Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (21 page)

Mags was not at all averse to following Dallen's orders. In fact, he fled into the safety of his room, and threw the bolt on the door. Then thinking better of that action, he unlocked it almost immediately, wedged himself into the farthest corner of the room, and sat there staring at the door.

Shortly afterward, he heard more voices, speaking too quietly for him to make out what they were saying. The tone was low and urgent—or in the case of the strange Herald, low and angry. Eventually, he heard footsteps going away.

Coming out was the last thing that Mags wanted to do right now, but Dallen seemed to expect it of him, and so with great reluctance he picked himself up off the floor and walked over to the door and opened it again. The stables were empty of everything but Dallen and a couple of Companions in far-off stalls, studiously trying to look disinterested.

:That is one of the Heralds who does not like the new Collegium organization,:
Dallen said calmly.
:I made it known that he had laid hands on you, and the circumstances, and some of his peers came to make him understand that he was
quite
out of line with his accusations.:

Mags shook his head. He was too shaken to be able to think clearly. He felt as if he had been flung right back into his old life, and it made him sick inside.

Mags controlled his shaking as he saddled Dallen and heaved himself up into place.
:It felt like I was 'bout to get a beatin'. Just like it used t' be:

Dallen did
not
say, “Oh, he would never have beaten you,” for which Mags was grateful. The truth was, he would not have put it past that Herald to at least hit him, and Dallen was honest enough to acknowledge that.

Which actually made Mags feel a little better. At least Dallen wasn't trying to lie to him. That would have made things worse.

Mags wondered briefly why that would be “fun” but could not be distracted. “I thought Heralds was supposed t' look out for each other,” he said plaintively aloud, realizing after a moment that the sick feeling in his stomach was
betrayal.
Dallen had told him he could trust anyone in Whites.

:Try to understand, Mags. He did not mean to hurt you. He . . .:
Dallen paused.
:He would not thank me for saying this, but the truth is that he, and the Heralds that think like him, are afraid.:

:Afraid!:
Mags could scarcely believe that, and his surprise brought Dallen to a complete halt.
:Afraid! I can't hardly b'lieve that! Afraid of what?:

:Change.:
Dallen's flanks under his legs heaved in a huge sigh.
:This is an enormous change in how Trainees are turned into Heralds. They are used to seeing four or five new Trainees come in over the course of a year—suddenly there are more than sixty of you, counting the ones out with mentors. It is an enormous change, and the challenge is that it is not possible for every Herald to personally know every other Herald now. And it never will be again. In his heart, he knows that he never will be able to say “I know Herald So-and-so is trustworthy because he is my personal friend.” Now he will have to take it on faith because he is another Herald. This changes everything, and the only way he thinks he can be absolutely sure that these new Trainees will be as good as he and his friends are, is to insist that they be under the eyes of himself or one of his friends during their training period.:
Dallen started up again at a walk, and Mags scented snow in the air.
:He doesn't have Mindspeech. He can't talk to his Companion. And he doesn't much like people your age.:

“We're even, then, 'cause I don't much like him,” Mags muttered.

“—and don' think ye can make me feel sorry for 'im,” Mags interrupted aloud. “ 'Cause I won't.”

Again, Dallen's sides heaved with a sigh.
:All right. I won't.:

He moved from a walk into a canter, and then into a gallop, and began taking jumps. After that, Mags had plenty to think about other than his recent fright.

Following a good workout, they reported to the stable again where Mags helped Lyr with his seat, and from there, after giving Dallen a good rubdown, Mags went to weapons practice.

The practices were always a mixed lot of Heralds, Bards, Healers, and others. But today there was a knot of young men Mags did not recognize, in clothing that looked rather different from that of the others, and not just in color. The cut was different; the tunics were shorter, and had high collars and an odd side-closing to them. The others were all a-buzz about the newcomers, but no one seemed to know who they were. The Weaponsmaster put an end to the mystery.

“These young gentlemen are the escort for several foreign merchants that have come to negotiate with the King,” he said, putting an end to the buzz. “They requested to be allowed to work out and practice among you, and the King has granted that request. They are to be treated no differently than one of you. Now, let's get loosened up.”

As the Weaponsmaster ran them through their exercises, Mags was not alone in watching the young men covertly. They moved, he noticed, like the strongest of the feral cats that had prowled the yards and outbuildings at the mine. Very secure in their strength, restless, but with a wary eye on everything around them. And when the Weaponsmaster paired them up with the most skilled, they enjoyed the fighting in a way that Mags had not encountered before. Actually, it was not the fighting they enjoyed—it was
defeating
that brought them great pleasure. They reveled in it, exchanging glances of triumph with each other. And although they said very little, Mags began to note that they were taking pains to bring down their opponents in the most humiliating fashions possible. They disarmed opponents so energetically that weapons skittered halfway across the salle. They delivered blows that left their opponent sprawled out on his face or landing on his backside. One of them even “accidentally” got in a hit on a young Guardsman's groin that left him gasping and unable to speak, tears of pain flowing from his eyes—and
he
had been wearing a hardened codpiece for protection!

He'd seen this before . . . though the Pieters boys were nothing like as graceful as these guards.

Finally after that last incident, the Weaponsmaster paired them off with each other, saying nothing more than, “You are too skilled for my students. I'll have to find you better partners.”

