It certainly did hurt, quite as much as when he'd hit Cymry's neck in the first place. It hurt badly enough he couldn't even gasp. But the Healer had spoken the truth; it only hurt for a moment, and in the very next moment, it not only stopped hurting, it stopped hurting.
He opened his eyes — and both of them opened properly now — and stared into the Healer's grin. “You'll still look like a masked ferret,” the fellow said cheerfully, “but you should be fine now.”
“How did you do that anyway?” Teren asked, as they made their way back to Herald's Collegium and Skif's interview with Herald Elcarth.
“Cymry jumped a wagon, an' I hit 'er neck with my face,” he replied ruefully, and found himself describing the entire wild ride in some detail as they walked.
“She made you think you'd stolen her?” Teren said at last, smothering laughter. “Forgive me, but — ”
“Oh, it's pretty funny — now,” Skif admitted. “An' I s'ppose it'll be funnier in a moon, or a season, or a year. Last night, I c'n tell you, it weren't funny at all.”
“I can well imagine — ,” By this time, they were back down the stairs into the half basement in the Collegium again. “It'll be funnier still when you've got yourself on the outside of some lunch. Here's the kitchen — ” Teren opened a door identical to the one that led to the Housekeeper's room, but this one opened onto an enormous kitchen, silent and empty. “I haven't had anything since breakfast either.” He gave Skif a conspiratorial wink. “Let's raid the pantry.”
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“USUALLY, our cook, Mero, is down in the kitchen,” Teren told him as they cleaned up what little mess they'd made. “Now listen, I am not telling you this because I think you're going to filch food, I'm telling you this because all boys your age are always hungry, and after the last couple of centuries running the Collegium, we've figured that out. When Mero is here, you can ask him for whatever you want to eat and if he isn't knee-deep in chaos, he'll be delighted to get it for you. When he's not here — and I know very well from my own experience how badly you can need a midnight snack — only take food from the pantry we just used. The reason for that is that Mero plans his meals very carefully — he has to, with so many inexpert hands working with him — and if you take something he needs, it'll make difficulties for him.”
Skif thought fleetingly of the number of times he'd taken food from Lord Orthallen's pantry — and hoped it hadn't made difficulties for that cook.
Odd. He wouldn't have spared a thought for that yesterday.
“Now. Healed, fed, and ready for Dean Elcarth?” Teren didn't wait for an answer, but strode off, heading for the stairs.
This time they walked through the corridor that held all the classrooms; again, it was lit by means of windows over each classroom door. From the spacing, the rooms were probably twice the size of the one they'd given Skif.
Why so many and so much room?
Maybe in case it was needed. Just because they only had forty-six Trainees now didn't mean they couldn't have more at some other time. And Teren had said that the classes were shared with Bardic and Healer Trainees — and those others. That would be interesting.
They passed through the double doors that marked the boundary between Collegium and Herald's Wing, and Teren turned immediately to a door on the left. “This is where I'll leave you for now. I will see you tomorrow, and we'll start Basic Orientation. And a couple of the other introductory classes. That way, when everyone gets back and Collegium classes start again, you'll be able to join right up.”
He tapped on the door; a muffled sound answered, and Teren opened it, and putting a hand just between Skif's shoulder blades, gently propelled Skif inside before he got a chance to hesitate.
The door shut behind him.
Skif found himself in a cluttered room, a very small room, but one that, from the open door to the side, must be part of a larger suite. There were four things in this room, besides Dean Elcarth; books, papers, chairs, and a desk. There were bookshelves built into the wall that were crammed full of books; books and papers were piled on every available surface. Elcarth motioned to Skif to come in and take the only chair that wasn't holding more books, one with a deep seat and leather padding that was cracked and crazed with age.
He sat in it gingerly, since it didn't look either sturdy or comfortable. He should have known better; nothing bad that he'd assumed about the Heralds ever turned out to be right. The chair proved to be both sturdy and comfortable, and it fit him as if it had been intended for him.
Herald Elcarth folded his hands under his chin, and regarded Skif with a mild gaze. “You,” he said at last, “are
