She’d managed to learn a few shortcuts in the three years she’d been at the Collegium; that and longer legs managed to get her to her classroom scant seconds ahead of Herald Ylsa and the Dean. She ran her fingers through her unruly curls, hoping to smooth them down enough that her race through the halls wouldn’t be blazoned in her appearance.

Three years had made quite a difference in the way she looked. The awkward adolescent whose arms and legs had always seemed a bit too long for her body was gone. Though she’d never be tall, growth and Alberich’s training had honed her into a slender, supple, and athletic young woman. The face she showed to the world was self-confident, but that outward appearance covered a certain shyness and uncertainty that still remained. The muddy color of her hair had finally turned to a rich red-brown. She wore it just touching her shoulders; much to her dismay, since she secretly yearned for straight, midnight-black hair like Sherrill’s, it had remained stubbornly curly. Her eyes now matched her hair, and while she would never be called beautiful, she charmed everyone when she smiled—which she did now more often than not. There was no one in the Collegium or among the full Heralds of the Circle who were acquainted with her that did not care deeply for her. The older trainees had taken it upon themselves to make it pointedly clear to the Blues that anyone harassing her would find life very uncomfortable indeed. Her teachers tried to keep her challenged, but at the same time went out of their way to coordinate their efforts so as to make it possible for her to keep up with all her commitments. The younger students—for she always had a moment to spare to soothe an anger, encourage the discouraged, or lend an ear to the homesick—frankly adored her. Her own contemporaries had formed a kind of honor guard for her headed by Griffon, always at hand to take over a chore or duty when the inevitable conflicts arose.

She returned all these attentions with an artless gratitude and affection that made it seem a privilege to have helped her.

And yet she still felt a kind of isolation from everyone but her few close friends—Skif, Keren, Sherri, and Jeri. It was almost as if she was of the Collegium and Circle, yet not truly at one with them.

A great part of that feeling had to do with the fact that it seemed to her as if she were continually receiving the affection and attention she so ardently craved, and yet was doing little or nothing to earn it. Exposing Hulda had been mostly Skifs work; civilizing Elspeth had been largely a matter of forcing her to take the consequences for her actions and returning her to her previous behavior patterns. It hardly seemed to her that being Selenay’s sounding board required much effort on her part. She felt—when she had time to think about it—as if she would never truly belong until she earned her place, entirely by her own efforts, and by doing something for the benefit of the Circle that no one else could do.

She little realized that by helping to ease the emotional turmoils of others she was already accomplishing just that. As far as she was concerned, that was the kind of thing anyone would and could do under the same circumstances. Only Elcarth, Herald Kyril (who made a study of Heraldic Gifts), and Ylsa realized how rare her abilities and her Gift were—and how badly they would miss her, were she not there.

But since she still kept most of her inmost doubts to herself, none of them realized she felt this way. They saw only the cheerful exterior that she presented to the world at large.

Only Keren and Rolan ever witnessed the bouts of self-doubt and temper; the fits of self-pity and depression. And neither of those two (like Jadus before them) was likely to betray her trust, since it was given so rarely. For if she had a fault, it was this; even after three years, it was still hard for her to truly trust in others.

Today marked a new phase of her studies, and a strange and somewhat frightening one. Now she was to learn the full use of that ability to sense the distresses of others that had appeared so abruptly under stress. Today was the beginning of her lessons in “Herald’s magic.”

There were three others in the class besides herself; the twins Drake and Edric from her own year-group (Talia was still unable to tell them apart), and a silent, flame-haired lad from the year-group following Talia’s. Neave’s abilities had caused mild havoc among the trainees for a brief period until he had been identified as the source of disturbance. He was a ‟projector”—and he’d inadvertently projected his own nightmares into the dreams of those around him that were at all receptive and unshielded. Since his life up until he’d been Chosen had been rough enough to make even the ex-street-urchin Skif blanch, his nightmares had been grown from fertile ground and given his fellow students several sleepless and terror-filled nights.

As the Dean and Herald entered the room, Talia found she had tensed up all over. These were new and strange waters she was about to dive into; she’d more or less come to terms with the simpler manifestations of her Gift, but there remained her old Hold training to deal with. To Holderfolk, such abilities were “unnatural” at best, and demon-born at worst.

Talia was just grateful that the class was being taught by two so familiar to her. If it had been a stranger facing her, she would have been ready to have a litter of kittens with nerves! She tried to relax—this was nothing to fear; every Herald had to learn the working of his or her Gift—and Elcarth caught her eye, and gave her a brief, encouraging smile.

Dean Elcarth surveyed the four of them, noting their understandable nervousness. Only Drake and Edric appeared to be more excited than ill-at-ease—but then, their Gift had been a part of them since birth. He smiled reassuringly at Neave and Talia, lifted an eyebrow at the twins, and began his usual speech.

