“It’s about time, sleepy!” Sherrill said genially, looking altogether too awake for sunrise. “The waking-bell rang ages ago, didn’t you hear it? If we don’t hurry, there won’t be anything left but cold porridge.” Without looking to see if Talia was following, she turned and headed for the door of the common-room.

Sherrill had exaggerated the “danger,” as Talia found when they entered the double-doors. There was still plenty left to eat—an almost bewildering variety for Talia, who expected little besides the aforementioned porridge, bread and milk, and perhaps a little fruit. And there were plenty of other students who trailed in after them, rubbing sleepy eyes or complaining cheerfully to one another.

After breakfast, a somewhat more subdued meal than supper had been, and punctuated more by yawns than conversation, Sherrill led her to the first floor and out the door at the far end of the corridor. Talia recalled that the Dean had told her this door led to a court and the stables beyond it. They crossed a wide, paved courtyard that lay between the two buildings, with the sun casting long shadows on the bedewed paving-stones before them, and Talia lingered a little, hoping wistfully to see Rolan.

“Talia, come catch up!” Sherrill called back over her shoulder, squinting against the sunlight. “Or don’t you want to see your Companion this morning?”

Startled, she ran to overtake Sherrill. “Aren’t the Companions in the stables?” she asked breathlessly.

“In the stables? With the regular horses? Bright Havens, they’d disown us! The Companions have their own place—we call it Companion’s Field—and an open building so they can come and go as they like. On a beautiful morning like this, they’re all probably out in their Field.”

They’d come to a tall wooden fence surrounding a park-like area full of trees, and Talia thought that this must have been the green place she’d seen within the walls when she’d first caught sight of the capital. Sherrill climbed up on the fence, as agile as any of Talia’s brothers, put her fingers in her mouth, and whistled shrilly like a boy. When Talia joined her, she could see tiny white shapes moving off in the distance, under the trees. Two of these detached themselves from the rest and began trotting toward them.

“I don’t mindcall at all well—not unless I’m scared stiff,” Sherrill said, a little shamefacedly, “Ylsa says I’m blocked—so I have to whistle for Silkswift. She doesn’t seem to mind any.”

Talia had no difficulty in recognizing which of the two Companions approaching was Rolan, and her joy at seeing him again was such that she didn’t once wonder what Sherrill had meant by “mindcalling” and “being blocked.” With a cry of happiness she jumped off the fence to land beside Rolan and spent several jubilant minutes caressing him and whispering joyous nonsense into his ear. He was even more of a magical creature than she remembered him being. Someone had tended him well last night, for he had been groomed until he nearly glowed. His coat and mane were softer than the finest fabric she’d ever touched, and he was as beautiful as one of the Moon-steeds that drew the Lady’s chariot. He nuzzled her with something she no longer doubted was love, whuffing softly at her, and the feeling of total well-being and confidence she’d had when with him on the road returned. While she was with him, she feared nothing, doubted nothing....

“I hate to say this, but we do have an appointment with Master Alberich,” Sherrill said at last, reluctantly. “Talia, it’s part of your training to spend a lot of time with your Companion—you’ll see him again this afternoon. You have to—from now on tending him and grooming him will be all up to you. They may be incredible darlings, but they don’t have hands; they need us as much as we need them. So you’ll get back to him before supper—and we really do have to be going.”

Rolan nudged her toward the fence, then shook his forelock as if in admonishment. When she continued to hesitate, he gave her a good shove with his nose and snorted at her.

“All right,” she replied, “I’ll be good and go. But I’m coming back, classes or not!”

Sherrill took her to a long, low building just beyond the stables; inside it was all but bare—smooth, worn wooden floors and a few benches, with storage cabinets built into the walls. Between the cabinets were a few full-length mirrors, and the place was lit from windows that were high up on the walls, near the ceiling. There they found the man Sherrill introduced as Alberich, the Weaponsmaster. He alone of all the instructors was not wearing Whites, rather, he was dressed in old, supple leather; part armor, part clothing, and of a dark gray color like old ashes, darker than Student Grays.

“I thought all the instructors were Heralds,” Talia whispered to her guide as they approached him.

“All but one—but Alberich is a Herald; he’s just a law unto himself. He never wears Whites unless he’s being official.”

The Weaponsmaster frightened Talia into near speechlessness when he turned to face them. He was tall, lean, and dark; his face was seamed with scars, and he looked as though he never smiled. Thick streaks of white ran through his abundant black hair, and his eyes were an agate-gray and very penetrating. As his sober stare held her pinned in place, Talia decided that now she knew how a mouse felt in the gaze of a hawk.

