible patience—had been known to sit for hours with a handful of breadcrumbs, scarcely moving an eyelash, until the birds fed from her hand. She used that same kind of patient stalking with Talia now; dropping a word here, a subtle encouragement there. If there was someone persecuting the child, soon or late Keren would find out about it.

  There were times she cursed the protocol of those Gifted with thought-sensing; if not for those constraints, she could have read plainly what was bothering the child—or if she couldn’t, there were others who could have penetrated any shield. But the protocols were there to protect; one simply didn’t ruthlessly strip away the inner thoughts of anyone, no matter how well-meaning one’s intentions were. If the child had accidentally let something slip, it would be another case entirely. Unfortunately, she was entirely too well walled off. Nor was there any likelihood that someone more talented than Keren would “hear” something; Talia’s reticence was being interpreted as a desire for
privacy, and was being respected as such. Those who can hear thoughts tend to be fanatical about privacy, whether their own or others; a good thing under most circumstances but a distinct handicap for Keren in this case.

  Although Talia hadn’t consciously noted Keren’s solicitude, the attention was making itself felt. She was on the verge of telling the riding-instructor about the notes, at least, when she began receiving another set—

  Do go and tell someone about this, bumpkin, these notes said, it will so entertaining to watch you try and explain why you haven’t got anything but blank scraps of paper. They’ll think you’re mad. They might be right, you know ....

  That frightened her—the specter of madness had haunted her ever since she’d gotten the first of the letters. After all, how could letters vanish from off the paper after they were read? And if they only thought she were mad—they might turn her out of the Collegium, and then where could she go? It wasn’t worth the risk. She confided in no one and wept in private.