“We put the four of you in a class together because you all demonstrate Gifts in the same ‘family’ of talents,” the Dean began, as his bright, round eyes met each of theirs’ in turn. “Your Gifts of what we call ‘magic’ are all in the areas of communication. I want you all to know that although we refer to these things in the world outside these walls as ‘magic,’ there is nothing whatsoever unnatural about them. You have Talents, even as a Bard, an artist, or an artisan. You should never be afraid of what you have been gifted with—rather you should learn how to use these gifts to the benefit of yourselves and others.”

“Talia and Neave already know Herald Ylsa; she was instrumental in discovering that both of you had prematurely awakened Gifts, since she is one of the best at the using and detecting ‛communications’ type abilities that we have among the Circle. For this reason, she will be in charge of this class, and I am merely here to assist her. Don’t be afraid to ask her questions; despite her formidable reputation, she doesn’t bite—”

“Not hard, anyway,” Ylsa interrupted with a smile.

“—and if she doesn’t know the answers to your questions, she certainly knows exactly where to look and who to ask! I’ll be helping her, since next to Herald Kyril, I’m probably the second choice for an expert at the Collegium. Ylsa, the floor is yours.”

“Well,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back against the edge of the desk. “Where shall I start? Have any of you questions about all this?”

“Herald,” Neave’s expression was troubled. “All this—magic—it isn’t evil, is it?”

“Is a crossbow evil?” she countered.

“Depends on who’s holding it, Herald,” one of the twins grinned and answered, “and who it’s pointed at.”

“Exactly. Your Gifts can be used for evil purposes. They’re just like any weapon—and make no mistake about it, they can be weapons if you’re so minded. But you wouldn’t be sitting here now if you were inclined toward evil. Trust the judgment of your Companion in that, Neave, if you don’t trust your own. They don’t Choose where evil is—and on the very rare occasion where someone has been corrupted past redemption—and the last was two hundred years ago—they will repudiate their Chosen. So since you and Kyldathar still seem on very good terms, I think you can set your mind at rest about being evil.”

“Herald, the Companions seem to be able to make our Gift stronger, somehow,” said the other twin. “Edric and I could ‘talk’ a little to each other before, but since we were Chosen it’s been much clearer and easier.”

“Good!” Ylsa nodded. “I wondered if any of you had made that connection. Yes, the Companions seem to strengthen our Gifts and develop the ones that are latent. You’ll probably find that your Gift gains enormously in power when you’re in physical contact with your Companion and when you’re under the influence of very strong emotions. No one is sure whether there’s a connection there, between our bonds with our Companions and very strong emotions. Our Gifts are unfortunately not the kinds of things that yield easily to measurement.”

“Herald Ylsa, we’ve all seen or heard about the ‘Truth Spell’—are we going to learn spells?” Talia asked. “My folk say all spells are demon-work.”

“Yes, you will be learning spells of a sort, though probably not what the Holderfolk had in mind. What we call a spell for the most part is an exercise that forces you to concentrate. When you concentrate, you boost your capability; it’s as simple as that. The word ‘spell’ is just a handy term; in point of fact, most of them are rather like meditation chants or prayers of a sort.”

“Then, does everybody have this kind of—uh—gift?” Neave asked.

“Again, yes. The catch is that most people don’t have enough of the ability for it to be really useful to them. It’s just like Talia sings very well but will never be a Bard, and I throw a decent pot but could never be a really good potter. As far as that goes, there are some of us whose Gifts are hardly stronger than those of nonHeralds—and even among Heralds a really powerful Gift is rare, though we all have enough to enable us to bond with our Companions and use the Truth Spell. From what we can tell, it seems to be that the very strongest gifts tend to be associated with those who become Healers rather than Heralds, although the Gifts of communication are very similar to the Healing Gifts. That is why in an emergency you may be called on to assist Healers. Sometimes the very strongest of our variety of Gifts hide themselves; I’ve known a case or two when persistent inability has actually hidden very strong ability. Mostly though, it seems that contact with your Companion triggers your Gift and continued development of the bond also develops the Gift to the point where you have direct conscious control of it. Once you can control it, you can be trained in the use of it, and you can learn its limits. Oh, I think I should mention something about the Truth Spell; that really is a spell, in the sense of the Bardic tales. It requires a Gift to use, apparently the one that makes the Companion-Herald bond possible. If you have a strong Gift, you’ll be able to use it to actually force someone to speak only the truth; if your Gift is weak, you’ll only be able to detect whether or not a person is lying. The Truth Spell will be the last thing we’ll teach you. Now, if you’re all ready, I think we’re about at the point where we should stop talking and start doing.