“So, ” he said at last. “You are how old? Thirteen? What physical training have you, child? Know you any weaponry? Tactics? Eh?”

She hardly knew how to answer—she really couldn’t make out what he was asking of her. Physical training? Did playing games count? Was the sling she’d used to keep wolves off the sheep a weapon?

At last he gave her a wooden practice knife, and stood with his arms crossed, still looking fierce and hawklike.

“Come you, then. Come at me—”

She still hadn’t the faintest notion what he wanted of her, and stood stonelike, arms stiffly at her sides, feeling clumsy and ridiculous.

“What ails you? I told you to attack me! Is it that women do not fight among your people?” he asked, his speech heavily accented, his brows drawing together into an intimidating frown. “Have you no weapons skill at all?”

“I can shoot a bow, a little,” she said in a small and shamed voice. “One of my brothers showed me. He wasn’t supposed to, but I begged him so hard—and I guess I’m all right with a sling.”

She thought with misery that she seemed to have gotten into the wrong again. It seemed that nothing she’d ever learned was appropriate here—except, perhaps her housekeeping skills. And she’d never once read a tale that praised a Herald’s ability at peeling roots!

She waited, cringing, for him to dismiss her back to the building in disgust. He did nothing of the sort.

“At least you have sense not to pretend to what you have not,” he replied thoughtfully. “I think it is too late to teach you the sword. Fortunately, you are not likely to need to use one. Bow, of necessity, and knife, and hand-to-hand. That should suffice your needs. Return one hour after the nooning.” Then he did dismiss her, after staring at her long and broodingly.

Talia was very subdued and discouraged by this encounter; Sherrill managed to see this even though she tried to mask it. “Don’t feel badly,” she said, and Talia could clearly hear the encouragement in her voice. “You actually got off pretty easily. When he first saw me, he threw his hands up in the air and growled, ‘Hopeless! Hopeless! Let her throw nets and dead fish to defend herself!’ At least he thinks you’re worth working with. He left me to one of his assistants for months!”

“But—why d-d-did he say that ab-b-bout the f-fish?” Oh, that hateful stutter! No matter how confident she tried to appear, it always gave her away!

“Because I spent half my life on a boat and the other half in very crowded conditions; the last thing you want to do on a slippery deck or a floor thick with babies is run! I had to learn how to move freely, something you’ve always known.”

“It d-d-didn’t seem as if he th-thought I was worth anything.”

“He didn’t scream at you—that’s a wonder in itself. He didn’t tell you to get yourself back home and raise babies, either. I think maybe you won him a little by being honest about how little you know—an awful lot of new students try to pretend they’re more expert than they are, and he generally does his best to make fools of them in front of everybody by way of punishment.”

By now they’d reached the Collegium building again. Sherrill held the door open for Talia and stopped outside the first classroom door on the right. “Here’s where the rest of the new ones are. I’ll meet you for lunch.” With that, Sherrill vanished down the hall, leaving Talia to face the next ordeal alone.

She tugged the door open and tried to slip inside unobtrusively, but felt more like creeping inside than anything else when she felt everyone’s eyes on her. There seemed to be at least a dozen people there. There were no other girls. The boys were mostly her own age, and though they made her feel rather shy, didn’t arouse her unease; but the one who stood at the head of the classroom was one of those fearful creatures of ultimate authority, an adult male. As such, he made her wary immediately. She had to keep reminding herself that he was a Herald—and no Herald would ever do anything to harm anyone except an enemy of the Queen and Kingdom.

“Be welcome, youngling,” he said, perching casually on the front edge of his desk. “Boys, this is your fifth year-mate; her name is Talia. Talia, the red-haired fellow is Davan, the tall one is Griffon, the twins are Drake and Edric—and I can’t tell them apart yet.” He winked at them, and the twin boys grinned back, obviously very much at ease with him. “Maybe I should ask Alberich to give one of you a black eye—then at least I’d know which of you was which until it faded.”

Talia slipped shyly into an unoccupied seat and took a closer look at her teacher. Like Alberich, he was lean, but his brownish hair was only beginning to gray, and he had none of the Weaponsmaster’s hawkishness about him. He put her more in mind of a hunting hound, all eagerness, good nature, and energy. His eyes were hound-brown, and just as friendly. And there was something about him—once again she was reminded of Andrean; she wanted to trust him—something within her was prompting her to do so, and she was a little surprised at herself.

