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 nonphysical 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 be 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.
Then, just as her nerves were at the breaking point, the three months of Midwinter revelry began at Court and the persecution ceased abruptly.
When several days passed without even a note, Talia began to hope; when a week went by, she dared to relax her guard a little. By the end of the first month free of pursuit, she decided that they’d grown tired of her non-reaction and found some other game.
She threw herself into her life at the Collegium then with such unrestrained enthusiasm that before Midwinter Festival she began to feel as if she’d come to belong there. Her family’s rejection no longer ached with the same intensity.
The Collegium suspended classes for the two weeks of the Festival; those students that didn’t return to their own homes for the holiday generally visited with friends or relatives near the capital. It was only Talia who had nowhere to go; she had kept so much to herself that no one realized this in the rush of preparations.
The first day of the holiday found her wandering the empty halls, listening to her footsteps echo, feeling very small and lonely, and wondering if even the Library would be able to fill the empty hours.
As she listened to the sound of her own passing echo eerily in the hallways, another, fainter sound came to her ears—the sound of a harp being played somewhere beyond the doors that closed off the Heralds’ private quarters from the rest of the Collegium.
Curiosity and loneliness moved her to follow the sound to its source. She pushed open one of the double doors with a faint creak, and let the harp-notes lead her down long corridors to the very end of the Herald’s wing, and a corner overlooking the Palace Temple. It was quiet here. Most of the rooms were singles, occupied by Heralds currently out on Field duty. The place was easily as empty as the Collegium wing. The harp sounded sweet and a little lonely amid all the silence. Talia stood, just out of sight of a half-open door on the ground floor, and lost all track of time in the enchantment of the music.
She sighed when the harp-song ended.
“Come in please, whoever you are,” a soft, age-roughened voice called from within the room. “There’s no need for you to stand about in a dreary hall when I could do with some company.”
The invitation sounded quite genuine; Talia mastered her reluctance and shyly pushed the door open a bit farther.
Sunlight poured in the windows of the tiny room on the other side, reflecting from paneled walls the color of honey and a few pieces of furniture of wood and fabric only a shade or so darker. A brightly burning fire on the hearth gave off the scent of applewood and added to the atmosphere of light and warmth. Seated beside the fire was an elderly man—older than anyone Talia had ever met before, surely, for his silver hair matched the white of his tunic. But his gentle, still-handsome face and gray eyes held only welcome, and the creases that wreathed his mouth and eyes were those that came of much smiling rather than frowning. His brow was broad, his mouth firm, his chin cleft rather appealingly, and his whole demeanor was kind. He held a harp braced against one leg. Talia’s eyes widened to see that the other, like that of the village guard she had met, was missing from the knee down.
He followed her gaze and smiled.
“I am more fortunate than a good many,” he said, “for it was only a leg I lost to the Tedrel mercenaries and the King’s service, and not my life. What keeps a youngling like you here in these gloomy halls at Festival time?”
Perhaps it was his superficial resemblance to her Father’s Mother; perhaps it was simply that he was so openly welcom
ing of her; perhaps it was just that she was so desperately lonely—he made Talia trust him with all her heart, and she spoke to him as candidly as she would have to Rolan.
“I haven’t anywhere to go, sir,” she said in a near-whisper.
“Have you no friends willing to share holiday and hearth with you?” he frowned. “That seems most unHeraldlike.”
“I—I didn’t tell anyone that I was staying. I really don’t know anybody very well; my family doesn’t want me anymore, and—and—”
“And you didn’t want anyone to know; perhaps ask you to come with them not because they wanted you, but because they felt sorry for you?” he guessed shrewdly.
She nodded, hanging her head a trifle.
“You look to be about thirteen; this must be your first Midwinter here or the entire Collegium would know you had nowhere to spend it. There’s only one newly-Chosen that fits that description, so you must be Talia. Am I right?”
She nodded shyly.
“Well, there’s no loss without a little gain,” he replied. “I, too, have nowhere to spend my Festival. I could spend it with the Court, but the crowding is not to my taste. My kith and kin have long since vanished into time—my friends are either gone or busy elsewhere. Shall we keep the holiday together? I am called Jadus.”
“I—would like that sir. Very much.” She raised her eyes and smiled back at him.
“Excellent! Then come and make yourself comfortable; there’s room next to the fire—chair, cushion, whichever you prefer.”
A keen sensitivity alerted him to the depths of Talia’s shyness, and he made a show of tuning his harp as she hesitantly placed a fat pillow of amber velvet on the hearth and curled up on it like a kitten. His Gift was thought-sensing, and while he would never even dream of prying into her mind, there were nuances and shadings to her thoughts and behavior that told him he would have to tread carefully with her. He was by nature a gentle man, but with Talia he knew he would have to be at his gentlest, for the least ill-nature on his part would frighten her out of all proportion to reality.
“I’m glad that my playing lured you to my door, Talia.”
“It was so very beautiful—” she said wistfully. “I’ve never heard music like that before.”
He chuckled. “My overweening pride thanks you, youngling, but the hard truth is that any Master Bard would make me sound the half-amateur that I truly am. Still—honesty forces me to admit that I have at least some Talent, else they’d never have admitted me to Bardic Collegium in the first place.”
“Bardic Collegium, sir?” Talia said, confused.
“Yes, I know. Now I am a Herald, complete with Companion, who is even now sunning her old bones and watching the silly foals frolic in the snow—but when I first arrived here, it was to be admitted to Bardic Collegium. I had been there for three years, with two more to go; I was sitting in the garden, attempting to compose a set-theme piece for an assignment, when something drew me down to Companion’s Field. And she came, and proceeded to merrily turn my life inside out. I was even resentful at the time, but now I wouldn’t exchange a moment of my life for the coronet of the Laureate.”
