And, of course, after this luncheon there had been the pocket pies waiting to be taken away at the door instead of regular pies on the table. There were always pies. The cook reckoned pie was a good way to share out fruit now that it was winter, and make it last. Another undreamed-of luxury. At the mine, the only time he ever tasted anything sweet was chewing the ends of clover-blossoms, stealing honey from a wild-bee nest, or grubbing something sweet and burned out of the pig-food.
:I taste my pie just fine, thank you. So, do you feel that you are getting on in classes now?: asked Dallen, his enormous tongue licking teeth and lips and curling up around his nose in an effort to retrieve every crumb and speck of sugar, honey and spices. :Sometimes it’s hard to separate your general air of anxiety from things you and I genuinely need to address.:
:Not doing too badly,: responded the boy in kind, thinking, as he took another bite from the pastry, how he was glad to be able to use Mindspeech. It allowed him to “talk” and eat at the same time. :I think I’m gettin’ better at the history. An’ I like figurin’, but today they started givin’ us this stuff they call geometry, an’ it just makes my head spin. Lena’s not as much help there as she is with history. I can’t imagine why we need anythin’ past sums and all. I ain’t going to be an artificer!: The thought of the morning maths class made him sweat a little. Angles and unknowns and calculations, and nothing as straightforward as adding or subtracting.
:No, you aren’t, but you still need to have a grasp of such things when you go out to the villages. It’s not just artificers that need geometry. It’s part of a Herald’s duty to reset boundary markers after a flood or some other disaster, and to check them when there is a dispute over land.: Dallen nodded thoughtfully, and Mags got one of those mental glimpses of a Herald—as usual, someone he didn’t know—laboring over calculations, then going out to reset boundary stones while two farmers watched him, waiting for the slightest hint of favoritism. :All too often, especially well away from Haven, a Herald is the closest thing to an expert that some villager may have to depend upon for help. That’s why, for example, you take quite a lot of wound-tending and basic healing classes. Nobody expects you to be a Healer—but there might be times when someone is hurt, and you’re all they’ve got.:
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture himself in that position of authority. It still made his brow knit, and sometimes his head hurt, to think that some day someone would be depending on, listening to, him. Impossible. Who would ever believe in him?
:I believe in you. And anyway, it’s not whether people believe in you, personally. When you turn up on Circuit, they won’t know you, and they don’t have to. They believe in the uniform and what the uniform represents. They don’t care who is inside that uniform as long as he makes good decisions, because the uniform is what they trust.:
Mags chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. There was one thing he could imagine himself doing. He could easily see himself standing between danger and people who couldn’t defend themselves. After all, he’d already done that, hadn’t he? He’d put himself in danger to save Bear. And before that... he’d given all the information that the Heralds needed to shut down the mine and save the rest of the slaveys.
He shuddered involuntarily when he thought of the revenge his old master might take, if ever he discovered who had betrayed him, and said, with forced levity, “I reckon I might, one day, need th’ healin’ stuff for m’self. I heerd wha’ th’ real Heralds call th’ Whites. ‘Oh Shoot Me Now.’ ”
Oh yes. Being a Herald was dangerous. Sometimes he was glad of that... it was rather like an “I have good news and bad news” scenario. “The good news is that you are going to be respected and all your needs and wants will be taken care of forever. The bad news is that your new name is ‘Target.’ ” Sometimes he was relieved because he just could not bring himself to believe in this life unless there was a steep cost attached.
And sometimes he was terrified. So despite his casual words, there was a little chill down his neck when he thought about using the Healing skills he was getting on himself. It had gotten dreadfully close to that when he’d helped save Bear.
Dallen gave Mags a piercing look. :I won’t pretend it’s not possible, but it will be a good long time before you ever need to worry about being in that position. You have years of learning ahead of you. And who knows? You might end up being stationed in Haven or some other city and never go out on circuit at all. All right?:
Dallen’s mind-voice had an undertone of anxiety. Mags smiled, and rubbed his cheek against his Companion’s neck. “I’m not gonna worrit ’bout it. Just—s’ppose ’tis a good reason t’ keep payin’ more attention in harder classes, belike. ’Specially if they involve bandages!” He laughed a little. “I got a long ways t’ go afore I’m catched up wi’ ev’one else, anyway. By time I get Whites, I’ll prolly be white-haired t’ match!”
He worked on Dallen until the Companion’s thick winter coat was as soft and clean as the down from a new pillow, and his mane and tail as shiny as silk. He carefully saved away all the long mane and tail hairs for later braiding, now that he knew just how much people valued the little trinkets Dallen had taught him to make with Companion and horse-hair. He even had a little net-bag hung up on a nail in the stall to collect the hair in. He’d wind what he collected into a little circle and carefully stick it into the bag, as he did now.
With Dallen clean and under his blanket again, Mags looked out of the stall. “ ’Tween you and me, when I come in like that, Rolan looked as though I’d spoilt his best chat-up lines. Was he on ’bout business—or pleasure?”
