Crucible (20 page)

Jelenel approached, looking as exhausted as he felt. “We will return to the discussion tomorrow.”

Keth' agreed, even though he felt tomorrow might
not allow him sufficient time to recover from the exertions.

• • •

“We are all in agreement, then, that the embassy will also serve as a training house for those with Gifts of magic?” Theran asked the group gathered in the building's main room. Two wore the robes of the Scrollsworn. Several were Elders, and the rest were shaman. Keth', Jeris, and Nerea watched the proceedings as impassively as possible.

Several guests glanced at the injured Eliden as they muttered agreement. His arm remained bound to protect the burned flesh. He was in obvious pain, despite the best herbal preparations available. Not even he dissented after his lesson in the dangers of an untrained Mage.

“How best should the Shin'a'in be represented?” Theran asked.

D'minth said, “Shaman and Elders, on a rotating basis?”

“From
all
the clans,” spoke the Elder from one of the smaller clans.

“Of course,” Keth' interjected. “Perhaps three Elders, each here for a year or two?”

“Staggered, perhaps,” Jelenel said. “Two years for each, rotating, to ensure that there should be one aware of the situations at hand at all times.”

Heads nodded. The representatives debated a while before the rotation was settled. They chose two shaman, also rotating, and from different clans from the Elders. Keth' hoped that those who followed the traditional paths would find the support they needed as much as those like him did.

The agreements made, the gathering dispersed from the Embassy. Theran stayed behind with the embassy staff.

He said, “It will be a long time before those who think like Eliden are convinced this is the right path, before
Shin'a'in accept Heralds and Chosen as their own, instead of distant cousins.”

Keth' agreed. “I never expected this would be the end of the path. It is only the beginning.”

:Almost profound enough even for me,:
Yssanda said teasingly.
:But it is
our
path.:

:Yes, it is.:

• • •

The characters herein were created by Gail Sanders and Michael Z. Williamson for the previous stories “The Groom's Price” and “The Bride's Task.”

In all her years, Syrriah had never felt so alone in such a crowded place.

The common room teemed with students, plus Heralds back from their Circuits and some instructors, all here for the midday meal. Voices filled the air, and the smell of spices and roasted meat was ever-present. Most people arrived in pairs or groups, or found friends and colleagues soon thereafter, and settled in on the sturdy benches along each side of the long wooden tables, worn smooth from years of use.

Syrriah, however, sat by herself.

Herald Trainees had served each table with food from a hatch on the far wall. Today's meal was a thick beef-and-barley stew filled with carrots and celery, with fresh-baked bread and sweet, fresh-churned butter, and apricots and grapefruit for eating now or snacking on later.

:You're not alone,:
came the soothing response from Cefylla, her Companion.

“I know,” she replied. “It's hard to remember what it was like before you became a part of me. But it's natural to want human interaction, too.”

There was little Cefylla could say to that, because the Companion knew it was true. Syrriah loved Cefylla with
a love unlike any she'd ever had in her life—and her life had been a full one thus far—but there was still the need to forge different types of bonds.

Oh, she had family bonds right here at the Collegium: Her youngest son and daughter were also Herald Trainees. Both of them had asked her to sit with them when she'd first arrived at the Collegium four months ago, aching from the long ride and confused at being Chosen at her advanced age, and had offered various ways to make her feel welcome and included since then.

She smiled at those memories. She and her husband, Lord Brant Trayne, had raised four wonderful children, all of whom had been Chosen, and she was so proud of Benlan and Natalli's acceptance of her here.

She might be their peer when it came to Heraldic training, but she was still their mother, and she couldn't bring herself to make their meals awkward. They deserved time with friends closer to their own ages of fifteen and sixteen.

As a middle-aged, widowed woman—a rare adult to be Chosen—she simply didn't have a group she could count as friends. The other Trainees were polite and kind, but so very young. She was closer in age to many of the instructors and Heralds, but as a Trainee, it wasn't really appropriate for her to socialize with them.

“It's an opportunity,” she told Cefylla. “This allows me to sit quietly, unobtrusively, and observe. To watch, to document.”

:That sounds like an excuse,:
Cefylla said.

“Perhaps,” Syrriah said, amused, “but it's not untrue. It also prepares me for solo Circuits, when it'll be just you and me.”

She'd chosen a table toward the back, farthest from the entrance and the food hatch. The room filled from the front to the back, and rarely did these farthest tables reach capacity. She appreciated being away from the crush; she was often surprised by a rush of internal heat
these days. High windows behind her brought in sunlight and the fresh, cool, grass-laden air of spring to counteract the warmth from the two enormous fireplaces. Plus, from this vantage point (it also helped to be taller than the rest of the students), she could, as she'd told Cefylla, observe.

