He didn’t say that, though, and a moment later, he was glad that he hadn’t when he saw the eye-popping list of things he was supposed to be learning about ... it seemed utterly impossible. How could anyone get through all these things and not have his head explode from trying to pour learning into it?

  History, Geography, Mathematics, Riding, Weapons’ Training, Languages, Mindspeech, Grammar, Speech ... The whole day seemed to be filled with classes ...

  “You’ll be taking some of those with the Trainees of Bardic and Healer’s,” Herald Caelen said, nodding at the list. “And you will be taking more and different things as you master these.”

  Mags stared at the list in mingled elation and despair. Elation, because he could not think of a grander thing than to be able to do nothing all day but learn things. Despair because he could barely read and write, he knew nothing about reckoning beyond what he’d learned after Jakyr had rescued him, and he already knew how little of the outside world beyond the fence of Master Cole’s mine he had even been aware of. He was going to cover himself with shame over this.

  “I know it looks formidable, Mags, but you’ll do fine,” Herald Caelen began, then paused as Mags looked up at him dumbly. He faltered. “Mags, plenty of younglings arrive here knowing very little.”

  He must have continued to look stricken, for Herald Caelen bit his lip, and sat down on the as-yet unmade bed. “Mags, the reason we’ve started the Collegium is because we have a problem. It used to be that every Herald took one or two Trainees under his or her wing and taught them everything personally. It was like the arrangement between a master and an apprentice. But we can’t do that anymore. There are too many Trainees, and the Heralds are going farther and farther from Haven on their circuits. It’s not possible to send an apprentice out of danger, if danger looms. And, more to the point, there isn’t the leisure time to teach you younglings everything you have to know and do the job of a Herald at the same time. We have to train you as a group now, and only send you out at the side of a mentor when you have everything except the hands-on experience.”

  Mags nodded, though he had no real idea what he was agreeing to. He was only now beginning to grasp how different his new life was going to be. It was a new life, an entirely new sort of life, and he felt as if he had awakened from and sleep to find himself on the top of a mountain. The view might be amazing, but he had no idea of how he had gotten here, and more importantly, where he was, how he was icing to get down, and if he ever managed to do that, what he was supposed to do when he got down there. It was no longer about just going where Jakyr told him and doing what Jakyr said to do. He felt hopelessly adrift.

  And also split, as if there were two of him. One, the old Mags, kept thinking, “You can’t trust these people. You can’t trust anyone. Why should they help you? They’re leading you on for some reason of their own.” The other, the one that shared Dallen’s memories, kept thinking that everything was going to be fine, and although this whole Collegium thing was new to him, to them both, it was a good thing and it would make everything easier ....

  And the old Mags was thinking “Make what easier?”

  In the back of his mind, he felt Dallen, very quiet. :I could ... cushion you again. I could help you to not think about these things.:

  He understood then that the calm he had felt so far was all artificial. It was something Dallen had imposed on him to help him deal with all of these new experiences. And now Dallen was taking that away.

  And that was when old ... instinct? ... or was it experience? ... rescued him. When you don’t know what to do, do nothing, watch, and wait. He was not calm, but he could pretend to be. He could stay quiet, not draw attention to himself, and wait to see what happened. People always revealed what their intentions were when you did that. Always. When you did nothing, you forced them to act even when they didn’t intend to.

  He sensed Dallen being startled by this reaction, and made uneasy, as if now it was the Companion who didn’t understand and had no idea of how to react.

  Meanwhile, Herald Caelen, who had no idea of what was going through Mags’ mind, took his silence as assent, or something positive at least, and seemed satisfied.

  “You’ll see,” Herald Caelen said with confidence. “Just give it time. Now, come along, and I’ll show you where everything is.”

  The Herald walked Mags through the buildings; one thing that Mags was very glad to see was a bathing room like the one in the Guard Post. Another was a huge room devoted entirely to eating—it was shared by every person working at this place, so there were people coming and going all the time. He saw Trainees of all three sorts: Bards, Healers, and a smattering of Heralds among the blue livery of what the Herald and his own—or rather Dallen’s—memories told him were servants of the Palace. There were everything from very fine looking outfits indeed, finer than anything that Master Cole ever wore, to very rough clothing that must belong to heavy laborers. And mixed with them were men also in rough clothing spattered with paint and plaster, dusted with fine white dust or yellow sawdust. He didn’t need any prompting to know that these were the men working on those two buildings out there.

  There was some separation into like groups, but they all ate the same food, it seemed, going to get it themselves at a hatch, leaving bowls and plates to be cleaned up by boys in that rough blue Palace livery.

  For someone who had to learn to navigate the maze of twisting tunnels of a mine, finding his way around the “allowed” area was child’s play. Herald Caelen made it very clear that there were places he was not supposed to go, and Mags had no interest in trespassing. Instead, as he obediently went about where he was directed, collecting the things he was told he would need and bringing them back to a room that was going to be all his, shared with no one, he committed to memory every bit of the buildings and grounds that he was allowed in. And as he did so, another strange thing began to happen.