“Well, now that you’re here, I think we’re ready to start. First, let me explain what this class is all about. I’m here to help you understand what being a Herald really means; not the hero tales, nor the horror stories, nor the wild rumors of drunken debauchery—” he wriggled his eyebrows, and the twins giggled. “But rather what our job really involves. Davan is probably the only one of you who knows—or thinks he knows—what being a Herald is all about. That’s because both of his parents are Heralds themselves. So I’ll start Davan with the question I’m going to ask each of you: Davan, what exactly does a Herald do?”

Davan’s brow wrinkled in thought. “They dispense the Queen’s justice,” he finally replied.

“Good enough answer, as far as it goes, but how do they do that?”

“Uh, they ride circuit in their assigned areas, going through all the towns and villages, they deliver the new laws of the Kingdom and report on the acts of the Council and Queen. They see that the people understand the laws and act as judges, and sometimes lawgivers when something comes up that isn’t covered in Kingdom law or by local custom.”

“Bright Havens! You mean those poor people have to wait a year or more to get anything settled?” Teren asked in mock dismay.

“No, no! There’s regular judges, too.”

“So why not use them?”

Davan couldn’t seem to think of a good answer, but one of the twins was waving his hand over his head. “Herald Teren?”

“Go ahead, whichever you are.”

“Drake. Our village was too small to have a judge.”

“That’s a fair reason. But there’s another; sometimes it happens that the feelings of the local people—and that includes the judge—are too worked up for a case to be adjudicated fairly. There’s one reason for vou. Davan, you have another?”

“Heralds can do the Truth Spell; regular judges have no way of knowing who’s lying.”

“Good! But that works only if someone involved in the case knows what really happened, remember that. All right, Heralds are judges and lawgivers. What else, Drake?”

“They report on what they see on their circuits to the Queen and the Council.”

“Why should they do that?”

“So that the Queen knows the true condition of her Kingdom. Sometimes the mayors and head-men don’t always tell the whole truth in their Domesday Book reports. Heralds know what’s been reported, and how to look for things that don’t match.”

“Quite true, Edric, your turn.”

“They serve as ambassadors to other Kingdoms. While they’re there, they can see if there’s something wrong the Queen should know about, like maybe an army that’s awfully big for a country supposed to be peaceful. Since Heralds can’t be bribed, she can always trust what they say.”

“That’s correct,” said Herald Teren, “And there’s more; the kind of training a Herald receives here makes it possible for him to note little things that others might miss—things that tell him that there may be more going on than he’s being told. Griffon?”

“Heralds are the Queen’s messengers. There’s no faster, safer way to get a message across the Kingdom than to give it to a Herald, ‘cause Companions run faster and for longer than any horse ever born. That’s why Heralds are called ‘the Arrows of the Queen.’ And they act as warleaders in an emergency, until the regular Army can arrive. That’s another reason for the name.”

“Very good. Talia, your turn.”

She had thought hard while the others were giving their answers. “They—make the Kingdom safe,” she said softly. “Sometimes they’re just what the rest said, and sometimes other things—spies, scouts, sometimes thieves—they do whatever needs doing so that the Queen knows what she needs to know to guard us all. They risk everything for that, for the safety of the Kingdom, and for her.”

“And that is why,” Teren said slowly, holding each of their eyes in turn, “about half of us don’t live to see an honorable old age. Being a Herald is important—the Queen has said that we’re the ‘glue that holds everything together’—and it can be exciting. For the most part we are very much honored in this Kingdom; but being a Herald can also be a fatal occupation. Hero tales aside, younglings, songs don’t help you much when you’re looking death in the face and you’re all alone. And being alone is another thing you are when you’re a Herald. There aren’t enough of us, and we get spread very thin. That puts you in the front line in a lot of very dangerous situations.”

His eyes clouded a moment. “The danger is in direct proportion to the importance of the job at hand and your own ability to see it through. It’s a sad fact that the better a Herald you are, the more likely it is that the Queen will set you risky tasks. I’m sure each of you has had a lazy fit now and again, sloughed some job off; but by the time you’ve earned your Whites, you will be totally unable to give anything less than your best to whatever is set before you. And when you’re in the front line—well, that white uniform makes a pretty obvious target. I’m telling you all this now because this is your last chance to leave the Collegium. No one will think any the less of you for it. Well? Anyone want out?”

Talia cleared her throat.

“Yes, Talia?”