For once, learning did not come easily to Talia. To her extreme frustration, mastering the use of her Gift proved to be far more elusive than she had dreamed. The others quickly outstripped her in progress as she strove to get some kind of control on her abilities. Directing her Gift seemed to be a greatly different thing than simply blocking it or letting it direct her actions passively, as she had been doing. It seemed to require a kind of combination of relaxation and concentration that she despaired of ever mastering. Several weeks passed without her attaining much more control than she had had before the class started.

“You know—” Ylsa said one day, with a look as if she were slowly realizing something that should have been obvious. ‟—I think we’re going after the wrong Gift. I’m not at all sure now that your prime Gift is thought-sensing.”

“Well what could it be?” Talia cried in frustration.

“Everything you’ve told me and what I’ve seen for myself points not to the mind, but the heart. Look, your own mind-call to Rolan was fear; the times with Selenay and other Heralds—sorrow, pain, loss. Even what you picked up from me was an emotion—love. Or maybe lust,” she winked at Talia, who coughed politely and blushed, “since I’m not sure exactly what you were getting from me that time, and it had been a long trip. Seriously, though—you can hear thoughts if you’re properly prepared or you’re in deep trance, but what you receive first and strongest is emotion. When there’s no emotion involved, and there hasn’t been in these training sessions, it’s that much harder for you to receive meaning. I didn’t think about that because the Gift for emotion-sensing—we call it ‘empathy’—is almost never seen alone, or in a Chosen. The only times I can ever remember seeing it is in company with the Gift of true Healing, and the Companions never Choose someone with the Healing Gifts, probably because they’re needed too much as Healers. What have I been telling you to do all this time?”

“Relax and clear my mind of everything—” Talia said, beginning to grasp what Ylsa was saying, “—and especially to clear my mind of emotions, even the ones coming in from outside.”

“So naturally you fail. Our Gifts are tricky things, you know; they depend very strongly on how much we believe in our own abilities. When you failed, you disbelieved a little and made it that much harder the next time. It’s time we abandoned this tack and tried something different.”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see—just keep your shields down. If all this isn’t moonshine, I don’t want you expecting anything in particular, and maybe having your imagination supply it for you,” Ylsa turned to Neave and whispered in his ear. He nodded and left the room, while Talia waited with half-perplexed anticipation for something to happen.

Suddenly she was inundated by terror, and hard upon the terror came a picture—and then it was something more than a picture. It was a vision of a filthy, smoke-filled taproom—a vision that she was a part of, for the room around her and her fellows had vanished. All around her loomed the slack bodies of drunken, half-crazed people; mostly men, but with a few slatternly women sprawled among them. They were very much bigger than she; she seemed to have shrunk down to the size of a ten-year-old. She was trying to slip through them with as little stir as possible, serving their cheap wine, when one of them woke from his daze and seized her arm in a grip that hurt. “Come here, little boy, pretty boy,” he crooned, ignoring her struggles to free herself. “I only want to give you something....”

She wanted to scream, knowing very well what it was he wanted, but found her throat so choked with fear that she could barely squeak. It was like a nightmare from which there could be no awakening. She began losing herself completely in panic when something broke the spell she was in.

“Talia!” Ylsa was shaking her, slapping her face lightly. “Talia, block it out!”

“Goddess....” Talia slumped in her seat and held her head in both hands. “What happened?”

“I told Neave to project the most emotional image he could think of at you,” Ylsa said, a bit grimly, “We succeeded better than I had guessed we would. You not only received it, you were trapped by it. Well, that answers that question—your Gift is empathy, beyond all doubt. And now that we know for certain what your Gift is, we can do more about training you properly.”

“Lady of Light,” Talia said, burying her face in her hands. “Poor, poor Neave! If you’d seen what I saw . . . how can such filth be allowed to exist?”

“It’s not—not here,” Neave himself came through the door, looking quite ordinary; far calmer, far more natural than Talia would have believed possible for someone whose mind held such memories. “I’m from outKingdom, remember? Where I come from, an orphaned child of the poor is fair game for whatever anyone wants to do with him. So long as the priests and the Peacekeepers aren’t officially aware of what’s going on, and there’s no one to speak for the child, just about anything is tolerated. Are you all right? I could tell something was wrong, but not what. I stopped sending, but you’d already broken off contact. Talia, you had an awfully strong hold on me; I found myself reliving that whole filthy episode—”

“Neave—I’m so sorry—” she strove to express her horror at what he’d gone through, and failed utterly.

He touched her arm hesitantly, his eyes understanding. “Talia, it was long ago and far away. Thanks to people like Ylsa and the Dean, it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. I know now it wasn’t anything I did that caused it.” He licked his lips, his calm shell cracking just a little. “Time does heal things, you know, time and love and help. I just wish that I could somehow make sure that nothing like that ever happens to another child.”