  He knew this place. He knew many of the people he saw. He knew them, because Dallen knew them.

  It was disorienting in a sense to share Dallen’s memories now, for these were not just the memories of putting name and purpose to things he didn’t recognize, these were immediate and personal memories. Dallen had lived here for a very long time, it seemed. It was a shock to recognize people he didn’t know, and to sense Dallen’s memories just waiting to be brought out. And every time that happened, it eroded his certainty that people could not be trusted, that these people were certainly hiding something dire and sooner or later he would find it out.

  Not all the memories were “good.” He would have distrusted that, now that he was thinking for himself, everything that seemed so perfect only alarmed him the more. Except ... except ... these were a lifetime of memories, or at least, enough to equal his lifetime. How could you make all of that up?

  So as he made up his room—his room, with a door he could latch from the inside or the outside!—he thought about all of this. As he slipped in as unobtrusively as possible to eat and clean up, he thought about it. And when he laid himself down in his bed, sleeping alone for the first time in his memory, he thought about it. How ... why this had happened, he could not begin to imagine—but happen, it had. And he was forced to come to the conclusion, by himself, that nothing in the world was really the way he had always thought it was.

  Still, he trod warily. He woke to the first bell, dressed for the first time in one of his new uniforms, and again slipped in quietly to get food, and eat it sitting in the most remote corner he could find, watching everything and everyone as he did so. However, he was not permitted to remain in obscurity.

  He noted the approach of an older boy in Trainee Grays immediately, as the fellow did not swerve off to join his presumed friends at any of the tables populated mainly by gray tunics. And when, to his alarm, he sensed that the boy was looking for him, it was all he could do to keep from bolting. He told himself firmly there was no reason to run.

  Dallen, using an admonishing tone, echoed that thought. :No one here is your enemy yet, Mags. This boy is just going to show you where things are.:

  :But I know where things are!: he protested, finally mindspeaking comfortably with his companion. He couldn’t hear Dallen’s snort, but he could sense it easily enough.

  Too late for anything more, the rangy, rawboned blond boy stopped at his table and gave him a friendly nod. “Trainee Mags?”

  Mags ducked his head by way of answer. That seemed enough for the boy.

  “I’m here to show you about.” He took a scrap of paper out of a pocket and perused it. “Your first class’s at Old Bardic. You done?”

  By way of answer, Mags stood up, plate, bowl and cup in hand. Taking that as a “yes,” the boy led the way out of the building.

  More of Dallen’s memories guided him. It seemed that the buildings once occupied by the Bardic and Healers’ Collegia were being replaced. Classes were still being held in “Old” Bardic Collegium; it would not be torn down until the replacement was finished. It was set very near the Palace, and was a third the size of the new building being constructed to take its place.

  The Bards, from what Mags had learned from Dallen, actually had had a Collegium here first. It had been the first Collegium here, as the Healers had originally been happy enough to train other Healers wherever student and teacher happened to be, and the Heralds had their own system of apprentice and mentor. Then the Healers built their own small Collegium, mostly just to train all the local Healers in Haven, but also to get especially gifted Healers special advanced training. But when far, far too many new Heralds began appearing for the old system of master and protege to work, and it had been decided that the Heralds needed a Collegium of their own, suddenly the Healers wanted expansion, too, and the Bards insisted on a much bigger one than they had. And both Circles got their demand, but since there were only so many skilled workmen in Haven to build such large structures, it was going to take three times longer to build them all.

  According to Dallen, this had given rise to some aggrieved feelings among the Heralds, who were annoyed at their perceived overcrowding, though to Mags’ mind, they didn’t have a great deal to complain about. Still, there were bad feelings on the part of some toward the Bards, who were thought of as being greedy, and who—it was presumed—had also egged the Healers into demanding a Collegium of their own.

  Dallen didn’t know the truth or falsehood of that last. All he knew was that some among the Heralds were definitely holding a grudge.

  As for “Old” Bardic, it was definitely going to be taken down, as was “Old” Healers’. The King wanted the space for pleasure gardens for the courtiers and all of these new Trainees to use.

  The place certainly looked old, worn, and tired, Mags thought as he followed his guide inside. A long corridor stretched the length of the building, with doors all along it. Wood floors were black with age, and the floorboards worn, gaping in some places, cracking in others. Walls of white plaster showed spiderweb cracks. The ceiling, also of aged wood, was blacker than the floor from the soot of countless candles and lamps. The building itself must have shifted slightly over the years, since nothing quite sat true. Doors wouldn’t close properly, windows wouldn’t open, and there were signs of extensive repairs.

  Mags—the old Mags—would never have noticed these things. The old Mags would simply have been grateful that he was inside four walls, in a building with heat in it, and not out in the snow. The new Mags did, wondering if the building was actually becoming dangerous, and found himself in sympathy with the Bards.

