At the end of the week Herald Teren dismissed them for the last time, but asked Talia to remain behind as the others filed out. She tensed without realizing it, her outward relaxation draining away as she waited, biting nervously at a hangnail, to hear the reason why he wanted to speak to her.

She watched him covertly as he leaned a little on his desk, not meeting his eyes except by accident. He looked worried and slightly unhappy, and in her experience that sort of expression on an adult face meant trouble for her.

Teren was uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in now; this poor, confused child was having more than enough problems in trying to come to terms with the Collegium and her new role, without having to cope with trouble from her family as well. He mentally cursed their cruelty, who could send a message so coldly calculated to destroy what little stability the child had gained.

“Talia—” he began; then hesitated, seeing her start from raw nervousness. “Childing, there’s nothing for you to be afraid of—I’ve just got some rather unpleasant news for you that I thought you would rather receive alone. It’s word from your family.”

“My family?” she repeated, her expression surprised and puzzled.

“We sent a messenger to them, just as we do with every child Chosen, telling them what had happened to you. Now usually no matter how angry they are, the honor of being Chosen seems to make every parent forgive whatever disobedience had occurred, and we thought that would happen for you, too.”

Now at last she was looking directly at him, instead of from underneath downcast lashes. He was uneasy beneath her stare, and oddly at a loss for words. “Talia, I wish things had gone as we’d expected; I can’t tell you how sorry I am—this is all the reply they gave us.”

He fumbled in his tunic pocket and pulled out a much-folded bit of paper and handed it to her.

She opened it, smoothing out the creases unthinkingly, while Teren waited in apprehensive anticipation for her reaction to what it held.

Sensholding has no daughter Talia, it read. The half-literate scrawl bore her Father’s mark.

She didn’t realize that she was weeping until a single hot tear splashed on the paper, blurring the ink. She regained control of herself immediately, swallowing down the tears. She hadn’t realized until this moment just how much she’d hoped that the Family would accept her because of her newly-won status. She hadn’t thought, though, that the Heralds would have told them—she’d expected that it would be she herself that would break the news; perhaps by riding one day into the Holding in the full formal array of Herald’s Whites. It was when she had first realized that she really was a Herald that she had begun to hope that the achievement would mean forgiveness—even, perhaps, a hint of approval. Holderkin did not condemn everything Heralds did and stood for, and even the most critical of them generally admitted that Heralds served an important function. Certainly the Holderkin welcomed their intrusion into their midst when the raiders came over the Border, or a feud needed settling! Perhaps, she’d hoped, her kin would realize now why she’d done things that were a bit unseemly—they’d realize she was only following her own nature. Surely now they’d understand. Perhaps they’d welcome her back, and let her have a place to belong.

It was odd, but when she’d chosen to run away, their certain excommunication hadn’t seemed so great a price to pay for freedom; but somehow now, after all her hopes for forgiveness had been raised only to be destroyed by this one note—

Never mind; once again she was on her own—and Herald Teren would hardly approve of her sniveling over the situation. “It’s all right,” she said, handing back the note to the Herald. “I should have expected it.” She was proud that her voice trembled only a little, and that she was able to meet his eyes squarely.

Teren was startled and slightly alarmed; not at her reaction to the note, but by her immediate iron-willed suppression of it. This was not a healthy response. She should have allowed herself the weakness of tears; any child her age would have. Instead, she was holding back, turning farther into herself. He tried, tentatively, to call those tears back to the surface where they belonged. Such suppression of natural feelings could only mean deep emotional turmoil later—and would only serve as one more brick in the wall the child had placed between herself and others around her.

“I wish there was something I could do to help.” Teren was exceedingly distressed and tried to show that he was as much distressed at the child’s denial of her own grief as with the situation itself. “I can’t understand why they should have replied like this.”

If he could just at least get her to admit that the situation made her unhappy, he would have an opening wedge in getting her to trust him.

“Perhaps if we sent another envoy to them, later—” he offered, trying to hold her gaze.

Talia dropped her eyes and shook her head; there was no return for her, at least not as the triumphal Holderkin Herald. To even her closest kin she would be a total stranger, and “Talia Sensdaughter” had never lived. She had violated the Holy Writ that a girlchild be totally obedient in all things; she was outcaste, and they would never change their minds.

“But—”

“I’m going to be late—” Talia winced away from his outheld hand and ran, wishing that Teren had been less sympathetic. He’d brought her tears perilously close to the surface again. She’d wanted, above all other things, to break down and cry on his shoulder. But—no. She didn’t dare. When kith and kin could deny her so completely, what might not strangers do, especially if she exposed her weaknesses? And Heralds were supposed to be self-sufficient, self-reliant. She would not show that she was unworthy and weak.