“Someday, we hope, that’s exactly what the Heralds will accomplish,” the Dean said gravely. “Someday—when there isn’t a Kingdom on this world that doesn’t welcome us. But for now—well, Neave, we save the ones we can, and try not to think too hard about the others, the ones we couldn’t save. We can’t be everywhere....”

But Elcarth’s eyes told them how little it helped, at times, to know that, and how hard it was to forget the ones still trapped in their little hells.

Eventually, Ylsa declared the class to be officially over, saying that there was nothing else she could actually teach them. Now their proficiency depended on their own limits and how well they honed their Gifts with practice.

The end of the class meant that it was time to learn the only “real” magic that they were ever likely to see. It was time to learn the Truth Spell.

“Legend says this was discovered by a contemporary of Herald Vanyel, just before the incursions of the Dark Servants,” she told them. “Since Vanyel himself was the last of what were called the ‘Heraldic Mages,’ this is the last real bit of magic ever created in Valdemar and is about all the ‘real magic’ we have left except for a few things the priests and Healers use. Most of the rest was lost to the Dark Servants, abandoned because of negative associations, or just plain forgotten. In some ways, it’s too bad—it would be nice to still be able to build a fortress like the Palace—Collegium complex and to pave roads the way the old ones did. At any rate, this spell starts with a cantrip; a little rhyme, just like some of the others you’ve learned—”

With the rhyme came an image they were to hold in their minds, one that made very little sense to Talia, the image of a wisp of fog with blue eyes. While holding this image, they were to recite the rhyme mentally nine times; no more, no less. On the ninth repetition they were to imagine the fog enveloping the person they were casting the spell on.

Ylsa demonstrated on Dean Elcarth; closing her own eyes briefly then staring fixedly at him for a few moments. Within a few heartbeats, Elcarth was surrounded by a faint but readily visible glowing blue nimbus of light.

“I’ve just put the first stage on him,” Ylsa told them. “I’m not forcing the truth out of him, but just registering whether or not he’s telling it. Lie for me, Elcarth.”

“I’m passionately in love with you, Ylsa.”

The glow vanished, while Ylsa and her students laughed.

“Now tell me the truth.”

“I consider you to be one of the most valuable assets of the Circle, but I’m rather glad you’re not my lifemate. You’re altogether too difficult a woman and you have a nasty temper.”

The glow reappeared, and Ylsa sighed dramatically. “Ah, Elcarth, and here all this time I’d been hoping you secretly cared.”

“Elcarth, sir, can you see what we’re seeing?” Neave asked curiously.

“Not so much as a glimmer,” he replied. “But anyone except the person bespelled sees the glow, whether or not they’ve got a Gift. Why don’t you invoke the second stage, Ylsa?”

“If you’re ready for it.” Again she stared at him; Talia could see no perceptible change in the glow surrounding him.

“How old are you, Elcarth? Try to tell me ‘twenty.’ ”

His face twisted with strain and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. “T-t-t,” he stuttered, “T-fifty-seven.” He sighed heavily. “I’d forgotten what it felt like to try and fight Truth Spell, Ylsa. Take it off, would you, before I get tricked into revealing something I shouldn’t?”

“Now why would I do something like that to you?” she teased, then closed her eyes briefly again, and the glow was gone. “You banish the spell easily enough—just picture the cloud lifting away from the person, close its eyes, and dissipate.”

“You all have Gifts strong enough to bring both stages of the spell to bear,” she said a moment later, “So why don’t you start practicing? Neave and Talia, with me—the twins with Elcarth.”

The feeling of having the second stage of the Truth Spell cast on her was decidedly eerie, Talia found. No matter what she had intended to say, she found her tongue would not obey her; only the exact truth came out. In cases where she didn’t know the answer to a question, she was even forced to say so rather than temporize.

At last Ylsa declared them all proficient enough to close the class out.

“You know the ‘spells’—though if we find out you’ve been using the Truth Spell as a prank, you’ll find yourself in very hot water, so don’t even consider it! Practice it if you wish, but do so only under the supervision of a full Herald. You know where your strengths and weaknesses lie,” she continued, “Just like sparring practice will make you a better fighter, practicing with your Gifts will develop them to their full extent. If you run into any problems that are related to your Gifts, there are three of us who are probably the experts; you can come to any of us, day or night if it’s an emergency. Myself, when I’m at the Collegium, the Dean, or Herald Kyril, the Seneschal’s Herald. There are books in the Library as well that may help; I recommend you go up there and follow your instincts. Certainly you’ll learn more about the abstract theory of our Gifts from them than you will from me, if that’s what you want. I never was one for theory. I leave that up to Kyril! He enjoys trying to ferret out the ‘whys’ and ‘hows’ of our Gifts. I’m content with just knowing the usages, and never mind how it works.”