“I never got to finish the tale of Herald Vanyel, sir. The tale said at the beginning that he nearly didn’t become a Herald at all because he was afraid—but he decided it was something he had to do anyway, that the job needed doing and he was the one chosen to do it. The last I read he was trapped by the Dark Servants, like he’d seen happening in a vision years before. What happened to him?”

“He died. The Dark Servants hacked him to pieces before help could arrive—yet he held them back long enough that his King was able to bring up an army in time to repel their invasion. But he still died, alone, and all the songs in the world won’t change that. Now I want you to think about that for a moment—really think hard. Does that frighten you? Any of you could be asked to pay Vanyel’s price. The Queen will weep that she had to send you, but that won’t stop her from doing it. Want to leave?”

“No, sir,” Talia’s voice was very small, her eyes very large.

“Doesn’t the idea frighten you?”

“Yes, sir,” she said, softly, biting her lip. “Only somebody awfully stupid wouldn’t be—” she stopped, groping for words.

Griffon found the words for her. “We’ve all heard the tales, sir—the ones with the bad, nasty endings right along with the ones that end with the hero’s welcomes and celebrations. And I got here right after Talamir was buried; you think we didn’t hear the talk then about poison? My own brother said right out he thought I was crazy to want to be a Herald. When we hear the bad tales, you best bet we get scared! But it’s still something we got to do, just like Vanyel. Maybe you can’t be made a Herald, maybe you got to be born one, and all this teaching you give us does is show us how to do better ’n easier the things we know we got to do anyway. Whatever. It’s like bein’ likkercravin’ or something. You still got to do it, no choice; couldn’t stop, don’t want to.” He sat down with a thump, only then realizing he’d risen to his feet making his speech.

Herald Teren’s tense expression eased. “I take it that you all agree with Griffon?”

They nodded, very much sobered.

“Then I can only say that once again, as always, the Companions seem to have Chosen aright. Griffon, you have unexpected depths of eloquence in you. I think you ought to consider seriously taking Logic and Oration—you could be very useful as a diplomat.”

Griffon blushed, and looked down at his hands, murmuring a disclaimer.

“Now, having obliquely touched on the subject—you all know that it is the Companions that choose new Heralds, but do any of you know how they do it?”

They looked at one another in puzzled silence. Teren chuckled. “Nor do I. Nor does anyone. A few—the most sensitive to the bond that forms between a Herald and his Companion—have described that first encounter as ‘a feeling that I was being measured.’ But what it is that they measure, no one knows. All that we do know is that after a Companion has Chosen, there exists a kind of mind-to-mind link between him and his Herald that is similar, but not identical, to the kind of mind-link that exists between twins,” he said, sharing a grin with Drake and Edric. “You’ll learn more about that bond later, and how to use it. For now, it’s enough for you to know that it does exist—so if you feel something between you and your Companion, you know that you’re not imagining it or going mad. As you get older, you may develop one of the Gifts—what outsiders call ‘Herald’s magic.’ You’ll learn more about those later as well—but if you thought your Companion spoke to you when he Chose you, you were right. He did. No matter if you never have more than a touch of a Gift, your Companion will always speak to you in your heart at that moment—even if he never does so again. It wasn’t something you dreamed. And if you have the right Gift, one day you’ll learn to speak back.”

Talia breathed an unconscious sigh of relief, not noticing that all the others except Davan were doing the same.

“And there’s another thing about them that you should know,” Teren continued, “Never, ever, for one moment doubt that they are something considerably more than animals. Any tale you’ve ever heard is no more than a pale reflection of their reality. Now, to elaborate on that, do any of you know where the Companions first came from?”

Davan nodded. “My parents told me, sir.”

“Then tell the rest of us, if you would.”

“It goes right back to before this Kingdom ever existed,” Davan began. Talia gave him every bit of her attention, for this tale was all new to her. “It happened there was a good man who was living in a land with a bad King, ’way off to the East, right past any of our neighbors. His name was Baron Valdemar; he lived on his own Kingdom’s western border. His King was the kind who took what he wanted and never paid any attention when his lands and people suffered, and most of his nobles were like minded. For a while Baron Valdemar was able to at least protect his own people from the King; that was because he was a wizard as well as a Baron, and his lady was a sorceress—old magic, the kind that’s gone now, not Herald’s magic. But the day finally came when there wasn’t any way of stopping him short of outright rebellion. Baron Valdemar knew, though, that rebellion wasn’t the answer either; he couldn’t hold out against all the might the King could bring against him for very long at all. There were plenty of his neighbors who would be only too pleased to help the King destroy him for a share in his lands and goods after. So he did the only thing he could do; he fled away into the West, taking with him every last one of his people as were minded to follow. He led them on until he was sure there wasn’t anybody following; then right here where we’re sitting he stopped, and founded a whole new Kingdom, and those who’d come with him made him the King of it.” Davan paused for a moment to think, “There was a whole lot about all the hardships they went through, and I can’t remember that part too good.”