Behind him, Dallen made a noise that closely resembled a snicker. :It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if you did interrupt him flirting, you know. Not that he would ever come off his dignity to admit it. I’m pretty sure that most of the mares have a crush on him.:
Mags turned and cocked his head. “Reckon he’s poachin’ in yer woods, Dallen?” He grinned.
Again the stallion snickered. :I’ll have you know that, pure resplendent perfection that I am, I’m in no danger of losing a light’o’love even to Rolan. It’s not as if I’m languishing away in this this box waiting for you to visit.: He managed to curvette and prance in place like a showy parade horse.
Mags had to laugh.
:Though I must admit that it does help that you are so attentive with the grooming. It puts the polish on what is already exquisite.: Dallen curved his neck and struck a pose.
“An’ modest too!” Mags chuckled.
:But of course. It is part of what makes me so lovable.: Dallen batted his enormous blue eyes at Mags.
He had to chuckle even more. “I swear, yer worse’n one’a them court fellers. Next thing, ye’ll be wantin’ me t’ find ye a silk’n’velvet blanket ’cause wool just don’t show off yer coat good ’nough.”
:Hmm. You think?: Dallen paused just long enough for Mags to begin to wonder if his Companion was serious, then whickered his laughter. :I shall recommend one to Rolan. He’ll need it to compete with me.:
“Rolan’s gonna pull yer tail off one ’a these days.” Mags shook his head. “I dunno why he ain’t yet.”
:Because no matter how miffed he pretends to be with me, he likes my tweaking his vanity. And I like to let him get all huffy with me. It’s how we muddle along.:
That was a word that was unfamiliar. He shook his head. “Muddle along? Whassat mean?”
:Muddling along is an art form, dear boy. It’s the great secret to life. You can’t plan for everything, so you take the good and the bad and cope as they happen and even though life gets muddled you somehow manage to get by.:
Mags thought about that. It was true that he mostly lived in the moment, without thinking about good or bad times, at least not on purpose. But that was because when he thought about such things, then although the times were good, there was always, somewhere under everything, a feeling of certainty that they couldn’t go on being good. All his experience had taught him
that. So was that, just thinking about today and not worrying too much about tomorrow, what Dallen meant by “muddling along?”
:Not exactly,: the Companion corrected. :You get hope in the bad times that there are better ahead, and there are. You temper the good times with plans for the future because you know there will be bad ones. And, sadly, there will always be bad times; it’s in the nature of things.:
Well he could certainly agree with that.
Dallen nudged him. :The rule is that most things don’t matter as much as you might think. So long as you keep that firmly in mind, then neither foe nor loving but misguided friend can hurt you—at least not so badly that you can’t recover.:
Mags regarded him dubiously.
:We’re none of us quite so sure of our place in the world that we can’t be rocked off our feet by bad times. It’s the getting back up again that counts. Not that you fall, but getting back up again counts for more in the long run.:
Mags snorted. “You ought to set up shop in the Mindhealer’s area and charge a penny a customer with all that.”
Dallen raised his head and looked regal. :You can mock. But answer me one important question, if you will.:
Mags nodded.
Dallen lowered his head and looked his young trainee hard in the eye. :Are you actually going to eat that other half of your pie?: he queried, pointedly. :Because if you’re not... :
Mags sighed, then laughed, and gave it to him.
Chapter 2
WHEN Mags left the stables, he hadn’t so much as a hint of a crumb anywhere about his person. Dallen had even made big eyes at him until he turned all his pockets out, proving there wasn’t even a fragment of crust left. As he pulled the door closed against the wind, he caught a glimpse of someone approaching out of the corner of his eye. He turned, and saw an older man, a full Herald, in pristine whites, walking toward the stable door. He was holding a half-eaten pocket pie in one hand. Mags grinned at him.
“I see yer had the same idea I had,” he announced. “Don’t let my Companion—Dallen—see ye have that, or ye might lose it. And fingers too.”
The Herald blinked in surprise, and then let out a rich mellow laugh. “Ah, you’re Dallen’s Chosen? That would make you Mags, yes?” His cultured accent showed that he was highborn, but he seemed quite relaxed and utterly friendly. Most of the time when Mags saw a full Herald, unless it was a teacher, it was usually someone in a tearing hurry.
Mags nodded and smiled back, noticing that the man had curiously colored eyes, a very light gray. Silver, he would have said, if he’d been asked to put a name to it. They looked very odd and striking with his dark hair. Mags wondered if he could be newly assigned as a teacher—or perhaps just in from Circuit. There were new Heralds coming and going all the time.
“We’ve been hearing very good things about you, Trainee Mags.” The Herald nodded as if to emphasize that he agreed with the assessment. “I’m glad I had the chance to run into you. You came to the Collegium with no expectations, and no memory of how we used to teach trainees. Are your classes going well under the new system? Is there anything about them that you think is giving you and your fellow Trainees trouble?”