She spotted Benlan and Natalli, each with their own group. She watched the tables where the Heralds sat—today they were relaxed, chatting. Yesterday there had been huddles of discussion, something urgent or at least serious to deliberate.

A boy slid onto the bench on the other side of her table, not quite across from her, more catty-corner. At first glance she thought he was fourteen or so, but then she realized he was delicate for his age, and closer to perhaps seventeen. He wasn't tall, but he was wiry, with most of his height in his legs.

His eyes flicked to her, and she smiled. A crease appeared between his pale eyebrows as he took her in. She knew what confused him: She was easily old enough to be an instructor, but she wore the grays of a Herald Trainee.

He nodded in return, then served himself and set to eating, with a steady rhythm she recognized from her own children. His body was growing, and he needed food to fuel it. Not wolfing the food down, but an even pace, not really tasting anything.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she ate: hair that matched his eyebrows, long-lashed brown eyes, and a healthy glow to his skin that spoke to a love of the outdoors. But she sensed . . . something. A hint of sadness, perhaps? Not grief, though, nothing that sharp or deep.

She knew grief, had known it just barely more than a year ago when Brant had died. They'd been planning to retire, turn the estate over to her younger sister and her family. Then he was gone—dead from pneumonia after
helping the villagers repair a collapsed bridge in a wintry river—and it had taken her nearly a year to accept her new life.

She would always mourn his loss.

Then Cefylla had come for her, and suddenly she had a whole new life to contend with.

With this boy, it was something else. He clearly felt as out of place as she did, but . . . he didn't seem unhappy sitting by himself, yet he was still uncomfortable somehow. Not from her presence, exactly; he'd chosen the seat after she was there, and he could've sat farther away. The way he hunched over his food spoke of protectiveness, but he didn't eat like someone who'd had to defend his food in the past.

“I'm Syrriah,” she said. “I'm from Traynemarch Reach. I've been here just four months, and I'm still getting used to things. When were you Chosen?”

He looked up from his food as if startled. She thought she saw some emotion cross his face, but he replaced it almost immediately with a polite blankness.

“Hello,” he said. “I'm Aliant. I was Chosen four years ago. It's nice to meet you.”

He went back to his food.

Syrriah attempted several other lines of conversation, with little result. He did spend a few minutes talking about how he loved to run (that explained his tan), and sometimes his Companion, Zhiol, would join him. She heard the warmth in his voice when he said Zhiol's name.

She sensed a spark of energy in him then and listened carefully, trying to understand his emotional state. For her entire life, she'd been told she was a good listener, and especially as Lady of the Manor, people had come to her with their problems, to ask for advice or to simply share their burden with someone who would be supportive and sympathetic.

Aliant reminded her of her eldest daughter, Riann,
who had just finished her training Circuit and had gone out on her own. Riann's first years at the Collegium had been the hardest. At home, she'd enjoyed reading, walking in the woods, needlework, and hunting with one of their falcons. But those were all solitary endeavors, and in the letters she'd written home, she'd spoken about how her favorite times in Haven were when she was alone with her Companion in Companion's Field.

It wasn't that she didn't like people—she simply didn't like large groups of them. Aliant seemed to be the same way.

Syrriah wished Riann weren't on Circuit; perhaps she could have gotten through to the boy better.

:Zhiol says he's fine,:
Cefylla said.
:He's just not very sociable.:

Indeed, as soon as Aliant finished his meal, he stood, picked up his tray, bid her a gracious good day, and left.

“Guess it's just you and me, Cefylla,” Syrriah said.

:Always, my dove. Always,:
Cefylla said.

• • •

That afternoon she had weapons training. Normally they practiced in the salle, a wooden building with high, clerestory windows. But it was too beautiful to stay indoors. The bright, mild spring day had infected everyone, it seemed: all the Trainees were in high spirits, bantering as they sparred and ran through various exercise drills.

Even the instructors seemed more inclined to suggest drills that were less like work and more like games. Laughter floated on the breeze.

Syrriah's laugh was among them. She might not have been as fast or as agile, but sometimes she saw opportunities where others didn't.

Swordplay was clearly not her forte; she and the instructors had learned that quickly enough. She couldn't successfully spar with the younger children because she was just too . . . big, and the older ones tended to hold their blows with the wooden practice swords, not wanting
to bruise someone who, quite frankly, reminded them of their own mothers.