“You’re doing fine, Davan. You’ll all get more detail later in your History classes; just go on with what you do remember.”

“Well, ‘ventually they got this city built; they all started to have a pretty good life by the time King Valdemar was an old man. Right then is when he took the time to notice how old he was getting, and to think about the future. He hadn’t exactly had much time for thinking before this, ’cause there was too much to do, if you take my meaning. Anyway, what he thought was, ‘I know I’m a good ruler, and a good man; I’m pretty sure my son will be the same—but what about my son’s children, and theirs? How can I make certain that whoever takes this throne will be good for the people who support it?’ ”

“A good question. So what did he do?”

“Well, he waited till Midsummer’s Day; he went out into the grove that stands in the middle of what we call Companion’s Field now, and he asked every god he’d ever heard of to help him. An’ Mama told me in the version she’d read, it said he cast a special spell, too, ’cause remember, he was a magician—a real magician, not just Gifted. She says there used to be lots of real magicians down where he came from, and that there used to be lots here, too, but that Vanyel was the last Herald-mage.”

“That’s the tradition; go on.”

“Well, he started out at dawn; it wasn’t till sunset that he got an answer. Everything went kind of light all over, like when you get too much sun on snow, and all he could hear was the sound of hoofbeats—hoofbeats that sounded just like bells. When the light cleared away, there were three horses standing in front of him; horses with coats the color of moonshine and eyes like pieces of the sky. Old Valdemar hadn’t ever seen anything like them before in his life. And when he came up close to them, one of them looked him straight into the eyes—well, that’s all there was to it. Ardatha told him her name in his mind and bound them together—”

“And the first Companion had Chosen.”

“Right then his chief Herald—and a Herald was just a sort of mouthpiece for the King back then, didn’t do a tenth of what Heralds do today—came looking for him. The second Companion—Kyrith—Chose him. The King’s son, the Heir that was, he’d come along, and Steladar Chose him. When they all were in a mind to be thinking again, ’twas the King decided that the title of Herald should be made to mean more than it did, since only one person can be King or Heir, but there could be lots of Heralds.”

“And King Valdemar, Prince Restil, and Herald Beltran began the work of making the Heralds into what they are now, starting with decreeing that the Heir must also be a Herald. The work wasn’t easy, and it took the lifelong toil of several Kings and Queens, but it was with those three that it first began. By the time Valdemar died, there were twenty-one Heralds, including himself, his Heir, and his Heir’s second son. You have a good memory, Davan, thank you,” Teren concluded.

“Where did all those Companions come from?” Edrik wanted to know.

“At first they all came from the Grove in the middle of what we now call Companion’s Field, like the first three; other than that, no one knew. After a while, though, the mares began foaling, and now all Companions with a single exception are born right here at the Collegium. That exception is the Companion to the Monarch’s Own Herald,” his glance flickered from Edrik to Talia and back again, so quickly she couldn’t be certain she’d seen his eyes move. “That Companion appears from the Grove just as the originals did. He is always a stallion, and he never seems to age. He always gives his name to his Herald; the others may or may not do so, and may allow their Heralds to pick a name for them. If he is killed—and many have been—another appears from the Grove to take his place. If the Monarch’s Own Herald is still living, that is the Herald he Chooses; if not, he stays only long enough to be caparisoned and goes out to seek the next in line. It is usually someone already a Herald or about to receive Whites that he Chooses, but that is not always the case.”

“Talamir was Queen’s Own, wasn’t he, sir?”

“Yes, he was. His Companion was Rolan,” Teren replied, nodding.

“Then that makes Talia Queen’s Own, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does. It’s an important position. Are any of you jealous of her?”

Drake shook his head vehemently. “Ha!” he said. “We’ve seen the Br—, I mean the Princess. I wouldn’t want any part of the job!” The rest nodded agreement.

Teren half smiled. “Watch your tongues carefully, younglings. We can call Elspeth the Brat among ourselves—the Queen calls her that, in fact—but make sure nobody from the Court overhears you. Some people would be only too happy to use that to make trouble. You’re right; Talia is going to have a tough job. She’ll need our help with it, all of us, because there are people at Court who would like very much to see her fail. Only Talia can do her job—but the rest of us can help her by making certain that no one makes it more difficult for her than it is already. Right, gentlemen?”