  “Here’s the class,” Mags’ guide said abruptly, stopping in front of a polished, blackened wooden door with the number “three” on it, cast of age-tarnished brass. “All the rest of ’em are on this corridor. Got your list?”

  Dumbly, Mags pulled it out.

  “Good, the numbers are next to the name, see?” He pointed to the relevant column. “You just go in the room with that number on it whent the time comes for your next class.”

  The boy didn’t stay for Mags’ reply; instead, he turned and headed for another room, as, suddenly, doors at either end of the corridor burst room, and a flood of people in gray, rust, and dark green came pouring in through them. Mags hastily pulled the door open and ducked inside the designated room.

  It was arranged with rows of benches and narrow tables, a larger table at the front and a fire in the fireplace at the front. Front would be the most desirable seats; fairly certain of that, Mags took a seat at the rear, near the windows, figuring to be ignored.

  It was a futile hope, of course. He was new, and everyone in the class already knew each other. He got plenty of curious looks as they filed in, and the knowing one from the adult who was presumable the instructor, a wizened a little fellow in Herald Whites.

  When the rest had all settled on their benches, the instructor cleared his throat and got instant attention. “Our newcomer is Trainee Mags,” the man said simply, in an aged voice that was nevertheless firm and strong. “You may all study him at leisure later. Turn your attention now, please, to the fourth chapter of our text.”

  The others all pulled books. The instructor asked some question of one the Bardic boys dressed in rust. The Trainee stood up to make a long answer for it—Mags understood neither the question nor the answer, but while the youngster was talking, the instructor pulled battered old book out from under his desk, walked back to Mags and dropped it in front of him. When the Trainee was done, the instructor nodded. “Well put, Brion. Very well put. Mags, we are currently on Chapter Four. By the time we reach Chapter Five, I expect you to be caught up. Now, Tre, what can you tell me about—”

  Taking this as a tacit order to begin reading, Mags opened the book and concentrated on the words in front of him. At least this history book did not assume he knew anything about the history of Valdemar. Possibly because it began before there actually was a Valdemar.

  And it was nothing like as dry as some of the books he had looked at in the library of the Guard Post. He was able to ignore the curious glances, even though he certainly was not reading as fast as they could. At least he could read now.

  He watched the others as the bell for dismissal rang, and saw that they had picked up their books and were taking them away with them. Assuming he should do the same, he tucked it awkwardly against his chest, and went looking for his next class.

  If he had been under the impression that it would be easy to sit and learn things—as opposed to chipping sparklies out of rock—he was swiftly disabused of the notion. By the time the list in his pocket said he was to get something to eat, his head was spinning, and he felt as if he would rather be chipping sparklies out of rock. He also had a pile of five books to deal with, and realized he had better get a bag for them like the others seemed to be carrying.

  He ate without tasting his lunch, because although the afternoon was going to be devoted to physical rather than mental work, he was a bit dubious about half of it. “Weapons class” ... he’d never been allowed a weapon before. He was pretty sure he was going to be awful at it, and just as had happened back at the Guard Post, the mere idea of taking up a weapon made him shake inside.

  Not that his other classes didn’t make him shake inside for a different reason; to be honest, if he hadn’t had a couple young fellows in his classes who were just as mud-ignorant as he was, he’d have been mightily discouraged. But they were, so he wasn’t.

  The other thing that kept him from being discouraged was that so far nobody was making fun of him—or worse—for being so behind. That was a relief, all the more so for being unexpected. Again, he had been blindsided by people being—

  :Decent?: Dallen suggested, as he changed into the suggested “outfit for weapons work” that had been given him. :Humane? Reasonable and kind?:

  :Well, aye,: he admitted reluctantly, pulling on trews with leather patches at the knees, and a tunic made of heavy canvas.

  There was a moment of deep quiet, then Dallen added something else. :You know that all Heralds are linked to their Companions as you and I are, right? And all Companions are linked as well:

  :Aye.: That had been pretty obvious once he and Dallen began sharing memories.

  :So given that, why would any Herald do anything to cause distress to another Herald?: Dallen asked forcefully. :Doing so would cause distress to that Herald’s Companion, which would spread to the other Companions, and eventually get back to him! It’s like that old saying, “cutting off your nose to spite your neighbor.” True, your neighbor then has a very ugly thing to have to look at, day in, day out—but you have all the pain of cutting your nose off! Do you see what I mean?:

  Mags blinked. He certainly did. And more, that coiled serpent of suspicion in his belly saw it, too. He scratched his head in thought. :Makes sense,: he ventured.

  :Good. Then keep reminding yourself of that. And go approach Beren and Lyr. The three of you should go to Herald Grevien and ask him for extra tutoring. Don’t worry; he will grumble, but he will also tutor you in other things, like maths. But if you don’t ask for the help, you won’t get it. You’ll see them both at weapons class.: