Keren called a halt to the drilling when the sun was westering, insisting that both she and Rolan were tired—or should have been. “Just go out into the Field together for a while. Ride if you like, walk if you prefer, but be together—the bond that’s to build between you has a good start, but it needs nurturing. Don’t try to do anything, just enjoy each other’s company. That’ll be enough.”
Talia obeyed happily; she climbed over the fence and walked dreamily beside Rolan, thoughts drifting. There was no explaining why, but at this moment she could feel none of the tenseness and anxiety that had been a part of her for as long as she could remember. For now, at least, she was held securely in a place where she belonged, and with that certain knowledge came another trickle of confidence. Being with the Companion erased all her doubts and stilled all her fears. She didn’t come to herself until she heard the double bell for the Cook’s helpers sound across the field.
She swung up on his bare back and they trotted to the enormous tack shed near the middle of the Field. Keren showed her where to find Rolan’s gear; she groomed him hurriedly, but still with care, and flew back to her room, having scarcely time to wash and change before sliding into a vacant place at dinner.
She’d thought she would be too excited to sleep, but to her own surprise found herself nodding over her plate. She had barely enough energy to take the prescribed bath—and was grateful that there was little competition for the tubs this early in the evening, for if she’d had to wait in the steamy room for long, she’d have fallen asleep on her feet.
This time she had no thoughts at all, for she was asleep when her head touched the pillow.
6
Every day for the next week Talia followed the same schedule; she woke just after sunrise to the sound of the waking bell—which she’d somehow slept through her first morning. She would either bundle herself hastily into her uniform and run downstairs to help with breakfast, or spend a more leisurely hour in getting both herself and her room ready before the meal. After breakfast came the Orientation class, and other classes were added every other day as the time spent there was shortened. Her afternoons were given over to Master Alberich in self-defense class, equitation with Herald Keren, and, of course, in building her bond with Rolan. On the days she wasn’t helping with breakfast or lunch she spent long hours with several others mending a seemingly endless pile of gray uniforms.
At the end of the week Herald Teren dismissed them for the last time, but asked Talia to remain behind as the others filed out. She tensed without realizing it, her outward relaxation draining away as she waited, biting nervously at a hangnail, to hear the reason why he wanted to speak to her.
She watched him covertly as he leaned a little on his desk, not meeting his eyes except by accident. He looked worried and slightly unhappy, and in her experience that sort of expression on an adult face meant trouble for her.
Teren was uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in now; this poor, confused child was having more than enough problems in trying to come to terms with the Collegium and her new role, without having to cope with trouble from her family as well. He mentally cursed their cruelty, who could send a message so coldly calculated to destroy what little stability the child had gained.
“Talia—” he began; then hesitated, seeing her start from raw nervousness. “Childing, there’s nothing for you to be afraid of—I’ve just got some rather unpleasant news for you that I thought you would rather receive alone. It’s word from your family.”
“My family?” she repeated, her expression surprised and puzzled.
“We sent a messenger to them, just as we do with every child Chosen, telling them what had happened to you. Now usually no matter how angry they are, the honor of being Chosen seems to make every parent forgive whatever disobedience had occurred, and we thought that would happen for you, too.”
Now at last she was looking directly at him, instead of from underneath downcast lashes. He was uneasy beneath her stare, and oddly at a loss for words. “Talia, I wish things had gone as we’d expected; I can’t tell you how sorry I am—this is all the reply they gave us.”
He fumbled in his tunic pocket and pulled out a much-folded bit of paper and handed it to her.
She opened it, smoothing out the creases unthinkingly, while Teren waited in apprehensive anticipation for her reaction to what it held.
Sensholding has no daughter Talia, it read. The half-literate scrawl bore her Father’s mark.
She didn’t realize that she was weeping until a single hot tear splashed on the paper, blurring the ink. She regained control of herself immediately, swallowing down the tears. She hadn’t realized until this moment just how much she’d hoped that the family would accept her because of her newly-won status. She hadn’t thought, though, that the Heralds would have told them—she’d expected that it would be she herself that would break the news; perhaps by riding one day into the Holding in the full formal array of Herald’s Whites. It was when she had first realized that she really was a Herald that she had begun to hope that the achievement would mean forgiveness—even, perhaps, a hint of approval. Holderkin did not condemn everything Heralds did and stood for, and even the most critical of them generally admitted that Heralds served an important function. Certainly the Holderkin welcomed their intrusion into their midst when the raiders came over the Border, or a feud needed settling! Perhaps, she’d hoped, her kin would realize now why she’d done things that were a bit unseemly—they’d realize she was only following her own nature. Surely now they’d understand. Perhaps they’d welcome her back, and let her have a place to belong.
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. Like 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, part 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. Skif 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 appar
ently 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 to 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.
Heralds of Valdemar (A Valdemar Omnibus) Page 12