The boys nodded agreement; but Talia, determined not to be any kind of a burden on the Collegium or those in it, and still not quite ready to believe in the trustworthiness of strangers, pledged silently to manage on her own, no matter what.

A bell rang twice in the corridor outside. “Which of you is Cook’s helper today?” Teren asked.

Talia raised her hand a little.

“For future reference, all of you, that’s the signal for the helpers; the servers go on three rings, and the meal is served on four. Off with you, youngling. Gentlemen, if you left your rooms in a mess, you’d better rectify the situation; there’s inspection after lunch. I’ll see you here tomorrow morning.”

Teran directed Talia to use the door and staircase near the door leading out to the courtyard. Instead of letting out into the Housekeeper’s office, this one led her to a huge kitchen—and much to her surprise, the cook was a balding, moon-faced man. She was too surprised to find a man in charge of the kitchen to even think to be afraid of him, and his easy, gentle manner kept her from being alarmed, despite his sex.

He ignored what seemed to be chaos swirling around him to question her as to her abilities, his smile broadening with each of her answers.

“Finally!” he said, round face beaming. “Someone who knows what to do with food besides eat it!” He gave her charge over the vegetables.

While she peeled and chopped them, she peered about her, curiously. This place didn’t seem all that different from the kitchen of a Hold house; even the ovens were in the same place. That was at first—then she began to notice small things; pumps to bring water to the huge sinks, another one of the copper boilers to heat the water, pipes leading from the sinks to carry the waste away. There was an almost fanatical precision about the placement of pots and pans and tools and the scrupulous cleanliness of the place—Keldar would surely have approved. She was surprised to see that all the ovens were in use; there wasn’t much noticeable heat coming from them. They must have been insulated with far better care than the ones in the Holding. Or perhaps—as she considered it, it occurred to her that they actually extended out beyond the outer wall. Perhaps that had something to do with it.

She soon saw that what had seemed like chaos was in fact as carefully orchestrated as any general’s field maneuvers. No one was allowed to stand idle for more than a moment or two, and yet the Cook had gauged his helpers’ abilities and stamina perfectly. They usually tired just as their tasks were completed, and one by one were sent to rest at a trestle table. Then, just as tired hands had recovered and tired legs were ready to move again, the dishes began coming out of the cupboard and the pots off the stove and out of the oven, and they began transporting the filled dishes to the hoist. When the last of them had vanished upward, they turned to find their table laid ready with tableware and food.

Talia edged over onto a corner, and discovered her seatmate was Jeri. “I like this job,” Jeri said, filling her bowl and Talia’s with stew. “Mero always saves the best for us.”

The cook grinned broadly, even his eyes smiled. “How else to insure that you work and not shirk?” he asked, passing hot bread and butter. “Besides, doesn’t the Book of One say ‘Do not keep the ox who threshes your grain from filling his belly as he works’ ?”

“What’s the ‘Book of One’?” Talia whispered.

“Mero’s from Three Rivers—there’s a group up there that believes there’s only one god,” Jeri replied. “I know it sounds strange, but they must be all right; ’cause Mero’s awfully nice.”

It seemed more than very strange to Talia, and she knew what the Elders would have said. Yet there was no denying the warmth and kindness of this man; he went out of his way to coax Talia into helping herself when she seemed too shy to dive in the way the others were. What Nerrissa had said last night was beginning to be something more than words.

But before she could begin to grasp this more than dimly, the Cook produced a hot berry pie from the oven with a flourish worthy of a conjurer, and all other thoughts were banished. Abstract thought takes a poor second place to berry pies when you’re only thirteen.

They were just finishing when the dishwashing crew arrived, and the Cook banished them all back upstairs. Remembering what Herald Teren had said about room inspections, Talia made haste to straighten hers before anyone could see the state she’d left it in that morning. She changed quickly into one of her older and more worn outfits for working with the Armsmaster before hurrying out to the practice yard.

By now the sun was high; the trees that ringed the practice yard gave very welcome shade. The “yard” itself was nothing more than a square of scuffed, yellowed grass, with benches along two sides of it, and a small well behind the benches. Just beyond the trees was a cleared area with archery targets at one end; there were racks of bows and arrows at the other end. As Talia watched, two of the students picked up several bows in succession, trying them till they found one to their liking; apparently no one had his own special weapon. She moved hesitantly to the practice yard itself, where the Armsmaster was currently holding forth; he seemed to be dividing his time equally between those who were shooting and the ones practicing hand-to-hand fighting.

