And last of all, he truly admired the Heralds, and many of the older Trainees. He really wanted them to know that. They had earned his admiration. Hellfires, the Heralds had saved him and all the younglings at that mine! Life was short there at the best of times . . . at the worst, well “accidents” had happened to the youngsters who got the least little bit rebellious. There were always more unwanted orphans to replace them.
Manners, deference, knowing how to act around other people, all these things were absolutely alien to your thinking when you had grown up fighting over kitchen scraps, and sucking up was a way to keep from getting beaten. There had been plenty of times at the mine when he would happily have done almost any degrading thing in order to get just a little more food, or a blanket that was a tiny bit larger. Anything. So how could he relate to people who thought he was trying to curry favor when he was only thinking how much he appreciated being here?
But there was one thing he could always count on. Somehow Dallen always managed to make him feel better, no matter what happened, no matter what faux pas he managed to commit.
And the moments when he was sure he would never, ever go into Whites were getting fewer. Most of the time he thought he was actually getting close to acting like everyone else, even if he didn’t actually feel like everyone else.
:Just keep on acting. Pretend long enough that you belong, and eventually even you will believe it.: Dallan nudged him with his nose. :You might also think about that spot right under my chin . . . :
He grinned a little, and gently ran the bristles of the brush along his Companion’s chin. Having Dallen as a comforting and persistent presence in the back of his mind kept him steady. It was only when the invisible pressure got too much that he needed to physically come to Dallen for relief.
Just now, the trigger that had sent him here had been a brush of a resentful thought that he was somehow trying to become the teacher’s pet, when in fact all he was doing was trying to stay even with everyone else in class. He couldn’t help it. He was grateful to the teacher for taking the extra time to explain. Why was saying so wrong?
“You allus make me feel good,” he murmured to Dallen’s shoulder. “I dunno why you don’ get tired of me.”
:I’ll forgive you if you actually hand over that apple pie that you promised,: said Dallen, nosing at Mags’ pocket urgently. :You know pocket pies are far and away best when still warm, and you said you’d bring an extra from lunch.:
Happy to have something to take him away from thoughts that were always uncomfortable, Mags reached into his pocket and pulled out the two small rectangular pastries—a special treat for the colder day from the kitchen staff. They were a handy way to take the dessert out of the dining hall and eat it later, they kept your hands warm, and the students always appreciated them. It took a little more effort to make the individual pies, but then again, the dining hall tended to clear that much faster if the food was taken out. That meant the dishes could be worked on faster, tables wiped, floor mopped and the whole job done that much sooner. Everyone benefited.
The door banged open again, showing that Mags wasn’t the only Gray-wearer that had thought to take the chance of a few stolen moments with his or her Companion. Possibly with an extra pie to share as well. Companions did have a sweet tooth. He didn’t bother to see who it was; if they wanted to talk to him they’d already know he was here. And if they wanted privacy he wasn’t going to invade it.
Mags watched the pie vanish as Dallen practically inhaled it.
“I got no idea why you like ’em so much,” he said, “considerin’ that you couldn’t possibly taste it. I’d be surprised if it e’en touched yer tongue.”
Mags took a bite out of his own pie. It was delicious; it tasted as if the apples had been picked today, which was remarkable, considering it was probably made from dried apples from last year. The head cook did pride himself on making food for well over a hundred people still taste as though it was made for a small family meal. He almost always succeeded. Luncheon today, for instance . . . Mags licked his lips, thinking about it. Thick bean soup with bacon in it, winter greens cooked with ham hocks, lots of bread so fresh from the oven it burned your hands a little as you cut open the rolls and spread them with butter. “Good plain food and plenty of it is what these younglings need,” was what he’d overheard the man saying. “And if the highborn are too good for it, they can go and eat elsewhere.” Well, if this was “good, plain food,” he really didn’t want to eat with the highborn. His head would probably explode.
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.
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 g
ood 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.
Intrigues: Book Two of the Collegium Chronicles (a Valdemar Novel) Page 2