Fortunately, the next class—History, which as far as Talia was concerned was no less than one never-ending tale—was engrossing enough that she was able to concentrate on it and ignore her unhappiness. Like many of the classes it was structured cyclically, so that a student could drop into it at any point, completing it when the point at which he’d entered came around again. An elderly woman—Herald Werda—taught this class. Today the lecture and the discussion that followed were fascinating; enough to make her forget for a while.

And Geography was nearly as enthralling. All Heralds at the Collegium for more than a few days taught it in turn, covering their own home areas as they came under study. Teren’s conclusion of the Orientation class brought him to lead this one for a time, since it was covering the Lake Evendim area.

This class was not just the study of maps, but a study of everything that made up the environment of the area, from the topography and vegetation to the weather. These things were then related to the people who lived there, and how their lives had been shaped; how changes in these factors might affect them. This too was engrossing enough to hold her attention away from her rejection.

Teren made a tentative gesture in her direction when the class was dismissed—Talia pretended not to see it and hurried on to the next, part of the crowd, and yet apart from it.

Following this class was Mathematics; Talia had never been overly fond of figures, but Herald Sylvan seemed to love the precision and intricacies of her subject so much that some of that enthusiasm was bound to be contagious.

Talia’s newest class, just before lunch, was something called “Courtly Graces”; she was feeling very uneasy about it. She was certain that she’d look as out of place at Court as a goat. Most especially did she dread it now, when she was so knotted up inside and out of balance. She almost feared meeting the instructor, picturing some stiff-necked, gilded aristo, and anticipating ridicule.

She crept in, and hid herself behind several of her taller classmates before the instructor entered. She slumped into her seat as the buzz of conversation ended, hoping to remain unnoticed.

“Isn’t Talia here? I thought she was joining us today,” the puzzled voice was very familiar and startled Talia into raising her head.

“Bright Havens, child,” Housekeeper Gaytha smiled, “we ought to put stilts on the bottoms of your boots—you’re almost too tiny to see!”

“You’re not—” Talia blurted, then blushed.

“I’m not a courtier, as such, and I’m not a Herald either—but before I accepted this position I was Governess to House Ravenscroft; that’s why I teach this class,” Gaytha explained patiently. “A Governess sees the court from a unique viewpoint; within it, yet invisible. For this reason I can teach you all the manners that smooth the way, and the means of seeing the poison fangs hid by the velvet tongues. Make no mistake about it, if you retain the habit of speaking before thinking, the fangs will be felt!”

The tiny, gentle smile she wore softened the rebuke.

Perhaps Courtly Graces wasn’t going to be as horrid as Talia had thought.

In fact, it was rather fascinating; a convoluted, intricate dance of manners—though Talia had cause to wonder more than once if she’d ever truly understand it all, much less feel comfortable treading the measures of it.

A free reading hour spent in the Library followed lunch and that class, and it would have taken drawn daggers to keep her out of that room of wonders. Remembering Davan’s tale of the beginnings of the Kingdom, she chose a book from the very front of the section on History.

Today she wasn’t Cook’s helper, so following her reading hour was an hour spent in the sewing room, a cramped but well-lit room, crowded with tables holding baskets of uniforms in various stages of disrepair. It was here, with her hands full but her mind unoccupied, that she found she could no longer keep her loneliness at bay—especially not with the other students laughing and chattering away about things and people she had no acquaintance with whatsoever. She found a corner partially in shadow and screened by a mound of things to be mended, and took her basket of work there. The misery had to come out sooner or later, and this was a good time and place; one where she wouldn’t be noticed. The torn hose acquired a certain salty dampness before the hour was over.

At least today she wasn’t forced to deal with the demonic Alberich—he had delegated the ex-thief Skif as her tutor instead. She had found herself warming shyly to the boy during the past week. Skiff seemed to sympathize with her awkwardness, and was endlessly patient with her. Without rebuke, he helped her position her rebellious limbs and slowed his own movements down enough that she could see exactly what she was supposed to be doing. When she looked downhearted, he cheered her with ridiculous stories about the preposterous things he’d supposedly done back in his days as a street-child, beggar, and pickpocket. She responded tentatively to his open friendliness, and he seemed to know when to reach out to her and when to back down.

From there she went to archery practice, and then to Rolan.