She had been filled with dread at the thought of reencountering the fearsome Alberich, but she discovered that afternoon that having served as the butt of her older brother Justus’ cruelty had been useful after all. Alberich actually looked mildly pleased when she demonstrated that she knew how to fall without hurting herself and how to use a bow without ruining forearm, fingers, or fletching. So far as proficiency with the bow went, she thought she wasn’t much worse than the other students her own age and began to feel a tiny bit more confident. There were a lot more of them than she thought there would be, for mixed among the gray of her own Collegium were uniforms of the pale green of Healer’s and the rust-brown of Bardic. It did seem a bit odd, though, that she was the youngest to be receiving training with edged weapons. Most of the students her age were being put to stave-work or hacking away at dummies with clubs that only vaguely resembled practice-blades.

Once again Jeri was there; a familiar face was comforting, and Talia sat next to her when her turn at the targets was over. “Why aren’t there any Blues?” she asked curiously.

“Them?” Jeri gave a very unladylike snort. “Most of them have their own private arms tutors—at least the ones that aren’t learning to be scholars or artificers. The scholars don’t need weapons-work-the courtiers wouldn’t want to soil themselves among us common folk. Besides, Alberich won’t coddle them, and they know it. King or beggar, if you don’t lunge right, he’s going to smack you good and hard. Oh-oh,” she groaned, as Alberich dismissed the boy he’d been working with and nodded at her, “Looks like it’s my turn to get smacked.”

She bounced to her feet to take her stance opposite Alberich with her practice blade in hand. Talia watched her enviously, wishing she could move like Jeri did.

“Don’t let Jer fool you, young ’un,” chuckled an older boy, who Talia judged to be about sixteen. “Her blood’s as blue as the Queen’s is. If she hadn’t been Chosen, she’d be a Countess now. She’s had a good share of the benefit given by one of those private tutors she was demeaning just now; that’s why she’s so incredible at her age.”

“And why Alberich treats her rougher than the rest of us,” put in another, a short, slim boy near Talia’s own age, with dark brown hair, bushy eyebrows and nearly black eyes, and a narrow, impish face. He had just finished a bout with another student, and dropped down next to Talia, mopping his sweating face with a towel. He winced as Alberich corrected Jeri’s footwork by swatting the offending leg with the flat of his blade.

“He doesn’t approve of private tutors?” Talia hazarded. “He doesn’t like nobles?”

“Starseekers! No!” the second boy exclaimed, “He just expects more out of her, so he rides her harder. I think he may have ideas about making her Armsmistress when he steps down—if she survives his training and her internship!”

“Believe me, with swordwork that good, by the time she gets her Whites the only way to take Jeri down will be with an army,” the first replied.

“Well Coroc, if anyone would know, you would,” the second admitted, watching him step forward to replace Jeri. “His father’s the Lord Marshal, so he’s been seeing the best swordwork in the Kingdom since he was born,” he told Talia.

Talia’s eyes widened. “The Lord Marshal’s son?”

Her compatriot grinned, hanging his towel around his neck. “Whole new world in here, isn’t it? On your right, the Lord Marshal’s son, on your left, a Countess—and here we sit, a former thief and beggar—” he bowed mockingly “that’s yours truly, of course—and—a ”what are you, anyway?”

“Holderkin.”

“Farmgirl, then. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Like one of those mad tales we used to listen to. You’re Talia, right?”

She nodded, wondering how he knew.

“I’m Skif—if you were with the Dean when the Provost-Marshal came by, you probably heard plenty about me! It’s not fair, I know; we all know who you are just because you’re the only female face we don’t recognize, but you have fifty-two names and faces to learn! And as if that wasn’t bad enough, everything you’ve been seeing probably runs against all you’ve been taught at home, and you’re all in a muddle most of the time.” He reached out too quickly for her to flinch away and tousled her hair with a grin of sympathy. “As they kept telling me all during my first year, ‘this, too, shall pass.’ We’re all glad you’re with us, and we all most fervently wish you luck with the Royal Brat. Now it’s my turn to get whacked on by Master Alberich—with luck I’ll get a set of bruises to match the last batch he gave me. Take heart,” he ended, rising, “you follow me.”

