Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (15 page)

It was disorienting in a sense to share Dallen's memories now, for these were not just the memories of putting name and purpose to things he didn't recognize, these were immediate and personal memories. Dallen had lived here for a very long time, it seemed. It was a shock to recognize people he didn't know, and to sense Dallen's memories just waiting to be brought out. And every time that happened, it eroded his certainty that people could not be trusted, that
these
people were certainly hiding something dire and sooner or later he would find it out.

Not all the memories were “good.” He would have distrusted that, now that he was thinking for himself, everything that seemed so perfect only alarmed him the more. Except . . . except . . . these were a lifetime of memories, or at least, enough to equal
his
lifetime. How could you make all of that up?

So as he made up his room—
his
room, with a door he could latch from the inside or the outside!—he thought about all of this. As he slipped in as unobtrusively as possible to eat and clean up, he thought about it. And when he laid himself down in his bed, sleeping alone for the first time in his memory, he thought about it. How . . . why this had happened, he could not begin to imagine—but happen, it had. And he was forced to come to the conclusion, by himself, that nothing in the world was really the way he had always thought it was.

Still, he trod warily. He woke to the first bell, dressed for the first time in one of his new uniforms, and again slipped in quietly to get food, and eat it sitting in the most remote corner he could find, watching everything and everyone as he did so. However, he was not permitted to remain in obscurity.

He noted the approach of an older boy in Trainee Grays immediately, as the fellow did not swerve off to join his presumed friends at any of the tables populated mainly by gray tunics. And when, to his alarm, he sensed that the boy was looking for
him,
it was all he could do to keep from bolting. He told himself firmly there was no reason to run.

Dallen, using an admonishing tone, echoed that thought.
:No one here is your enemy yet, Mags. This boy is just going to show you where things are.:

:But I know where things are!:
he protested, finally mindspeaking comfortably with his companion. He couldn't hear Dallen's snort, but he could sense it easily enough.

Too late for anything more, the rangy, rawboned blond boy stopped at his table and gave him a friendly nod. “Trainee Mags?”

Mags ducked his head by way of answer. That seemed enough for the boy.

“I'm here to show you about.” He took a scrap of paper out of a pocket and perused it. “Your first class's at Old Bardic. You done?”

By way of answer, Mags stood up, plate, bowl and cup in hand. Taking that as a “yes,” the boy led the way out of the building.

More of Dallen's memories guided him. It seemed that the buildings once occupied by the Bardic and Healers' Collegia were being replaced. Classes were still being held in “Old” Bardic Collegium; it would not be torn down until the replacement was finished. It was set very near the Palace, and was a third the size of the new building being constructed to take its place.

The Bards, from what Mags had learned from Dallen, actually had had a Collegium here first. It had been the first Collegium here, as the Healers had originally been happy enough to train other Healers wherever student and teacher happened to be, and the Heralds had their own system of apprentice and mentor. Then the Healers built their own small Collegium, mostly just to train all the local Healers in Haven, but also to get especially gifted Healers special advanced training. But when far, far too many new Heralds began appearing for the old system of master and protégé to work, and it had been decided that the Heralds needed a Collegium of their own, suddenly the Healers wanted expansion, too, and the Bards insisted on a
much
bigger one than they had. And both Circles got their demand, but since there were only so many skilled workmen in Haven to build such large structures, it was going to take three times longer to build them all.

According to Dallen, this had given rise to some aggrieved feelings among the Heralds, who were annoyed at their perceived overcrowding, though to Mags' mind, they didn't have a great deal to complain about. Still, there were bad feelings on the part of some toward the Bards, who were thought of as being greedy, and who—it was presumed—had also egged the Healers into demanding a Collegium of their own.

Dallen didn't know the truth or falsehood of that last. All he knew was that some among the Heralds were definitely holding a grudge.

As for “Old” Bardic, it was definitely going to be taken down, as was “Old” Healers'. The King wanted the space for pleasure gardens for the courtiers and all of these new Trainees to use.

The place certainly looked old, worn, and tired, Mags thought as he followed his guide inside. A long corridor stretched the length of the building, with doors all along it. Wood floors were black with age, and the floorboards worn, gaping in some places, cracking in others. Walls of white plaster showed spiderweb cracks. The ceiling, also of aged wood, was blacker than the floor from the soot of countless candles and lamps. The building itself must have shifted slightly over the years, since nothing quite sat true. Doors wouldn't close properly, windows wouldn't open, and there were signs of extensive repairs.

Mags—the old Mags—would never have noticed these things. The old Mags would simply have been grateful that he was inside four walls, in a building with heat in it, and not out in the snow. The new Mags did, wondering if the building was actually becoming dangerous, and found himself in sympathy with the Bards.

“Here's the class,” Mags' guide said abruptly, stopping in front of a polished, blackened wooden door with the number “three” on it, cast of age-tarnished brass. “All the rest of 'em are on this corridor. Got your list?”

Dumbly, Mags pulled it out.

“Good, the numbers are next to the name, see?” He pointed to the relevant column. “You just go in the room with that number on it when time comes for your next class.”

The boy didn't stay for Mags' reply; instead, he turned and headed for another room, as, suddenly, doors at either end of the corridor burst open, and a flood of people in gray, rust, and dark green came pouring in through them. Mags hastily pulled the door open and ducked inside the designated room.

It was arranged with rows of benches and narrow tables, a larger table at the front, and a fire in a fireplace at the front. Front would be the most desirable seats; fairly certain of that, Mags took a seat at the rear, near the windows, figuring to be ignored.

It was a futile hope, of course. He was new, and everyone in that class already knew each other. He got plenty of curious looks as they filed in, and a knowing one from the adult who was presumably the instructor, a wizened little fellow in Herald Whites.