Once in her Companion’s presence the ache of loneliness vanished. They worked over the obstacle course until they were both tired, then went off to a far corner of the Field to cool off together and to be alone. Again, simply being with him worked some kind of alchemy on her spirits. When she thought about how lonely she’d been even with her two closest kin—and how fulfilled she felt when she was with Rolan—the price she had paid for coming here no longer seemed so high. By the time Rolan was brushed and curried, Talia had very nearly regained her cheer. Whenever she was with him, she knew without doubt that she was loved and that he would never leave her friendless.

Either she was growing used to the pace or her endurance was increasing; she was not tired enough to stay indoors after supper, so she decided to explore the gardens that abutted the Collegium grounds.

It was there that she learned why Sherrill had warned her not to confront the unaffiliated students alone.

She was walking the graveled paths between the mathematically-laid-out flowerbeds, as the sun set and the coming dusk seemed to thicken the air and turn it blue. The scent of the roses mingled with that of the nightblooming flowers that were only just beginning to open. She was half daydreaming and didn’t notice that there was anyone about until someone spoke.

“Do I smell manure?” a male voice behind her sniffed superciliously. “I really believe that I do!”

“Perhaps the gardeners have manured the flowerbeds?” It was a girl’s voice this time, and one with a nasty edge to it.

“Oh, I think not,” the first replied. “This smell is most decidedly fresh, and altogether goat-likes.”

Talia turned, startled; there were four or five adolescents in blue uniforms lounging in the shadow of a hedge.

“Why, what have we here?” the first speaker feigned surprise at seeing her. “I do believe that I’ve found the source of the odor!”

“No doubt of it,” the girl at his side replied, “since it’s that wench from the Border. What a pity—they’ll allow anything into the Collegium these days. Still, you’d think they’d bathe it before letting it roam civilized surroundings.”

They watched her with expressions of sly anticipation. Talia had first thought to give them word for word, but thought better of the idea at once. There were five of them, and she was alone—and from what Sherrill had said, they weren’t likely to stop with insults, nor to fight fairly.

“My Lady, these creatures are steeped in filth; a hundred baths couldn’t wash the smell away,” the boy continued maliciously. “Which isn’t surprising, considering that they are also steeped in ignorance. I’m given to understand that this one tried to give its Companion back to the Collegium—that it hadn’t the faintest idea what it meant to be Chosen.”

Talia’s ears burned with shame and anger.

“Is it as stupid as it is smelly?” a third asked.

“It must be, since it apparently doesn’t realize that we’re talking about it.”

Tears sprang up, and were as quickly suppressed. There was no way that she would let this lot know how their insults had hurt—that would only encourage them. Talia shut her smarting eyes and began to walk away; they moved up on her so quickly that she didn’t realize that she was surrounded until a calculated shove sent her sprawling headfirst into a well-watered flowerbed. She wasn’t ready for the tumble, and landed hard, getting a face full of dirt and dead leaves.

As laughter faded into the distance, Talia extricated herself. She’d had the breath knocked out of her; the bed had been planted with rose-vines and none of the thorns seemed to be less than an inch long. By the time she got out, her uniform was ruined, and she was scratched and bloody as well as filthy.

Hot, angry tears slipped over her cheeks; she scrubbed them away with the back of a gritty hand and sprinted for the safety of the Collegium, grateful for the cover of gathering darkness.

It was early enough that there was no one in the bathing room; she hastily shoved the ruined clothing down the chute. A long soak changed the angry scratches into cuts she could have picked up in practice and the sound of the running water covered her sniffles as she sobbed, half in anger, half in hurt.

She had no intention of asking Sherrill for help; she couldn’t spend all her time in the older girl’s company, and the minute she was alone she’d be a target again. Besides, despite what Sherrill had told her, Talia had strong misgivings about her real willingness tolerate the constant presence of a child at her side, day in, day out.

And Talia had had plenty of experience with bullies before this; she knew what to expect. Once they’d started, they wouldn’t leave her alone until they’d become bored with the game.

And there was another facet to be considered as well. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and regarded the coin-sized scar on the palm of her left hand soberly. How old had she been when Justus had burned that into her hand with a red-hot poker? Nine? Ten? No matter. When the thing had happened, the adults had believed him and not her, when he’d said she’d done it to herself.

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 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 welcoming 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 him.

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 quiedy 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.

Midwinter Eve itself came before Talia was aware that it was upon them.

That afternoon Jadus had been telling her tales drawn from his own experiences as a young Herald, when there was a hesitant knock on the half-open door.

“Come,” he answered, one eyebrow rising quizzically.