Despite his own words, Skif seemed to give a good accounting of himself with the Armsmaster. Talia, in spite of her lack of experience in weaponry, saw that Alberich was drilling him in a style radically different to the styles Coroc and Jeri had used. Skif’s weapon was a short, heavy blade, as opposed to Jeri’s lighter rapier or Coroc’s longsword. His bout seemed to include as much gymnastics as bladework, and seemed to depend on avoiding his opponent’s weapon rather than countering it in any way. He bounced about with the agility of a squirrel—nevertheless, Armsmaster Alberich eventually “killed” him.

Skif “died” dramatically, eliciting a round of applause at his theatrics; then rose, grinning, to present Alberich with his own gloves—which Skif had filched from Alberich’s belt some time during the practice bout. Alberich received them with a sigh that said wordlessly that this was not the first time Skif had pulled this trick, then turned to motion Talia to take his place. She came forward with a great deal of trepidation.

“You were watching Skif closely?” Alberich asked. “Good. This is the style I wish you to learn. It has nothing of grace, but much of cunning; and I think it will do you more good to know the ways of avoiding the blade of the assassin in the arras than the duelist on the field of honor. So. We begin.”

He tutored her with far more patience than she had expected, having witnessed his outbursts of temper over some of his pupils’ mistakes. He favored her with none of the sarcastic comments he had heaped on the others, nor did he administer any corrective slaps with the flat of his practice blade. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he almost seemed to be treating her with a kind of rough sympathy—certainty he paid far more attention to the level of her spirits and energy than he had any of the others—for just when she was quite sure she could no longer keep her rubbery knees from giving way with exhaustion, he smiled briefly at her (an unexpected sight that left her dumb) and said, “Enough. You do well, better than I had expected. Rest for a moment, then go to work with your Companion when you are cool.”

She rested just long enough to cool down without stiffening up, then ran to Companion’s Field with an eagerness that matched the reluctance with which she had gone to arms practice.

As she approached the fence, she saw that Rolan had anticipated her arrival; she scrambled up the rough boards and swung from the top of the fence to his back without bothering to saddle him, and they set off across the field at a full gallop. It was intoxicating beyond belief; though she’d urged the farmbeasts to an illicit gallop many times, there was no comparison to Rolan’s speed or smooth pace.

The Field proved to be far more than that—almost a park, full of trees and dells and with streams running all through it. It was so large that when they were most of the way across it, the people near the fence on the Collegium side looked hardly bigger than bugs. At the far edge of the Field they wheeled and returned at top speed to the fence. She leaned into his neck, feeling so at one with him that it seemed as if it were her own feet flying below them. She gripped a double handful of the mane whipping about her face and whispered, “Don’t stop, loverling! We can take it! Jump!”

She felt him gather himself beneath her as the fence loomed immediately in front of them—she shifted her weight without thinking—and they were airborne, the fence flashing underneath his tucked-up hooves. It was over in a heartbeat, as he landed as easily as a bird, his hooves chiming on the paved court on the other side.

As she combed her own hair out of her eyes with her fingers, she heard a hearty laugh. “And I thought I’d have to coax you into the saddle with a ladder!” a rough voice said behind her. “Looks like you might be able to teach me a trick or two, my young centaur!”

Rolan pivoted without Talia’s prompting so that they could face the owner of the voice; a tall, thin woman of indeterminate age, with short, graying brown hair and intelligent gray eyes, who was clad entirely in white leather.

The woman chuckled and strode toward them, then walked around them with her hands clasped behind her back, surveying them from all sides. “No doubt about it, you have a very pretty seat, young Talia. You’re a natural. Well, you’ve shown me what you can do bareback, so let’s see what you can do in the saddle, shall we?”

Herald Keren (who proved to be Teren’s twin sister—which explained the grins he’d traded with Drake and Edric) was openly pleased at having so adept a pupil. She told Talia after the first hour that she intended Talia to learn everything she herself knew before too very long. What Keren could do with a horse was incredible and what she could do with her Companion was nothing short of phenomenal.

“Before you’ve got your Whites, m’dear,” she told Talia on parting, “you’ll be able to duplicate anything you can do afoot on the back of your Companion. You’re going to be a credit to both of us; I feel it in my bones. When I’m done with you, the only way anyone will be able to get you off Rolan’s back unwilling will be dead.”

Talia, much to her own surprise, felt the same instinctive liking for Keren as she had for her twin. It was disturbing; almost frightening. Her instincts were all telling her to trust these people-but everything she’d ever learned urged her to keep her distance until she could truly be sure of them. After all, she’d been hurt and betrayed time and time again by her own blood-kin. How could she expect better treatment from strangers? And yet, and yet—something deep inside kept telling her that her fears were needless. She wished she knew which inner prompting to trust.

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.