He even started to hear wild tales about “Black Heralds” and “Black Companions,” who could somehow pass as the real thing, but inside were evil incarnate. Was that even possible?
Still, the stories persisted, because the surest way to make some people believe almost anything was to deny it completely. “Can you prove that?” the doubters would demand. And of course, no one could prove that what had never happened before never could happen. After all, there had been Trainees who had been repudiated and everyone pointed to Tylendel as the primary example. So why not bad Companions as well? The Companions weren’t infallible . . .
So went the so-called “reasoning.”
Of course, no one actually said anything to him. They just whispered it behind their hands around him and their minds shouted it so loudly that it got past his shields.
Then there were the ones that turned up their noses in contempt at the wilder stories, but still thought, “what if it isn’t him, but someone he knows?” Or “what if he somehow brings old trouble from his past into the grounds and the King gets caught in it?”
What could he say, to people like that, after all? He couldn’t refute what hadn’t happened yet. He couldn’t even say anything, because they weren’t saying anything to him.
It was aggravating. It was more than aggravating. It was sickening. He went around with his stomach in a knot most of the time now, feeling eyes on his back, as people watched him, hoping to catch him showing his “true colors.”
He even got into a shouting match with some of the highborn youngsters and some of the Bardic Trainees. It all started over—of all stupid things—the fact that he was eating soup and a little bread instead of the regular hearty luncheon. Not that he had much appetite anymore.
“Is that what they eat where you come from, foreigner?” sneered one of the Bardic Trainees as he passed Mags’ table. “Or are you too good to enjoy honest Valdemaran food?”
Mags gave him a stony stare. “Nah, I come from an honest Valdemaran mine, where we was worked worse’n donkeys,” he said. “Mine soup was mostly water an’ a couple cabbage leaves. Be good change for them as needs t’ be able t’ fit their uniforms, though, cause ye sure wouldn’ get fat on’t.”
He knew he shouldn’t have said that. All right, the fellow was packing on a good several pounds more than he should, and his tunic was straining at the seams. And yes, he did seem to have half a pie and a cream cake on his plate.
But it was a cruel thing to say, and he immediately regretted it.
Too late, though, because before he could apologize, the Trainee rounded on him furiously. “You need to learn some proper manners, foreigner!” he snarled. “Or better yet, just go back where you came from! We don’t need your kind here!”
“What kind’d that be?” Mags shouted back. “Cause I reckon if’n yer talking ’bout kind, ye be talkin’ ’bout ev’one in Grays or Whites!”
“And how do we know you didn’t somehow bewitch that Companion into thinking he Chose you?” one of the others said viciously.
“Because, Jan, you incredible dunce, the other Companions would certainly have noticed.” Lena ducked into the group and stood next to Mags, defiantly, her hands on her hips, her normally shy demeanor completely gone with her anger. “And because Mags can’t even be as old as you. Since not even the most experienced Karsite priests who were four times Mags’ age could manage to bewitch one Companion, much less the entire herd, I think you’d better give over that stupid idea. I wouldn’t even accept that in a story-song.” She gave him a withering glance. “No wonder you’re failing composition. I’d fail you too, if that is all you can come up with.”
“Maybe he’s bewitched you too, Lena!” the fat fellow put in furiously, turning beet red with rage.
Bear shoved his way in to stand on the other side of Mags. Slowly he looked the overweight Trainee up and down, and then spent a long and pointed time staring at the laden plate still in his hands. “Ferd Lekson, I just got this to say to you. You insult a fellow out of nowhere, then get mad because he gives you back what you gave him, and even madder because he tells you to your face what your so-called friends won’t, which is, if you don’t quit stuffing your face five times a day, there won’t be a Trainee uniform in all of Bardic that will fit you. Now, I got to say Mags was rude. But you were just as rude, and you started it, and you’re making it worse for your side with all your dumb accusations.” He put one hand on Mags’ shoulder. “Mags is Chosen. That should be the end of it. But he also saved my life last winter, and a couple of other people’s and you seem to have forgotten all of that.”
Mags was astonished. He had never heard Bear talk like that before.
“Now, you and your friends just take your dinner somewhere else, because one more word out of you and I’m gonna have to decide you need to get treated for your own good and make sure you’re on the special meals list.”
Ferd went white at that. Mags knew what the special meals list was—it was for people who had troubles with some sorts of foods. There weren’t more than a handful of people who were on it, and most of them were glad to be—it meant that the cook made absolutely certain that the foods that made them ill never got anywhere near the plates that were destined for them.
But if Bear put Ferd on it—Mags would bet nearly everything that Ferd would find himself restricted both in quantity and the kind of food he’d be allowed, and the only way he’d get anywhere near a piece of pie or cake would be if someone slipped it to him.
“You can’t do that!” Ferd spluttered.
Bear got grim-faced, and his eyes behind his lenses grew cold as steel. “Try me. Maybe I’m only a Trainee, but when it comes to things like that, even the senior Healers listen to me, and I can have a list of twenty reasons why you need to be on it without even thinking hard.”
Muttering to his friends, Ferd backed down and the lot of them slunk away. Bear sat down, Lena beside him, with a sigh.
“This’s jest the beginnin’ ye know,” Mags said glumly, staring down into the soup he no longer had an appetite for. “They ain’t done.”
“I know,” Lena said, looking after the lot of them with a worried face. “And what’s worse is, nobody else here said anything to defend you.”
“You’d think some of the Grays would,” Bear said loud enough for those nearby to hear him. “After all, it’s Mags today—but who’s to say it won’t be one of them getting accused of ridiculous things tomorrow? Anything that can be used against him could be said about any other Chosen.”
It was... very quiet. People kept their eyes on their meals, though no one seemed to be in the mood to eat.
“Reckon I’ll go down t’ practice early,” Mags said abruptly, and shoved what was left of his meal away. “Thanks Bear. Thanks Lena. Least I know I got two friends.”
Dallen said nothing as he stalked out of the dining hall, resolving not to eat another meal there until all of this was sorted.
But he had to wonder—why on earth was he here when so many people didn’t want him?
That was the shame of it. There was no way he could just run away from here. Not so much for himself as for Dallen; the Companion ate a lot, and needed decent stabling, and all that cost money. What did he know, besides how to mine? Nothing. If Bear were in this position, he could just pack up and leave and set himself up as an animal Healer just about anywhere. Even Lena could go on the road as a wandering musician, even if she couldn’t claim to be a Bard. Both of them had obvious talents and gifts or Gifts that would make them welcome anywhere they went.
He had—exactly nothing. Except mining, and where was he likely to get a place doing that? Even if Cole Pieters’ mine was in better hands now, it was a sure bet that there were miners enough already. He didn’t know any other sort of mining.