Just being around them made Mags feel sick and shaken, especially after the kind of day he had been having. He finally excused himself and, with the Weaponsmaster's permission, headed back toward his stable room.

He got about halfway when he heard footsteps creaking in the snow behind him. With a feeling of dread, he turned and found three of them trailing him. They looked him up and down; he was reminded forcibly of the Pieters boys again.

“C'n I show you where ye need t' go?” he said, mouth dry.

“We were seeing you training the others, and wondered why your teacher did not pair you with one of us,” said the nearest. “We would like to test your mettle.” He had very cold blue eyes, Mags noticed, and black hair. An odd combination. The other two, more nondescript, shifted restlessly from side to side, the snow creaking under their boots.

“I druther not,” he replied, his heart starting to pound.

“But I do not think you have a choice,” said the other. “It is not . . . hospitable.”

They moved in on him. They did not rush him, but there was no doubt, based on their grins, that they had decided he was a coward, and it would be fun to knock him about a bit.

But Mags had learned long ago the means of fighting back without actually fighting at all, and as they grabbed for him, their hands closed on nothing more than air. He was good at this. He could judge their reach to a hair, and he moved only enough to keep out of their way. He made sure to position himself each time so that they actually hindered and ran into each other. Not that he wasn't afraid, because he very much was. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and it felt as if his heart was going to pound right out of his chest.

Time and time again, the same scene played out. They would try to lay hands on him, or even deliver some kind of blow; he would evade hands and blows alike, without ever seeming to move much. Each time, he left a hand or an arm out temptingly for them, hoping that one or more of them would lunge after it. Finally, the tallest of them grew tired of the game, and
did
make a rush at him. This time he not only evaded being seized, but with what looked like a gentle brush of his hands, landed the foreigner several arm lengths away, facedown in the snow. What he had actually done was to lure the attacker off-balance, and then, while the young man was still off-balance, continued him in that direction with the slightest of shoves.

He came up, not spluttering as Mags had expected, but angry—and disgusted.

“Bah!” he said, wiping melting snow from his face. “He is cheating, using one of their White Rider magic tricks. There is no point to this.”

And with that, just as abruptly as they had begun their attacks, they broke it all off. They turned their backs on him, stalking toward the Palace, leaving Mags to stare after them, numb and shaking.

T
HE Herald that had attacked Mags left him alone—and then left altogether, out on circuit.

Why this had come about, Mags did not know. Dallen was silent on the subject. But Mags could not help but notice the occasional careful stare at him that other Heralds did not hide. He was not able to sense any menace, but . . . there was not much doubt in his mind that these Heralds, if they did not actually blame him for their colleague's abrupt departure, were certain that the “encounter” was the cause.

He was not quite sure what to make of that, but he did know what felt most comfortable, and that was to make himself even less noticeable, if that was possible, than before.

The mercenary bodyguards were still in residence, and still showed up at the salle, but the Weaponsmaster made sure to allow them to pair only with each other or with Guardsmen at least as skilled as they were. Mags kept a wary eye on them when they were there, but avoided them whenever it was possible. Dallen came to get him from the salle now, so even if all of them had tried to swarm him at once, it would not have been possible to touch him without causing a serious incident. Laying violent hands on a Companion inside the Palace grounds—No matter what anyone thought of Mags, no one would stand for Dallen being threatened. They must have known that, since there were no further incidents involving
him
.

But aside from his teachers, no one really seemed to know what to make of him. He still kept very much to himself, and although no one was unfriendly, the other Trainees seemed inclined to keep him at as much of a distance as he kept them. Word of his confrontation with the older Herald had spread out to the general population of the Collegia, and Mags suspected there were plenty of wild rumors about what had caused it. The man's abrupt departure did nothing to quell those rumors, since as a rule, one was allowed a minimum of a month between circuits. No one ever told him what those rumors were, but it was obvious from the way people looked at him that they must range from near truth to wildly unlikely. He shrank from those looks.

Lena was his only human friend, although living in the stable and being as strong a Mindspeaker as he was, he had made friends with several as-yet-unpartnered Companions. He would happily have stayed out in the stable all day, but he was required to attend his classes. Outside of those, however, he scarcely left the building except to eat, and he had contemplated asking Lena to bring him food to be heated in the stable ovens when she decided to take matters into her own hands.

He knew he was in for—something—when he heard how she was walking as she came up behind him. There was determination in her step, and as he brushed out Dallen's mane—unnecessarily, since it was already as silky and tangle-free as a pampered girl's hair—she seized his elbow.

“There is someone I want you to meet,” she said abruptly. “So come on!”

“But—” he began, but there was no stopping her in this mood. She marched him out into the snowfall There was another snowstorm just starting, not a violent one, but from the way the fat flakes were drifting down through the air, and the look of the sky, it was going to pile up deeply before it was over. He found himself hoping that it would be
so
deep that classes would be canceled and he could spend the whole day reading alone in his warm, safe room.

Well, Lena was not going to let him do that just yet; this much was clear.

She pulled him along the path that led, not to Heraldic or Bardic Collegium, but to Healers'. Alarmed at what this might mean, he began resisting. “Lena—just 'cause I don' like t' mingle with folk, that don' mean I need a Healer!” he exclaimed. “Serious, now, I'm fine—”

To his intense relief, although she kept tugging, she giggled. “Silly! I'm not taking you to a Healer for
you,
I want you to meet my friend Bear!”