Lelia spun, startled. Standing behind her, his face half in and out of the salle’s shadow, was Herald Wil.
She regained her composure quickly. “My parents are gleemen.” She pushed damp, sweaty hair out of her eyes. “I learned knife-tricks from my grandmother.”
His brows lifted. “I see.”
She tucked the knives away into their sheaths; anything to keep herself from fidgeting. “Um . . . about yesterday.”
“Yes, about that.” He pushed away from the salle. “I behaved coarsely. I . . . apologize.”
She nearly squealed with glee, and had to resist the urge to fall on her knees and praise the Bright Lady. You do exist! she thought.
“Does that mean I can ask you some questions about Daryann?” she asked.
He smiled warmly, turned around, and started to walk away.
“Herald?” she called, her hopes crashing to the ground once more. “Is that a no?”
“I just wanted you to know that I’m not angry at you, and I’m sorry if I acted like a brute,” he yelled back, waving his hand. “Good day, trainee.”
“Wait—” she called desperately to his departing back.
He stopped, looking over his shoulder at her.
“I—” Her mouth opened and closed. “I really need a song.”
“Do what every Bard-trainee does,” he replied. “Write about Sun and Shadow.”
And then he laughed.
He laughed.
She sat down in the grass, watching him disappear.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I think not.”
Later, as Wil was taking an early evening stroll through the Field with Vehs, he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye.
It was the Bard-trainee girl. She was charging toward him as fast as the tall grass and her own short legs would let her.
“What . . . ?” he said.
“Herald!” she yelled. “I just want to ask you a few questions!”
“Good gods,” Wil blurted.
:That famous Bardic stubbornness.: Vehs actually sounded amused.
“Get me out of here,” Wil mumbled, swinging up onto his Companion’s back.
:At your service, m’lord.:
As Wil was coming out of the library after a satisfactory read, he heard the slap of boots behind him.
“Herald!” a familiar voice called. “Herald, just a moment of your time!”
His legs were longer than hers, and in better shape. He outran her, but only just.
Alone in a hallway and coming back from lunch, Wil was startled when the girl popped out from behind a velvet curtain and flung herself on him.
“I just want to know!” she panted as he wrestled out of her grip. “I just have a few questions to ask!”
He managed to escape to his room again, and threw the latch in case she grew more ambitious.
After that, he was on the lookout for any trace of rust-red or boots peeking out from under curtains and tapestries, and quick to avoid the small, persistent girl the moment she came into view.
“I have to question the ethics of this—”
“Question all you want,” Lelia said, tossing her hair and giving Malesa a glare. “He laughed at me.”
“And you’re inquiring about his dead sister. That’s called tasteless.”
“It’s been ten years, Malesa!” She flailed her arms frantically. “Ten! Years! He has to have found peace with it by now.”
“Would you if it was Lyle?”
Lelia flinched, but ignored the question, muttering, “She deserves a spot in the Bardic repertoire.”
Malesa eyed her. “Are you saying that because you actually believe it, or because it justifies your behavior?”
Lelia snorted derisively.
“Besides, even if you think it,” Malesa continued, “he obviously doesn’t.”
“He laughed at me. A Herald!” She pushed her head out of a window and yelled in the direction of Companion’s Field: “Just what kind of people are you Choosing nowadays?”
A passing page gave her a strange look. She growled back, sending the boy scurrying away with a squeak.
“You worry me,” Malesa said.
“Oh, go get Chosen already. You sound like my brother.” Lelia stopped at a door. “Speaking of which . . .”
She opened it and stepped inside. Lyle never did lock his door; he was just so damn trusting, sometimes. Many of his belongings had already been moved to his new suite, but a few things remained. And yes, there at the foot of his bed was a chest, and inside—
Lelia laughed darkly as she pulled out a gray shirt and pants.
“Astera bless a fool,” Malesa moaned.
Wil sat down at a table apart from the others. There was really no quiet place in the common room, but this was far enough away that he could hear Vehs think if he needed to.
He also had an excellent vantage of all entrances. The moment he saw a rust-red figure walk in, he would walk out.
:Why not sit with the others?: Vehs asked.
:I like being alone.:
Vehs gave a purely mental sigh.
Wil was wiping up a large lump of meat and parsnip with a chunk of crusty bread when someone sat down next to him. A voice purred in his ear, “Heyla, Herald.”
He looked to his left, and into the face of the black-haired Bard-trainee. In Grays.
No. Not uniform Grays. Gray shirt and pants, but not Grays.
“Uh,” he said.
“You can call me Lelia.”
:Did she get Chosen?: he thought at Vehs.
:Suuure. And I sprout gryphon wings in the moonlight.:
“Uh,” Wil repeated.
“Tell me your story, Herald,” she said in a low voice. “That’s all I ask.”
“You’re walking a fine line,” he said, nodding to her gray (but not Gray) clothing.
Her hard eyes remained fixed on him. “One story. Won’t take long. I just want to know what happened to Daryann.”
Wil’s blood boiled at the sound of his sister’s name. He pushed away from the table. “Excuse me.”
She made a grab for his sleeve. “Herald—”
He jerked his head to where Elcarth sat several tables down. “One more word,” Wil growled, “and I tell him what you’re up to. Bardic Immunity or not, I doubt very much the Dean would be pleased to see how you’re behaving.”
Lelia released his sleeve, and Wil slipped out.
Wil sat down on his bed and rubbed his eyes. The effort to calm down after his last encounter with the Bardic Pest had left him exhausted mentally and physically.
That damn girl.
:We might be heading back to circuit sooner than anticipated,: he thought to Vehs.
:Poor Chosen. Poor, poor Chosen.:
:It’s nothing to be amused about.:
:Oh, I disagree. I think it’s hysterical.:
Wil sighed deeply. :She’s defiling Daryann’s memory.:
:By writing a song about her legacy? That’s not really defiling.:
:It’s not her place.:
:But don’t you think it’s time you told someone?:
A cold knot crept up from Wil’s stomach to his throat. Memories welled up, unbidden. The acrid smell of herbs and wine—etched lines around dark eyes—the soft shush of hair sliding over crisp linens as her head turned toward him—the gaunt, pale face, whittled to a wax doll parody by pain—