Theirs was the first of the three groups being taught to finish formal training. The other two were much smaller, the ‘communication’ Gifts being by far and away the most common, and contained, respectively, Griffon and a younger girl, Christa; and Davan with one of Christa’s year-mates, a boy called Wulf. Talia was extremely curious about these other Gifts and asked Ylsa about them as the last class broke up.

“The other two general groups have to do with moving things with thought alone, and seeing at a distance.” Ylsa said. “We tend to lump them under the names of ‘Fetching’ and ‘Sight.’ Oddly enough, the two Heralds best at both those skills happen to work together as a team; Dirk and Kris. Well, maybe it’s not so odd. Gifts that are needed tend to appear just before they’re needed.”

The second name woke a vague feeling of recollection; after a moment of thought, Talia remembered that she’d met Kris before, her first night at the Collegium. “Kris is the one that’s too good-looking to be true, isn’t he? she asked Ylsa with a half-smile.

“That’s the one. The fact that Dirk and Kris are partners is one reason why we hold these classes—particularly the latter two—all at the same time and for more than one year-group; it makes more sense to wait for a time of several weeks when Dirk and Kris don’t have to be out somewhere,” Ylsa replied. “Why are you asking?”

‟Insatiable curiosity,” Talia confessed. “I—kind of wonder how their Gifts are related to my own.”

“Seeing’s probably the closest; emotions are powerful attractants for the mind’s eye. In fact, you have more than a touch of that particular Gift yourself, as you’ve noticed. I’ve told you that no one ever has just one Gift with no hint of the others, haven’t I? You’ve got enough thought-sensing and Sight to possibly be useful in an emergency—maybe just a hint of Healing as well. Anyway, the difference between their Gifts and yours is that you will generally have to See things through the eyes of someone present unless there’s a lot of emotional residuum to hold you, and then it will be very vague. They can See things as if they were observing them directly, even if there’s nobody there. There isn’t much to watch in that class, though; just the three of them sitting around in trance-states. Quite boring if you’re not linked in with them. Dirk’s class is something else altogether—that’s something to see! I know he won’t mind; want to peek in on them?”

“Could I?” Talia didn’t even try to conceal her eagerness.

“I don’t see any reason why not. Queen’s Own should probably see some of the other Gifts in action—especially since it seems your year-mate Griffon has one of the rarer and potentially more dangerous of the ‘Fetching’ family.”

“He does? What does he do?” Talia found it difficult to envision the good-natured Griffon as dangerous.

“He’s a Firestarter.”

Because of Griffon’s Gift, Dirk was holding his classes outside, away from any building, and near the well—just in case. Talia could see he had a bucket of water on the cobblestones beside him. He and his two pupils were sitting cross-legged on the bare paving, all three seeming to be too engrossed in what they were doing to notice any discomfort from the stone. He nodded agreeably to Ylsa and Talia as they approached, indicating with an eyebrow a safe place to stand and watch, and then turned his attention immediately back to his two pupils.

Talia discovered to her surprise that she recognized Herald Dirk as the young Herald she’d encountered just outside the capital. She had been far too overcome with bashfulness and the fear that she’d been wrong-doing to take more than a cursory look at him then; she took the opportunity afforded by his deep involvement with his pupils to do so now.

Her initial impression of homeliness was totally confirmed. His face looked like a clay model that had been constructed by someone with little or no talent at all. His nose was much too long for his face; his ears looked as if they’d just been stuck on by guess and then left there. His jaw was square and didn’t match his rather high cheekbones; his teeth looked like they’d be more at home in his Companion’s mouth than in his. His forehead didn’t match any of the rest of his face; it was much too broad, and his overly generous mouth was lop-sided. His straw-colored hair looked more like the thatched roof of a cottage—provided that the thatcher hadn’t had the least notion of what he’d been about. The only thing that redeemed him from being repulsive was the good-natured smile that always hovered around the corners of his mouth, a smile that demanded that the onlooker smile in response.

That, and his eyes—he had the most beautiful eyes Talia had ever seen; brimming with kindness and compassion. The only eyes she could compare them to were Rolan’s—and they were the same living sapphire blue as a Companion’s.

If she hadn’t been so fascinated by what was transpiring, she might have paused to wonder at the strength of response she felt to the implied kindness of those eyes.

As it was, though, Griffon was in the process of demonstrating his gift, and that drove any other thought from her head.

He seemed to be working his way up through progressively less combustible materials; it was evident from some of the residue of this exercise that he’d already attained the control required to ignite normally volatile substances at will. In front of him were the remains of burned paper, shredded cloth, the tarry end of a bit of rope, and a charred piece of kindling-wood. Now Dirk placed in front of him an odd black rock.