It was the young servant who habitually tended to Jadus’ needs. “Your pardon, Herald,” he said diffidently, “We—the rest of us, that is—couldn’t help but listen to yourself and young Talia all this past week, and we wondered—well, to put it shortly, sir, it’s this. You two haven’t anywhere to go this Midwinter Eve and you’re plainly not wanting to spend it at Court either, or you’d be there now. Would you be caring to share our celebration? And, if you could be bothered to sing or play a bit for us, we’d be beholden to you. We entertain ourselves, you see; ’tisn’t masterly, but it’s fun, and it’s homelike.”

Jadus broke into a wide smile. “Medren, I do believe that’s one of the handsomest offers I’ve had since I was Chosen! Talia, what think you?”

She nodded speechlessly, amazed that anyone would come seeking her company.

“Right gladly do we accept—and right gladly will we do our best to help amuse and please you.”

Medren’s sturdy brown face was wreathed in smiles. “Many thanks, m’lord Jadus. We’d have asked you aforetime, but that we thought you wished to be alone. But then when you and the child began the lessoning, well, we bethought maybe we were wrong.”

Jadus rested his hand fondly on Talia’s head. “I have lived overly much in my memories, I think. It was time someone woke me to the present. Welladay, will you send someone to fetch us when the time comes?”

Medren nodded. “Second hour after sundown, Herald, and I’ll come myself. Do you wish your carry-chair?”

“Oh, I think not. I’ll do well enough with my cane and my friends,” he replied and smiled at Talia with affection.

Medren was prompt; enthusiastic cries of greeting met them at the door of the Servant’s Hall as they entered. The room was approximately three times the size of the Collegium common room, with a fireplace at either end, oil lamps along the walls, and one door leading into the hallway in the middle of one of the longer walls, and another leading to the Palace kitchen in the middle of the other. There were many trestle tables set up in the middle of it, all crowded with off-duty servants. Jadus entered through the hall-door slowly, managing very well with his cane and one hand resting lightly on Talia’s shoulder for balance. She held his harp in both arms with great care, feeling honored that he trusted it to her. Tucked into her belt was the little shepherd’s pipe he’d given her a few days previous. Jadus’ eyes widened and lit from within at the sounds of welcome; he seemed even to stand a bit straighter. The greetings they received were warm and unrestrained, for although she hadn’t known it, Talia had long ago won the sympathy of the servants with her stalwart refusal to give in to self-pity out of loneliness. Jadus was another favorite—partially because he never demanded any favors though he’d long since earned the right to demand special treatment, and partially because he had never stood on protocol with anyone, servant or noble.

First there was a feast, prepared at the same time as that being served in the Great Hall; everyone able took his or her turn at waiting on the others. Following the food came the entertainment. As Medren had said, it was not “masterly,” but the enjoyment was perhaps more genuine. While several amateur musicians played simple country-dances, the rest sent their feet through their paces. Tiny Talia often ended up being swept completely off the floor by some of her more energetic partners. There were some attempts at juggling and sleight-of-hand, all the more hilarious because the outcomes were so uncertain.

When at last everyone’s energy was drained to the point where they were willing to turn their attention to something quieter, Talia and Jadus took their turn.

Jadus first played alone; his skillful fingers wove a spell of silence over the assemblage. There wasn’t a sound to be heard as he played but the crackling of the fire on the hearth. The silence that endured for several long moments when he’d finished was a poignant tribute to his abilities.

Before the silence ended, Jadus nudged his young protégé, and Talia joined him on her pipe, playing the melodies she’d learned taking her turn on watch during the long, cold nights of lambing season. The tunes themselves were simple enough, but with Jadus’ harp behind them, they took on new complexity and an entirely new voice. There was another eloquent silence when they’d done, followed by wildly enthusiastic applause. Talia’s heart was filled with joy at the sight of the new life and light in Jadus’ face. She was fiercely glad then that they’d come.

Then Jadus played while Talia sang something he’d picked out of an old book—a comic ballad he remembered from many years agone called “It Was A Dark and Stormy Night.” The spontaneous laughter that followed the last line about the lute was so hearty that Talia was soon blushing with pleasure. Now she, too, knew how heady a drink acclaim could be.

The two of them then performed as many requests as they knew, until it grew so late that Talia found herself beginning to nod, and Jadus confessed that his fingers were growing tired. Talia helped him back to his room; she scarcely knew how she found her own bed. She thought before sleep claimed her that without a doubt it was the finest Midwinter Festival she’d ever had.