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 welclass="underline"
: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.:
Mags had the feeling that if he didn’t do as Dallen suggested, he was not going to get any rest on the subject, so the first thing he did was approach both the boys before the class began and suggested it. Thankfully, they were both younger than he was; if they had been older, he would have been terrified to talk to them. But Beren and Lyr, who, it turned out, were old friends from some place in the wild hills where no one knew how to read and write, took this suggestion with relief and exuberance, grabbed it with both hands, and Beren immediately volunteered to approach the Herald himself at dinner. Mags felt limp-kneed with relief of his own at that. He promised he would stick around until Beren had an answer and a time and place for these extra studies, and that was when the Weaponsmaster showed up.