Take A Thief

Skif didn't even know they were there until Cymry reacted, with a sudden glance over her shoulder, a start and a little jump.

Then he looked behind, and saw the strangers.

He turned quickly, sure that they were somewhere they shouldn't have been, but the tall, elderly man standing with one arm around his Companion's shoulders (even as Skif had stood with Cymry) smiled and forestalled any apology.

“I beg your pardon, youngling, for startling you,” the man said, his voice surprisingly deep for one as thin as he was. “We often come here to admire the sunset, and didn't see any reason to disturb your enjoyment. Rolan tells me that you are Skif and Cymry.”

The man's uniform was a touch above the ones that Herald Teren and Dean Elcarth had worn; there was a lot of silver embroidery on the white deerskin tunic, and Skif would have been willing to bet anything he had that the trews and shirt this Herald wore were silk.

The Companion was something special as well; he was just a little glossier, just a little taller, and had just a touch more of an indefinable dignity than any of the others Skif had seen thus far did.

:This is the Queen's Own Herald Talamir and Rolan, the Grove-Born,: Cymry said hastily in his mind, in a tone that told Skif (even though he had no idea what the titles meant) that these two were somehow very, very special, even by the standards of Heralds.

“Yessir, Herald Talamir,” Skif said, with an awkward bob of his head. It was a very odd thing. He had seen any number of highborn, and never felt any reason to respect them. He did respect the Heralds he'd met so far — but this man, without doing more than simply stand there, somehow commanded respect. But at the same time, there was an aura of what Beel might have called mortality and what others might have called fey that hung about him.

The Herald's smile widened. “And I see that you and Cymry Mindspeak. That is excellent, especially in so early a bond.” Talamir stepped forward and extended his hand to Skif, and when Skif tentatively offered his own, took it, and shook it firmly but gently. “Welcome, Skif,” was all he said, but the words were a true greeting, and not a hollow courtesy.

“Thankee, sir,” Skif replied, feeling an unaccountable shyness, a shyness that evidently was shared by Cymry, who kept glancing at the other Companion with mingled awe and admiration. Talamir seemed to expect something more from him, and he groped for something to say. “This's — all kinda new t'me.”

“So I'm told.” Mild amusement, no more. No sign that Talamir had been told anything of Skif's antecedents. “Well, if you feel overwhelmed, remember that when I first arrived here, I was straight out of a horse-trading family, I'd never spent a night in my life under anything but canvas, and the largest city I ever saw was a quarter of the size of Haven. My first night in my room was unbearable; I thought I was going to smother, and I kept feeling the walls pressing in on me. Eventually, I took my blankets outside and slept on the lawn. Very few of us are ready for this when we arrive here, and — ” he chuckled softly, the merest ghost of a laugh, “ — sometimes here is even less ready for us. But we adapt, the Trainee to the Collegium and the Collegium to the Trainee. Even if it means pitching a tent in the garden for a Trainee to live in for the first six months.”

Skif gaped, totally unable to imagine this elegant gentleman living in a tent, but quickly shut his mouth. “Yessir,” he replied, his usually quick wits failing him.

He had no idea how to end this conversation, but the Herald solved his dilemma for him. “Have a good evening, youngling,” Talamir said, and he and his Companion turned and drifted off through the dusk like a pair of spirits, making no sound whatsoever as they moved over the grass. The moon, three-quarters now, had just begun to rise, and its light silvered them with an eldritch glow.

“Is't just me,” Skif asked, when he was pretty sure they were out of earshot, “Or are they spooky?”;

:They're spooky,: Cymry affirmed, with an all-over shiver of her coat. :Rolan is Talamir's second Companion. Taver was killed in the Tedrel Wars, when Talamir and Jadus were trying to rescue the King. They say that everyone thought Talamir was going to follow Taver and King Sendar until Rolan came and pulled him back. Ever since then, Talamir's been — otherworldly. Half his heart and soul are here, and half's in the Havens, they say.:

Skif shook his head. All this was too deep for him.

:Still!: Cymry continued, shaking off her mood. :His mind is all here, and Talamir's mind is better than four of any one else's! Would you like to see Companion's Field?:

“I thought this was Companion's Field,” Skif replied confusedly.

She made a chuckling sound. :This is only the smallest corner of it. Most of it is across the river. Think you can get on my back without a boost?:

“Please. I can pull m'self up a gutter on t'roof without usin' legs,” he retorted. “I oughta be able t' get on your back!”