Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (16 page)

“Now,” the Weaponsmaster said, his voice firm, but not quite so hard. “I am most put out that Caelen didn't tell me about you yesterday. Evidently, it didn't occur to him that I needed to know you hadn't set your hand to anything in an offensive capacity in your life. This is not altogether bad; you won't have to unlearn anything. I trust you are not going to be upset because I set you to work with a singlestick instead of a sword?”

Since Mags only knew what a singlestick was because the image of one obligingly appeared in his mind courtesy of Dallen, he shook his head dumbly.

“Good. I expect you'll be working with it for some time to come.” The Weaponsmaster drew him farther over to the side of the room, where there was a padded pole, and handed him a thick, straight stick as long as his hand and forearm, picking up another himself. “Now, watch me, and do as I do.”

It was not the most exciting thing Mags had ever done, hitting the pole in places where the padding had been marked with red paint, over and over and over in a series of repetitive patterns. In fact, it was not much worse for boredom than chipping sparklies. But all that careful chipping had given him pretty good control over where and how hard he hit things, and the Weaponsmaster seemed pleased enough with him. Most importantly, to Mags' mind, he had
not
been required to do anything that involved raising his hand to another person. A big pole, he could hit, and not have the sense that he was going to be punished for it. Especially when he took care to not think of the pole as anything other than a pole. He was mostly hitting it in the right places when they all broke up to go off for riding lessons.

The riding lessons, however,
began
with saddling lessons. Mags was altogether shocked to discover that Beren and Lyr were utterly clueless about how to put on
any
of the tack. Couldn't their Companions tell them?

:Ah, actually, no,:
Dallen replied, at Mags' mental query.
:Not everyone has Mindspeech. Certainly not as clear as you share with me. No, Beren Fetches and Lyr is a FarSeer, which does very little for him being able to put on a saddle. And until their Companions turned up, neither of them had ever seen anything larger than a goat.:

Well . . . that was interesting. Through Dallen, he had a good idea of what a Fetcher and a FarSeer did. It occurred to him that if the kiddies had had such talents among them, they could have lived a great deal better.

But no matter. He waited quietly while the stablehands patiently showed the two what they should be doing, and then mounted up at the signal. He was obviously not the worst in the class, and certainly not the best, so as a consequence he was left alone with Dallen for the Companion to continue his riding instruction.

And so ended his first day as a Trainee. After supper, he waited while Beren arranged for the special tutoring, then retreated to his warm little room with his books to study until he couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. And then, with the latch slid across the door, feeling
safe
for the first time, ever, he slept.

H
E stayed quiet, very quiet, in all his classes; at meals, he took a seat as far from everyone else as he could and pretended to be engrossed in his food, or in a book, once he realized it was not forbidden to bring them to the table. He went straight to his room when his day was finished and chose times when no one else was using the bathing room to get clean. Even in the tutoring sessions he never spoke until he was spoken to. If he spoke more than a handful of words in a day outside of being asked direct questions, it was a rarity. People seemed inclined to leave him alone, which suited him completely; he wanted to watch them and listen. There was a war inside him, a war in which everything he had ever learned about people fought desperately with everything that Dallen was telling him. He wanted Dallen to be right . . . but he feared the consequences if Dallen was wrong.

After several days, he still hadn't seen or heard anything to make him think that Dallen was mistaken. But all of his instincts still kept him wary, and he only really felt relaxed when he shot the bolt home on his room, locking himself in. That lock represented the first time he had ever been able to keep anyone away from him, and he could have kissed it. Its mere presence allowed him to sleep more deeply than he ever had in his life.

Dallen had been moved to the loose-box right outside his door, another measure of protection that allowed him to sleep soundly through the night
without
Dallen's mental intervention.

But, oh, the amount of learning he was having to cram into his head; sometimes it seemed as if his skull was going to burst. It wasn't that he disliked it! Oh, no. This was like meat and drink to him. Every new lesson seemed to open up a little more of his mind, and he actually felt starved for the knowledge. But there was so much of it that if he had not been so physically exhausted by the end of every day, he would have been unable to sleep with his brain a-buzz with new information, new thoughts, and new ideas.

After the first two days, they had taken the measure of his learning—or perhaps the depth of his ignorance—and had canceled some of the classes he had been supposed to take in favor of extra sessions of tutoring. Somewhat to his surprise he was not the only one getting the extra attention; the hapless Beren and Lyr were also the recipients of special attention, as well as a fourth, a Bardic-trainee named Callin, who had the voice of an angel and could play virtually anything by ear on his harp, who made up melodies as easily as breathing, and who was utterly and completely illiterate, without even the basic reading lessons Mags had gotten at the mine. They were taught, not by a Herald, but by a woman named Lilli, who wore the Palace livery of dark blue and silver. Whatever her function was in the King's service, she was a good teacher, patient with their fumbling and ready with an explanation.

By his fourth day, all morning was spent in classes, half of the afternoon in riding and weaponry training, and the rest of the afternoon and early evening after supper with the tutor. By the end of the week, it felt like routine, although a routine that, in its way, was just as tiring as the work in the mine.

He spent every waking moment when he was not at work in some way watching all the people around him and waiting to see if there were any indications that all was not as it appeared. Between that and classes and tutoring, he had so many things buzzing around inside his mind when he went to bed that he was sure he would never sleep—but he was so tired from all the thinking
and
the work under the eyes of the Riding Master and Weaponsmaster that he did, as soon as his own eyes closed.

Nor was he allowed full respite from the work even when he slept. Dallen had a thing or two to impart to him in dreams, and that was exactly what his Companion did. Since he was not getting lessons yet in this business of hearing the thoughts of other people, Dallen had taken it upon himself to provide the instruction. Mags might have thought himself rather overworked and ill-used—since not even Master Cole had invaded his dreams of a night—except that the way he kept overhearing what people were thinking was beginning to become uncomfortable. It was one thing to get vague hints of general intentions; that was useful and didn't leave Mags open to knowing things he would rather not. It was quite another to be keeping his eye on someone, only to hear, as clearly as if the fellow had shouted it, just how much the man wanted get the approval of a certain favored tavern wench, and exactly what he wanted to do if he got it. And if anyone was worried about something, really worried that is, Mags got an earful of it even if he
wasn't
concentrating on that person.

Thanks to Dallen's timely lessons,
that
wasn't going to happen again. Dallen had taught him how to do something the Companion called “shielding,” and Mags was never going to eavesdrop on anyone's private thoughts unless he wanted to, and he was very, very sure that it would take a lot more motive than curiosity for him to want to. It had made him feel rather happy, though, when Dallen praised him for how quickly he had mastered the mental discipline it took to keep those unwanted thoughts out. It turned out to be not that difficult for someone who was used to concentration—and it certainly took concentration to be able to chip a tiny sparkly from its bed of rock without destroying it. Dallen promised that eventually, this would all become second nature to him, so much so that he would never think about it anymore.

By the time two weeks had passed, he settled into a routine that suited him. Knowing that he was behind, but also knowing that he was doing his best to catch up, the teachers left him to himself to do so, although they expected him to pay close attention to their lectures in the classroom and what the tutor said as he and the others met in that empty classroom.

And so, on yet another icy morning, he found himself tucked unobtrusively at the back of the History classroom, doing his best to understand what was being discussed—treaties, agreements, alliances. Without the background, he was pretty well lost, and he left the class feeling as if everyone there had been speaking another language entirely.

He slipped into the next classroom behind some of the others—as usual, a mix of Trainees from Heraldic, Bardic, and Healers'—and took his usual seat, still feeling vaguely unsettled. But no sooner had the last of the students dropped into his place, when someone in Healer Greens popped his head through the door. This was unusual enough behavior to stop the buzz of idle conversation cold.

“Your instructor has had the poor taste to contract a rather nasty case of stomach disorder,” the Healer said, with a wry smile. “I'll thank the rest of you not to do the same. You will be seeing him in another few days; come back here as usual tomorrow and we'll have found a substitute. Meanwhile, consider yourselves dismissed.”