Talia watched the strong, supple fingers that caressed the silken wood of the harp almost absently.
“You didn’t give up the music, though.”
“Oh, no—one doesn’t forsake that sweet mistress lightly after one has tasted of her charms,” he smiled. “And perhaps Fortunea did me a favor; I’ve never needed to please a fickle crowd or ungrateful master, I’ve sung and played for the entertainment of only myself and my friends. Music has served me as a disguise as well, since Bards are welcome nearly everywhere, in Kingdom or out. And even now, when my voice has long since gone the way of my leg, I can charm a tune from My Lady to keep me company. Or to lure company to my door.”
He wrinkled his nose at her, and she returned his smile with growing confidence.
He looked at her appraisingly, taken with a sudden thought. “Talia, youngling, can you sing?”
“I don’t know, sir,” she confessed, “I’m—I was—Holderkin. They don’t hold with music; only hymns, mostly, and then just the priests and Handmaidens.”
“Holderkin, Holderkin—” he muttered, obviously trying to remember something. “Ah! Surely you know the little sheep-calming song, the one that goes, ‘Silly sheep, go to sleep’?”
He plucked a simple melody.
She nodded. “Yes, sir—but that isn’t music, though, is it?”
“Even a speech can be music in the right hands. Would you sing it for me, please?”
She began very hesitantly, singing so softly as to be barely audible above the voice of the harp, but she began to gain confidence and volume before long. The harp in counterpoint behind the melody fascinated her; soon she was so engrossed in the patterns the music made that she lost all trace of self-consciousness.
“I thought so,” Jadus said with self-satisfaction as she finished. “I thought you had a touch of Talent when I listened to you speak. You’ll never give a major Bard competition, little one, but you definitely have—or will have, rather—a quite good singing voice. Would you be willing to give an old man a great deal of pleasure by consenting to yet another set of lessons?”
“You mean—music lessons? Teach me? But—”
“It would be a shame to waste your Talent; and you do have it, youngling,” he smiled, with just a hint of wistfulness. “It would truly be something that I would enjoy sharing with you.”
That decided her. “If you think it’s worth wasting your time on me—”
He put a finger under her chin, tilting her head up so that she had nowhere to look but his earnest, kindly eyes. “Time spent with you, my dear, will never be wasted. Believe it.”
She blushed a brilliant crimson, and he released her.
“Would you be willing to begin now?” he continued, allowing her to regain her composure. “We have all the afternoon before us—and we could begin with the song you just sang.”
“If you don’t mind—I don’t have anything I was going to do.”
“Mind? Youngling, if you knew how long my hours are, you would never have made that statement.”
Jadus felt a bond growing between the two of them—felt without really thinking about it that it was his own “helpless” condition that allowed Talia to feel he wasn’t any sort of a threat. He had been allowing himself to drift in a hermit-like half-dream for several years now, allowing the world outside his door to move off without him. It just hadn’t seemed worth the effort to try and call it back—until now—
Until now, when another heart as lonely as his had strayed to his door, and brought the world back with her. And as he watched the child at his feet, he knew that this time—for her sake—he would not permit it to drift away again.
Talia learned quickly, as her teachers already knew; music was a whole unknown world for her, and in one way this was all to the good as she had nothing to unlearn. She was so enthralled that she never even noticed how late it was getting until a servant arrived to light candles and inquire as to whether Jadus preferred dinner in his room.
When she would have absented herself, he insisted that she share dinner with him, saying that he had had his fill of solitary meals. When the servant returned, he sent him on another errand, to search out some songbooks he’d had stored away. These he presented to Talia over her protests.
“I’ve not missed them in all the time they’ve been stored,” he said firmly. “The music and the memories are safe enough in here—” he tapped his forehead “—so I have no need of the books themselves. A Midwinter Gifting, if you like, so that you can learn fast enough to please your tyrannical teacher.”
She departed only when her singing was punctuated by yawns. She felt almost as if she’d known the old Herald for as long as she’d been alive, and that they’d been friends for all of that time. She felt comfortable and welcome with him, and could hardly bear to wait for the new dawn and another day with h
im.
She rose nearly with the sun. But she feared to intrude too early and disturb the aged Herald, so she gulped down a hasty breakfast of bread and milk from the stores in the Collegium kitchen and took her energy out to Rolan.
She and he played like the silliest of children, she tossing snowballs at him and he avoiding them adroitly or trying to catch them in his teeth. She felt quite lightheaded with happiness; happier than she ever remembered being before. Finally, he curvetted coaxingly toward her, in a plain invitation to mount and ride. They galloped together until the sun was quite high, fairly flying over the Field. This was enough to loosen her taut nerves and spend some of her energy without losing any of her enthusiasm. She tapped on Jadus’ door at midmorning with sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks.
By the end of this, the second day of her lessons, the servants had gotten wind of what was going on and could be seen lurking in the vicinity of the Herald’s room. Though untrained, Talia’s voice was good and her pitch was true; the servants were finding the lessons to be rare entertainment indeed. Now that Midwinter Festival was at its height there was scarcely enough room in the Great Hall for all the nobles come to Court, much less an off-duty servant—but here in this little corner of Herald’s Hall there was entertainment in plenty. Before long, had anyone chanced by, they would have seen folk perched quietly like a flock of sparrows in every available nook and cranny. Talia was unaware that they were there, oblivious as she was to everything but her lessoning. Jadus knew, though, his ear long sensitized to the unusual sound of anyone in his out-of-the-way corridor; and he tacitly welcomed their presence. He had spent enough lonely holidays to know how cheering a bit of music could be—and he was showman enough to appreciate having an audience. Besides, knowing they were there made him put a bit more polish on his own performances, and that was all to the good where his new pupil was concerned.
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