Mags gave a surprised chuckle of his own; given how many Heralds were still against the “new system,” he was pleased to find one that seemingly wasn’t. More than that, he was pleased to find one that was actually interested in improving the system rather than just criticizing it. “Well, I’m not as good at figurin’ past sums as I oughtta be, I think. But I’m catchin up with folks ’n doing pretty good wi’ history, I reckon. If I was t’ say, though, I reckon some on us, like me, yah, but some others too, needs extree help, an’ not all on us is brass ’nuff t’ go find it. Them highborns, they kin go to ma or pa an’ say, ‘get me a tutor, eh?’ But we cain’t. We cain’t pay fer ’em, an mostly we kinda shy off askin’ teachers.” He pondered a moment longer. “So... mebbe jest find summun’s willin’ t’ give the help an’ hev’ ’em say ’bout it in class? No hevin’ t’ ask fer help, nor tryin’ t’ find summun willin’ t’ give it, ’cause some on us is shy ’bout askin’, or shamed t’ admit it. Jest hev summun a-waitin’ ina room after classes. An them as needs the help jest shews up, an’ teacher’s there t’ get ’em over the rough spots.”
The older Herald nodded, looking oddly pleased. Mags had a nagging feeling of familiarity; he was sure he’d seen this man before somewhere. Unfortunately, he realized he was at that awkward point in the conversation where stopping to ask a name seemed a little odd. He groaned inwardly. Proper manners were very hard. Would it be wrong to ask now?
His hesitation cost him his chance. The older Herald smiled. “Well said, and a fine idea. I’ll have a word with the right people. I am even more pleased now to have run into you.”
Mags flushed a little. “Eh, I jest say things. Don’ mean I’m right. Jest say things ’cause I’m too dumb t’ know I shouldn’.”
The Herald laughed. “And there is a very wise saying that only the young are unsophisticated enough to see past the mask to the truth and brave enough to speak it aloud. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.” With that, he opened the door and went into the stable, leaving Mags staring after him, still trying to pin down why he was so familiar.
Then he shook his head and pelted for the Collegium at a dead run, vaulting the fence around Companions’ Field rather than taking the time to open the gate, and scrambling up the path with his book-rucksack banging on his shoulders. Fortunately, his next class was at the nearer end of the building; he wasn’t the last person to dash in through the door, though he was the last to fling himself behind his desk. Still, Mags managed to arrive without being late, getting into place mere moments before the teacher entered the classroom.
The class itself took all of his concentration, and managed to drive all thought of the odd encounter right out of his mind. It was one of “those” maths classes, the ones where he was supposed to figure out angles and the like. It made his head hurt, he was concentrating so hard, and feeling altogether like the stupidest person in the class. Sums were so easy, but this... there were so many things he had to keep track of.
Thank goodness the next class was history. He was always ahead on history. It was—well, not logical, exactly, because history was people, and people weren’t always logical. But it was like stories, there was a beginning, a middle and an end.
But as he was going into the door for his last class, he was approached by a page boy and handed a piece of paper. It was a note from Herald Caelen, the head of the Collegium, asking him if he’d come by after classes were over for the day.
His first thought, immediately, was what did I do wrong? His second was to think back to that encounter at the stable with the Herald. What if the Herald had been offended at his forwardness? What if he’d insulted the Herald by not addressing him by name? What if the Herald was one of those who didn’t approve of the new system? What if he did, but was offended by Mags’ implied criticism? His head spun, and he felt that all-too-familiar old reaction. Back in his old life, the only reason someone in authority would want to see him would be because he was in trouble or that someone was looking for a scapegoat to punish.
He reminded himself that he wasn’t in his old life. He’d never had that sort of thing happen to him here.
But it was hard to break his old ways of thought. He could all too easily imagine a hundred things he would have done or said wrong. As he worried them all through, the class dragged along.
He tried to reason with himself. Maybe Caelen wanted to see him for a good reason rather than a bad one. Probably Caelen wanted to see him for a good reason. Maybe that Herald had told Caelen he had a good idea, and Caelen wanted to ask him about it. Finally he managed to convince himself that this was the most probable—a sign that at least, if he had not overcome his instinctive reactions, he could finally reason his way past them.
Regardless, everything about the impending meeting kept him distracted during
a lesson that was not one of his best subjects. This was the language class, and language, with all of its rules about grammar and spelling—made no sense to him. Nothing about it was logical, and just when he thought he’d gotten a rule straight in his head, it all went out with some exception or other. And as for his spelling, well, it was... creative.
This generally made for a long lesson at the best of times, and being preoccupied made it longer.
At last the teacher dismissed them, though unfortunately with a writing assignment. Just what he needed, with his head all of a muddle. Mags wondered if Lena would help him put it together, and then wondered if he was going to be too busy trying to make up for what he’d done wrong to ask her.
Once again, his mood dropped, and he had convinced himself that he was in trouble. He pulled his books together into his shoulder bag, suddenly wishing the lesson had been even longer. What could Caelen want?
As he walked along the corridor, feeling as if he was under a dark cloud, and wondering if he should pretend he never gotten the note, he felt a familiar presence in the back of his head. :It’s probably not bad, you know,: his Companion assured him, :I would have warned you if I’d seen you doing anything that was that bad. But you aren’t going to find out unless you go.: There was an amused chuckle. :No matter what, you’ll muddle through. Besides, how do you know Caelen isn’t going to thank you for coming up with a good idea?:
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