The Healer vanished again, leaving the students a bit dumbfounded. Finally, someone at the front—Mags didn't see who—gathered up his books and bolted for the door. It didn't take long for the rest to follow him.

Mags was the last to leave, and stood in the hallway for a long time, trying to make up his mind what to do next. Dallen was no help; the Companion was otherwise occupied; Mags got the impression that he and a knot of his equine friends were enjoying a good gossip. Finally, for lack of a better goal, he went out the door nearest “old” Healers' Collegium and some of the herb gardens.

The new Heraldic Trainees were a lively sociable bunch, and that left Mags right out. He could scarcely bring himself to talk to any of them, because most of the time he didn't know what to say. He had nothing in common with them; no parents, no siblings. Nothing he left behind with regrets—he certainly had no fond memories of the mine! When they weren't talking about each other or the Heralds who were their teachers, most of them traded reminiscences of home, so what would he have told them? Chances were they wouldn't believe him about his life anyway, and if they did, well, the idea of being pitied felt uncomfortable.

In their leisure, they often got together with other Trainees for impromptu singing and dancing. Many of them seemed to be musicians, and he wondered where they found the time to practice! He never learned to play anything, of course, never learned to dance, never heard any music but the drunken bawling of the Pieters family on the rare occasions when they celebrated anything. The Trainees were not the only ones who gathered for impromptu fun; the Heralds often came down to Companions' Stable to do the same, according to the stablehands. They hadn't yet, but Mags had passed by the Trainees' rooms or even a classroom before he went to bed, on his way back from the library, and heard the other Trainees laughing and talking and singing together. He didn't precisely feel left out—it was more that he felt as if he simply didn't understand them.

The Guards had done much the same thing, actually, when the day was done. He didn't understand them either. He had felt awkward, as if he
should
want to join them, should want to do what they were doing—but his head wouldn't quite shape itself to what they were doing, and all he could do was gawk and try to figure out what they were laughing about.

Sometimes he noticed that the Trainees would play games, or tell stories, even over meals or when waiting their turn at something. He had seen gambling games, but of course never had the leisure to play them, and the only stories he knew were about the mine . . . not a good choice for telling, even if he had been inclined to do so.

Until now, the height of his ambition had been to go to sleep with a full belly. They were as strange to him as if they were some sort of exotic bird. He felt as if he moved among them like a ghost; they scarcely registered his presence and none of them seemed to even remember his name without prompting from a Companion.

So, gifted with this unexpected bit of free time . . . he found he had nothing with which to fill it. On the other hand, the one thing he had
not
done yet was explore around the Collegia; he had been so busy that he hadn't seen much outside of his classrooms, the salle, the riding grounds, the eating hall, and the stables. Curiosity was not encouraged at the mine, but now he slowly felt it stirring. There would be no harm in looking about a bit.

There was nothing to see in the Healers' herb gardens; everything was under a cover of mulch and snow, and in the gray light that filtered through the heavy clouds, there was nothing to distinguish it from an ordinary, snow-covered, hummocked field.

But the gardens around Old Bardic Collegium, in back of the building itself, were a little more enticing. Bards, it seemed, needed inspiration from nature, and even in winter the gardens were interesting, a kind of tamed wilderness, dotted with secluded places to sit, lit even at this hour with a variety of outdoor lanterns. It was the very opposite of everything Mags was familiar with. These gardens were not utilitarian, the way the herb and vegetable gardens were; they were not laid out in formal patterns as the ones nearer the Palace were. But they were also utterly unlike Companion's Field, which was just that, a field allowed to grow wild, with groves of trees and spreading bushes. Mags had never actually wandered about in there before; he had always been too busy during the day, and at night sleep had seemed preferable to stumbling around on half-lit snowy paths. Especially when he had overheard no few of the Trainees making plans to meet there after dark with someone. It seemed unlikely that he would run into a couple slobbering over each other by daylight, though, so he decided to explore further.