“This stuff will burn if you get it hot enough, I promise you,” he was saying to Griffon. “Smiths use it sometimes to get a really hot fire; they prefer it over charcoal. Give it a try.”

Griffon stared at the bit of black stone, his face intent. After a tense moment, he sighed explosively.

“It’s no use—” he began.

“You’re trying too hard again,” Dirk admonished. “Relax. It’s no different than what you did with the wood; the stuffs just a bit more stubborn. Give it longer.”

Once again Griffon stared at the lump. Then something extraordinary happened. His eyes suddenly unfocused, and Talia’s stomach flipped over; she became disoriented for a moment—the experience was something rather as if she’d been part of the mating of two dissimilar objects into a new whole.

The black lump ignited with a preternatural and explosive fury.

‟Whoa!” Dirk shouted, dousing the fire with the handy bucket of water. It had burned with such heat that the stone beneath it sizzled and actually cracked when the water hit it. There was a smell of scorched rock and steam rising in a cloud from the place it had been.

Griffon’s eyes refocused, and he stared at the blackened area, dumbfounded. “Did I do that?”

“You certainly did. Congratulations,” Dirk said cheerfully. “Now you see why we have this class outside. More importantly, can you do it again, and with a little more control this time?”

“I—think so—” Griffon’s eyes once again took on the abstracted appearance they’d had before—and the soaked remains of the black rock sizzled, then began merrily burning away, in sublime indifference to the puddle around them.

“Now damp it,” Dirk commanded.

The flames died completely. In seconds the rock was cool enough for Dirk to pick up.

“Well done, youngling!” Dirk applauded. “You’ve got the trick of it now! With practice you’ll be able to call fire right out of the air if you want—but don’t try yet. That’s enough for today. Any more, and you’ll have a headache.”

The headaches were something Ylsa had warned Talia’s class about, the direct result of overextending a Gift. Sometimes this was unavoidable, but for the most part it was better not to court them. Drake had gotten one one day, showing off; his example had reinforced that prohibition. Ylsa had given them each a packet of herbs to make into a tea that deadened the worst of the pain should they miscalculate and develop one anyway, and had told them that Mero kept a further supply on hand in the kitchen when they ran out.

“Now, Christa—your turn.” Dirk moved his attention to the lanky, coltish girl to his left. “There’s a message tube the mate to this one—” he laid a Herald’s message container of the kind that Special Messengers usually carried on their belts in front of her, ‟—on the top of the first bookcase in the Library. It’s lying along the top of Spun of Shadow. I know this is bigger than anything you’ve tried before, but the distance is a bit less than you’ve reached in the past. Think you can visualize it and bring it here?”

She nodded without speaking, and took the message tube in her hands. There was a growing feeling of tension once again, it was plainly perceptible to Talia. She felt as if she were in the middle of two people pulling on her mind—then came a kind of popping noise; now not one, but two message tubes lay in Christa’s hands.

Dirk took the new one from her and opened it. He displayed the contents to her with a grin—a small slip of parchment with the words “Exercise one, and well begun” on it. Christa’s grin of accomplishment echoed Dirk’s.

“Not good poetry, but the sentiment’s right. Well, you managed that one. Now let’s see if you can get a little farther....”

Ylsa nudged Talia, who nodded reluctantly, and both moved quietly away.

“Gifts like Griffon’s have been known to wreak absolute havoc if the owner fails to learn how to control them.” Ylsa said gravely once they were out of earshot. “There have been instances in the past when the trainee’s teacher, unprepared perhaps for the kind of explosion we saw today, reacted with fear—fear that the pupil in turn reacted to. Sometimes that causes the pupil to block his Gift entirely, making it impossible for him to learn full control; and then, at some later date, during a moment of stress or crisis, it flares up again with a fury that has to be seen to be believed. We’ve been very fortunate in that this fury has always been turned against the enemies of the Kingdom in the past.”

“Lavan Firestorm—” Talia said in comprehension. “I remember now; he almost single-handedly drove back the Dark Servants at the Battle of White Foal Pass. But at Burning Pines his Companion was killed, and the last Firestorm he called up consumed him as well as the enemy.”

“There’s nothing but bare rock at Burning Pines to this day. Those who were there were just lucky he retained enough hold on his sanity to warn them before he called down the Fires. And there’s no guarantee that the Firestorm couldn’t be turned against friends as well as enemies—rage can often be blind. That’s why Dirk makes such a good teacher; he never shows the slightest sign of fear to his pupils. We’re lucky to have him in the Circle,” Ylsa replied. “At any rate, you’ve got weapons drill to go to, and I have to report that I’m free for reassignment. I’ll see you at dinner, kitten.”