It was different with Weaponsmistress Kayla, who was fierce and muscled and strong. She might have had more wrinkles than Syrriah, but her hair was still jet black. No student worried about holding their blows with her.

By contrast, Syrriah had gained the rounded shape of a woman past her birthing years, and silver had begun to thread through her hair. That said, she'd already seen changes to her body since she'd begun training, her arms and legs leaner, her spine stronger.

Syrriah continued to train with swords as part of her fitness regime, and the instructors sometimes used her to demonstrate techniques, so she got some real practice in. While she would never master the weapon, it was important she be able to defend herself to some degree.

The better plan, of course, would be to not get into a situation where she needed to.

During a break, the twenty students sprawled on the cool grass in a loose circle. Syrriah realized for the first time that Aliant was part of the class—to her surprise, she realized she hadn't really noticed him before, although as she thought back, she realized he'd been there all four months. He was just so quiet and unassuming. Even now he sat a bit separate from the others, quietly stretching and drinking from a reddish-brown leather waterskin.

Syrriah pulled an apricot out of her pouch and sank her teeth into the juicy, sweet flesh. The rest were chattering excitedly about some competition, and Syrriah asked about it.

“The blues have issued us a challenge,” explained Laella, the third-year girl who sat next to her. She was taller than Syrriah, and wore her long, auburn hair in two intricate braids. “There will be swordplay, wrestling, archery, sparring, foot races, and Kirball and balls-and-hoops. Maybe more.”

The “blues” she referred to were the unaffiliated students at Collegium, who wore pale blue uniforms as opposed to the Herald Trainees' gray, the Healer Trainees' pale green, and the rust-brown of the Bardic Trainees. Often highborn children, the unaffiliated students represented two distinct groups: the scholars, who were there for the general education, and the artificers, who studied to become inventors and builders and technicians.

“So we're trying to choose who should represent us in each contest,” said Confrey. “Four in each, except for the Kirball and balls-and-hoops teams, of course.”

Confrey was on the short side but had a sturdiness to him, and he was one of the best sword fighters because he was so fast. One moment you'd be swinging at him, and the next he was nowhere near where your sword was going.

“Confrey will definitely be one of our swordspeople,” Tanrea said, confirming what Syrriah was thinking, and Confrey lowered his eyes modestly. He was a kind and fair boy on and off the field; Syrriah had more than once seen him taking the time to help some of the younger children with their drills.

Tanrea, nearing the completion of her fifth year and soon to be preparing for her training Circuit, was soft-spoken and slight but was emerging as a clear leader. Others followed, and would continue to follow her, out of respect and love.

Syrriah was almost certain Tanrea and Confrey were in a relationship, although they showed no outward displays of affection. Even now they sat apart, but Syrriah felt the yearning between them. It reminded her of her early days with Brant and made her smile. She hoped they would have even half the love she had shared with her husband.

“You know,” Confrey said, “Syrriah's a fine shot with a bow.”

“Thank you,” Syrriah said, feeling inordinately pleased.
She'd been shooting since she'd been younger than he was now, and she and Brant had often hunted together to add food to their table. She was glad she'd found a weapons form at Collegium in which she could excel.

“But you're . . .” Laella trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.

“Too old?” Syrriah finished, amused. It wasn't something she could take offense at, as it brushed against the truth.

“Not ‘too old' in the sense that you couldn't beat any of the blues,” Tanrea said. “It's more a problem that the blues might feel your age gives you too much of an advantage.”

“Because I have more experience,” Syrriah said, nodding. “I understand, and they would have a very good point. The contests should be between students who've had the same opportunities to practice their skill.”

“Perhaps we could find another way for you to participate,” Tanrea said.

“I oversaw a manor for twenty years,” Syrriah said. “I could help with organizing. But first, tell me who else you've been considering for the different contests.”

A jumble of voices spilled over her as the entire group tossed out their suggestions.

“What about Aliant for the foot races?” Syrriah asked.

“Aliant . . . ?” Laella frowned, then her face cleared and she looked over her shoulder at him. Everyone else looked, too, and they met his startled expression, which clearly asked
Me?

“That's true,” Conrey said. “You do run a lot—I've seen you in Companion's Field.”

“The second day's race is a long one; we're setting up a course that'll go all over the Field,” Tanrea added. “You'd be a perfect addition to the team.”

Aliant's mouth worked, and then he said, “Just running? I don't have to play Kirball or anything?”

“Just running,” Tanrea said with an encouraging smile.