Foundation

Finally after that last incident, the Weaponsmaster paired them off with each other, saying nothing more than, “You are too skilled for my students. I’ll have to find you better partners.”

Just being around them made Mags feel sick and shaken, especially after the kind of day he had been having. He finally excused himself and, with the Weaponsmaster’s permission, headed back toward his stable room.

He got about halfway when he heard footsteps creaking in the snow behind him. With a feeling of dread, he turned and found three of them trailing him. They looked him up and down; he was reminded forcibly of the Pieters boys again.

“C’n I show you where ye need t’ go?” he said, mouth dry.

“We were seeing you training the others, and wondered why your teacher did not pair you with one of us,” said the nearest. “We would like to test your mettle.” He had very cold blue eyes, Mags noticed, and black hair. An odd combination. The other two, more nondescript, shifted restlessly from side to side, the snow creaking under their boots.

“I druther not,” he replied, his heart starting to pound.

“But I do not think you have a choice,” said the other. “It is not ... hospitable.”

They moved in on him. They did not rush him, but there was no doubt, based on their grins, that they had decided he was a coward, and it would be fun to knock him about a bit.

But Mags had learned long ago the means of fighting back without actually fighting at all, and as they grabbed for him, their hands closed on nothing more than air. He was good at this. He could judge their reach to a hair, and he moved only enough to keep out of their way. He made sure to position himself each time so that they actually hindered and ran into each other. Not that he wasn’t afraid, because he very much was. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and it felt as if his heart was going to pound right out of his chest.

Time and time again, the same scene played out. They would try to lay hands on him, or even deliver some kind of blow; he would evade hands and blows alike, without ever seeming to move much. Each time, he left a hand or an arm out temptingly for them, hoping that one or more of them would lunge after it. Finally, the tallest of them grew tired of the game, and did make a rush at him. This time he not only evaded being seized, but with what looked like a gentle brush of his hands, landed the foreigner several arm lengths away, facedown in the snow. What he had actually done was to lure the attacker off-balance, and then, while the young man was still off-balance, continued him in that direction with the slightest of shoves.

He came up, not spluttering as Mags had expected, but angry—and disgusted.

“Bah!” he said, wiping melting snow from his face. “He is cheating, using one of their White Rider magic tricks. There is no point to this.”

And with that, just as abruptly as they had begun their attacks, they broke it all off. They turned their backs on him, stalking toward the Palace, leaving Mags to stare after them, numb and shaking.

Chapter 11

The Herald that had attacked Mags left him alone—and then left altogether, out on circuit.

Why this had come about, Mags did not know. Dallen was silent on the subject. But Mags could not help but notice the occasional careful stare at him that other Heralds did not hide. He was not able to sense any menace, but ... there was not much doubt in his mind that these Heralds, if they did not actually blame him for their colleague’s abrupt departure, were certain that the “encounter” was the cause.

He was not quite sure what to make of that, but he did know what felt most comfortable, and that was to make himself even less noticeable, if that was possible, than before.

The mercenary bodyguards were still in residence, and still showed up at the salle, but the Weaponsmaster made sure to allow them to pair only with each other or with Guardsmen at least as skilled as they were. Mags kept a wary eye on them when they were there, but avoided them whenever it was possible. Dallen came to get him from the salle now, so even if all of them had tried to swarm him at once, it would not have been possible to touch him without causing a serious incident. Laying violent hands on a Companion inside the Palace grounds—No matter what anyone thought of Mags, no one would stand for Dallen being threatened. They must have known that, since there were no further incidents involving him.

But aside from his teachers, no one really seemed to know what to make of him. He still kept very much to himself, and although no one was unfriendly, the other Trainees seemed inclined to keep him at as much of a distance as he kept them. Word of his confrontation with the older Herald had spread out to the general population of the Collegia, and Mags suspected there were plenty of wild rumors about what had caused it. The man’s abrupt departure did nothing to quell those rumors, since as a rule, one was allowed a minimum of a month between circuits. No one ever told him what those rumors were, but it was obvious from the way people looked at him that they must range from near truth to wildly unlikely. He shrank from those looks.

Lena was his only human friend, although living in the stable and being as strong a Mindspeaker as he was, he had made friends with several as-yet-unpartnered Companions. He would happily have stayed out in the stable all day, but he was required to attend his classes. Outside of those, however, he scarcely left the building except to eat, and he had contemplated asking Lena to bring him food to be heated in the stable ovens when she decided to take matters into her own hands.

He knew he was in for—something—when he heard how she was walking as she came up behind him. There was determination in her step, and as he brushed out Dallen’s mane—unnecessarily, since it was already as silky and tangle-free as a pampered girl’s hair—she seized his elbow.

“There is someone I want you to meet,” she said abruptly. “So come on!”

“But—” he began, but there was no stopping her in this mood. She marched him out into the snowfall. There was another snowstorm just starting, not a violent one, but from the way the fat flakes were drifting down through the air, and the look of the sky, it was going to pile up deeply before it was over. He found himself hoping that it would be so deep that classes would be canceled and he could spend the whole day reading alone in his warm, safe room.

Well, Lena was not going to let him do that just yet; this much was clear.

She pulled him along the path that led, not to Heraldic or Bardic Collegium, but to Healers’. Alarmed at what this might mean, he began resisting. “Lena—just ’cause I don’ like t’ mingle with folk, that don’ mean I need a Healer!” he exclaimed. “Serious, now, I’m fine—”

To his intense relief, although she kept tugging, she giggled. “Silly! I’m not taking you to a Healer for