Talia continued to practice every night, choosing times when the sometimes volatile emotions of the students of the Collegium were damped by the weariness of day’s end. For several weeks she simply observed what she was drawn to—though a time or two she quickly chose some other subject to observe after her initial contact proved highly intimate and rather embarrassing. When she became more sure of herself, though, she was tempted by encountering the fear of one of the youngest student’s nightmares to try intervening.

To her great delight, she was successful in turning the fear away. Without that stimulus, the dream quickly changed to something more innocuous.

Her success prompted her to try intervention in the emotions of others several times more—though always choosing only to try to redirect the more negative emotions of anger, fear—or once, in the case of a quarrel and a gross misunderstanding on the part of two of the court servants, hatred. Her successes, though not always complete, were enough to encourage her in the belief that such interventions were “right.”

There was a side effect to the complete awakening and training of her Gift, and it had to do with Rolan. He was, after all, a stallion—and the premier stallion of the Companion herd. And Companions, like their human partners, were always “in season.” Rolan’s company was much sought after of a night.

And now that Talia’s Gift was at full strength, it was impossible to shield him out of her mind.

The enforced sharing of Rolan’s amorous encounters vastly increased her education in certain areas—even if it wasn’t something she’d have chosen of her own accord.

It was both curiosity and her growing sensitivity that led her to the House of Healing and the Healer’s Collegium. Most of the patients there were Heralds, badly injured in the field. Once their conditions had been stabilized they were always sent here, where the combined efforts and knowledge of the Kingdom’s best in the Healer’s craft could be brought to their aid. There was not the crying need for her in the House of Healing that there had been at other times and places—but the distress was there all the same, and it drew her as a moth is drawn to flame. She was at a loss as to how to gain entrance there until impulse caused her to seek out the one teacher she knew among the Healers—the one who had treated her in her illness; Devan.

Her choice couldn’t have been better. Devan had been briefed by Ylsa on the nature of Talia’s Gift, and as an empath himself, he thoroughly understood the irresistible drawing power that the place had for her. He welcomed her presence on his rounds of his patients, guessing that she might well be able to accomplish something to aid in their recoveries.

It wasn’t easy, but as she had told Selenay, when something needed to be done, she made the time for it. She began getting up an hour or so earlier, breakfasting in the kitchen, and making Devan’s early-morning rounds with him, then returning during the time in the afternoon that Elspeth spent riding with her mother.

Talia learned a great deal, and not just about the Healing Gifts. With so many Healers and Healers-in-training available, it was not necessary for her to participate in Devan’s treatments, but her observations gave her a profound respect for his abilities. His specialty—all Healers had one form of Healing that they studied more intensively than the others—was the kind of hurts caused by wounding, and what he referred to as “trauma”; injuries acquired suddenly and violently, and often accompanied by shock.

Talia had never quite realized down deep until she began visiting the House of Healing just how hazardous the life of a Herald could be. Until now, she’d only been aware of the deaths; accompanying Devan she saw what usually happened to Heralds who ran afoul of ill luck on duty.

“It’s the Border sectors that are usually the worst, you know,” Devan told her when she remarked that no less than three of his patients seemed to be from Sectors in and around her old home. “Take your home Sector for instance; the normal tour of duty for a Herald is a year and a half. Guess how long it is for the ones that ride the Holderkin Sector?”

“A year?” Talia hazarded.

“Nine or ten months. They’re fine until the winter raids coming over from Karse. Sooner or later they catch more than an arrow or an axe, and then it’s back here to recover. That’s one of the worst, though some of the Sectors up on the North Border are just as bad, what with the barbarians coming down every time the food supply runs short. That’s why we have Alberich teaching you combat and strategy, youngling. Get assigned to a Sector like the Holderkin one, and you’re often as much soldier as Herald. The Herald in charge may well be the only trained fighter around until an Army detachment arrives.”

Later, she asked him why it was that there wasn’t anyone from the Lake Evendim area, when she knew from what Keren and Sherrill had told her that they, too, had their share of freebooters.

“Along Lake Evendim it isn’t raiders and barbarians. It’s pirates and bands of outlaws because it’s easy to hide in the shore-caves. Not too many injured end up here because that type of opponent isn’t really out to fight, just to thieve and run. Your compatriots usually wind up getting patched up at one of the Healing Temples, and then they’re on their way again. We don’t have anyone here from Southern Sectors, either.”

‟Why?”

“Southern’s abutted by Menmelith, and they’re friendly—but the weather’s strange and unpredictable, especially in the summer. Lots of broken bones from accidents—but there, again, they’re usually cared for locally unless it’s something really bad, like a broken neck or back.”