When the rest had all settled on their benches, the instructor cleared his throat and got instant attention. “Our new-comer is Trainee Mags,” the man said simply, in an aged voice that was nevertheless firm and strong. “You may all study him at leisure later. Turn your attention now, please, to the fourth chapter of our text.”

The others all pulled out books. The instructor asked some question of one of the Bardic boys dressed in rust. The Trainee stood up to make a long answer of it—Mags understood neither the question nor the answer, but while the youngster was talking, the instructor pulled a battered old book out from under his desk, walked back to Mags, and dropped it in front of him. When the Trainee was done, the instructor nodded. “Well put, Brion. Very well put. Mags, we are currently on Chapter Four. By the time we reach Chapter Five, I expect you to be caught up. Now, Tre, what can you tell me about—”

Taking this as a tacit order to begin reading, Mags opened the book and concentrated on the words in front of him. At least this history book did not assume he knew
anything
about the history of Valdemar. Possibly because it began before there actually was a Valdemar.

And it was nothing like as dry as some of the books he had looked at in the library of the Guard Post. He was able to ignore the curious glances, even though he certainly was not reading as fast as they could. At least he
could
read now.

He watched the others as the bell for dismissal rang, and saw that they had picked up their books and were taking them away with them. Assuming he should do the same, he tucked it awkwardly against his chest, and went looking for his next class.

If he had been under the impression that it would be easy to sit and learn things—as opposed to chipping sparklies out of rock—he was swiftly disabused of the notion. By the time the list in his pocket said he was to get something to eat, his head was spinning, and he felt as if he would
rather
be chipping sparklies out of rock. He also had a pile of five books to deal with, and realized he had better get a bag for them like the others seemed to be carrying.

He ate without tasting his lunch, because although the afternoon was going to be devoted to physical rather than mental work, he was a bit dubious about half of it. “Weapons class” . . . he'd never been allowed a weapon before. He was pretty sure he was going to be awful at it, and just as had happened back at the Guard Post, the mere idea of taking up a weapon made him shake inside.

Not that his other classes didn't make him shake inside for a different reason; to be honest, if he hadn't had a couple young fellows in his classes who were just as mud-ignorant as
he
was, he'd have been mightily discouraged. But they were, so he wasn't.

The other thing that kept him from being discouraged was that so far nobody was making fun of him—or worse—for being so behind. That was a relief, all the more so for being unexpected. Again, he had been blindsided by people being—

:Decent?:
Dallen suggested, as he changed into the suggested “outfit for weapons work” that had been given him.
:Humane? Reasonable and kind?:

:Well, aye,:
he admitted reluctantly, pulling on trews with leather patches at the knees, and a tunic made of heavy canvas.

There was a moment of deep quiet, then Dallen added something else.
:You know that all Heralds are linked to their Companions as you and I are, right? And all Companions are linked as well.:

:Aye.:
That had been pretty obvious once he and Dallen began sharing memories.

:So given that, why would
any
Herald do anything to cause distress to another Herald?:
Dallen asked forcefully.
:Doing so would cause distress to that Herald's Companion, which would spread to the other Companions, and eventually get back to him! It's like that old saying, “cutting off your nose to spite your neighbor.” True, your neighbor then has a very ugly thing to have to look at, day in, day out—but you have all the pain of cutting your nose off! Do you see what I mean?:

Mags blinked. He certainly did. And more, that coiled serpent of suspicion in his belly saw it, too. He scratched his head in thought.
:Makes sense,:
he ventured.

Mags had the feeling that if he
didn't
do as Dallen suggested, he was not going to get any rest on the subject, so the first thing he did was approach both the boys before the class began and suggested it. Thankfully, they were both younger than he was; if they had been older, he would have been terrified to talk to them. But Beren and Lyr, who, it turned out, were old friends from some place in the wild hills where
no one
knew how to read and write, took this suggestion with relief and exuberance, grabbed it with both hands, and Beren immediately volunteered to approach the Herald himself at dinner. Mags felt limp-kneed with relief of his own at that. He promised he would stick around until Beren had an answer and a time and place for these extra studies, and that was when the Weaponsmaster showed up.

These classes were held in another separate building called the “salle,” a huge barnlike place with one wall lined with something that Mags had never seen before—and would have walked straight into if Beren hadn't grabbed him in time.

Glass mirrors.

Beren explained them to him hurriedly, but then the Weaponsmaster interrupted them.

“Is this necessary, Beren?” the wiry little man asked, looking them both sharply up and down. Beren was not in the least intimidated, though Mags shrunk back as far as he could.

“Aye, that, sirrah,” the boy replied, in a drawl that Mags understood only because he listened so closely. “Less ye be wantin' t' replace 'nother mir-roar.”

“Ah, like that is it?” The Weaponsmaster turned to Mags, who wished he could hide from those penetrating black eyes. “I've not been briefed on you yet, Trainee. You're from where?”

“Master Cole Pieters' mine, sir,” Mags whispered.

“I meant what part of Valdemar.” The look the man gave him made him wish he was invisible. His knees began to shake.

But then—suddenly—the Weaponsmaster blinked and looked off to one side. He stared at the wall for a moment, then nodded and turned back to Mags. “I beg your pardon, Trainee. I have been briefed now. I'd like you to stand over there while I sort the rest of the students out, if you please.”

Mags was only too happy to move over into a corner, away from the mirrors, while the teacher paired everyone up, more or less. He had a couple of people left over, so those he assigned to one of the pairs with orders to do—well, something—and the three of them take it in turns. He surveyed the room for a moment until he was satisfied that all was going well, and only then did he return to Mags.