“But there’s two from the Northwest corner—and one of them is poor Vostel—” Talia shuddered a little. Vostel was burned over most of his body, and in constant agony when not sustained by drugs. Talia had taken to spending a lot of time with him because the constant pain was a drain on his emotions. He felt free to let down his frail bulwark of courage with her; to weep from the hurt, to curse the gods, to confess his fear that he would never be well again. She did her best to comfort, reassure, and give back some of the emotional energy that his injuries drained from him.

“Northwest is uncanny,” Devan replied. “And I say it, who come from there and should be used to it. Very odd things come out of that wilderness, and don’t think I’m exaggerating because I’ve seen some of them. Just as an example, ninety-nine people out of a hundred will tell you that griffins don’t exist outside of a Bard’s fevered imagination—the hundredth has been up there and seen them in the sky, and knows them for the deadly reality that they are. I’ve seen them—I’ve hunted them, once; they’re hard to kill and impossible to catch, and dangerous, just like every weird thing that lives in that wilderness. They say there were wars once somewhere out there fought with magic— magic like in the Bardic tales, not our Gifts—and the things living out there are what’s left of the weapons and armies that fought them.”

“What do you think?” Talia asked.

“It’s as good a way to explain it as any, I suppose,” Devan shrugged. ‟All I know is that most people don’t believe the half of my tales. Except the Heralds of course; they know better, especially after a griffin’s taken a mouthful out of some of them, or a firebird’s scorched them for coming too close to her nest—like Vostel. That’s probably why I stay here; it’s the only place I’ll be believed!”

Talia shook her head at him; “You stay because you have to. You’re needed too badly here—you couldn’t do anything else, and you know it.”

“Too wise, youngling,” he replied, “You’re too wise by half. Maybe I should be glad; you’re certainly making it easier to get my patients on their feet again. If I haven’t said so before, I appreciate your efforts. We don’t have enough mind-Healers to care for the minor traumas; the two we’ve got have to be saved for the dangerously unbalanced. Now don’t look innocent, I know exactly what you’ve been doing! As far as I’m concerned, you can go right on doing it.”

For here among the injured she found yet another, and more subtle application of her own Gift. There wasn’t the kind of self-destructive sorrow to deal with that came upon those left behind with a Herald’s death, but there were other, more insidiously negative emotions to be transmuted.

Self-doubt, so familiar to her, was one of those emotions. There wasn’t a Herald in the wards that wasn’t prey to it. Often they blamed themselves for their own injuries or the deaths or injuries of those they had been trying to help. And when they were alone so much of the time, with only pain and memory as companions, that self-doubt tended to grow.

It was hardly surprising that some of them developed phobias either, especially not if they’d been trapped or lying alone for long periods before rescue.

And there was a complex muddle of guilt and hatred to be sorted out and worked through for most of them. They hated those who had caused their hurts, either directly or indirectly, and they felt terrible guilt because a Herald was simply not supposed to hate anyone. A Herald was supposed to understand. A Herald was supposed to be the kind of person who cured hatreds, not the kind who was prey to them himself. That a Herald was also not supposed to be some kind of superhuman demigod didn’t occur to them. That a little honest hatred might be healthy didn’t occur to them either.

But the most insidious emotion, and the hardest to do anything about was despair; and despair was more than understandable when a body was plainly too badly hurt to be fully Healed again. It sometimes happened that an injury had been left too long untended to be truly Healed, especially if it had become infected. That was why Jadus had lost his leg in the wars with Karse fought by the Tedrel mercenaries. Healers could realign even the tiniest fragments of bone to allow a crushed limb to be restored—but only if that bone had not yet begun to set. And nerve-damage left too long could never be restored. How did you ease the pain of one who could look at his maimed and broken flesh and know he would never be the same again?

And there was the steady toll on heart and courage inflicted by what seemed to be endless pain—pain such as the burned Vostel was enduring.

All these things called to her with a voice too strong to be denied, begging her to set them aright. So as she became more deft in the usage of her Gift, she began administering to these injured as well as the bereft, and doing it so subtly that few realized that she’d helped them until after she’d gone. It was hard: hard to find the time, hard to witness the kinds of mental torment that could not be set aright with one simple touch or an out-pouring of grief—but once she began, it was impossible to stop; the needs in the House of Healing drew her as implacably as the anguish left in the wake of death did. She didn’t realize—though by now Kyril and one or two others did—that she was only following in the footsteps of many another Monarch’s Own. Like Talia, those who had possessed the strongest Gifts in that capacity wound up ministering not only to the Monarch, but the entire Circle as well. The mounting evidence for these few was that when Talia earned her Whites, she was likely to prove to be one of the Heralds tales are written about. Unfortunately for their peace of mind, the Heralds tales are written about seldom had long or peaceful lives.