By his fourth day, all morning was spent in classes, half of the afternoon in riding and weaponry training, and the rest of the afternoon and early evening after supper with the tutor. By the end of the week, it felt like routine, although a routine that, in its way, was just as tiring as the work in the mine.
He spent every waking moment when he was not at work in some way watching all the people around him and waiting to see if there were any indications that all was not as it appeared. Between that and classes and tutoring, he had so many things buzzing around inside his mind when he went to bed that he was sure he would never sleep—but he was so tired from all the thinking and the work under the eyes of the Riding Master and Weaponsmaster that he did, as soon as his own eyes closed.
Nor was he allowed full respite from the work even when he slept. Dallen had a thing or two to impart to him in dreams, and that was exactly what his Companion did. Since he was not getting lessons yet in this business of hearing the thoughts of other people, Dallen had taken it upon himself to provide the instruction. Mags might have thought himself rather overworked and ill-used—since not even Master Cole had invaded his dreams of a night—except that the way he kept overhearing what people were thinking was beginning to become uncomfortable. It was one thing to get vague hints of general intentions; that was useful and didn’t leave Mags open to knowing things he would rather not. It was quite another to be keeping his eye on someone, only to hear, as clearly as if the fellow had shouted it, just how much the man wanted get the approval of a certain favored tavern wench, and exactly what he wanted to do if he got it. And if anyone was worried about something, really worried that is, Mags got an earful of it even if he wasn’t concentrating on that person.
Thanks to Dallen’s timely lessons, that wasn’t going to happen again. Dallen had taught him how to do something the Companion called “shielding,” and Mags was never going to eavesdrop on anyone’s private thoughts unless he wanted to and he was very, very sure that it would take a lot more motive than curiosity for him to want to. It had made him feel rather happy, though, when Dallen praised him for how quickly he had mastered the mental discipline it took to keep those unwanted thoughts out. It turned out to be not that difficult for someone who was used to concentration—and it certainly took concentration to be able to chip a tiny sparkly from its bed of rock without destroying it. Dallen promised that eventually, this would all become second nature to him, so much so that he would never think about it anymore.
By the time two weeks had passed, he settled into a routine that suited him. Knowing that he was behind, but also knowing that he was doing his best to catch up, the teachers left him to himself to do so, although they expected him to pay close attention to their lectures in the classroom and what the tutor said as he and the others met in that empty classroom.
And so, on yet another icy morning, he found himself tucked unobtrusively at the back of the History classroom doing his best to understand what was being discussed—treaties, agreements, alliances. Without the background, he was pretty well lost, and he left the class feeling as if everyone there had been speaking another language entirely.
He slipped into the next classroom behind some of the others—as usual, a mix of Trainees from Heraldic, Bardic and Healers’—and took his usual seat, still feeling vaguely unsettled. But no sooner had the last of the students dropped into his place, when someone in Healer Greens popped his head through the door. This was unusual enough behavior to stop the buzz of idle conversation cold.
“Your instructor has had the poor taste to contract a rather nasty case of stomach disorder,” the Healer said, with a wry smile. “I’ll thank the rest of you not to do the same. You will be seeing him in another few days; come back here as usual tomorrow and we’ll have found a substitute. Meanwhile, consider yourselves dismissed.”
The Healer vanished again, leaving the students a bit dumbfounded. Finally, someone at the front—Mags didn’t see who—gathered up his books and bolted for the door. It didn’t take long for the rest to follow him.
Mags was the last to leave, and stood in the hallway for a long time, trying to make up his mind what to do next. Dallen was no help; the Companion was otherwise occupied; Mags got the impression that he and a knot of his equine friends were enjoying a good gossip. Finally, for lack of a better goal, he went out the door nearest “old” Healers’ Collegium and some of the herb gardens.
The new Heraldic Trainees were a lively sociable bunch, and that left Mags right out. He could scarcely bring himself to talk to any of them, because most of the time he didn’t know what to say. He had nothing in common with them; no parents, no siblings. Nothing he left behind with regrets—he certainly had no fond memories of the mine! When they weren’t talking about each other or the Heralds who were their teachers, most of them traded reminiscences of home, so what would he have told them? Chances were they wouldn’t believe him about his life anyway, and if they did, well, the idea of being pitied felt uncomfortable.
In their leisure, they often got together with other Trainees for impromptu singing and dancing. Many of them seemed to be musicians, and he wondered where they found the time to practice! He never learned to play anything, of course, never earned to dance, never heard any music but the drunken brawling of the Pieters family on the rare occasions when they celebrated anything. The Trainees were not the only ones who gathered for impromptu fun; the Heralds often came down to Companions’ Stable to do the same, according to the stablehands. They hadn’t yet, but Mags had passed by the Trainees’ rooms or even a classroom before he went to bed, on his way back from the library, and heard the other Trainees laughing and talking and singing together. He didn’t precisely feel left out—it was more that he felt as if he simply didn’t understand them.
The Guards had done much the same thing, actually, when the day was done. He didn’t understand them either. He had felt awkward, as if he should want to join them, should want to do what they were doing—but his head wouldn’t quite shape itself to what they were doing, and all he could do was gawk and try to figure out what they were laughing about.
Sometimes he noticed that the Trainees would play games, or tell stories, even over meals or when waiting their turn at something. He had seen gambling games, but of course never had the leisure to play them, and the only stories he knew were about the mine ... not a good choice for telling, even if he had been inclined to do so.
Until now, the height of his ambition had been to go to sleep with a full belly. They were as strange to him as if they were some sort of exotic bird. He felt as if he moved among them like a ghost; they scarcely registered his presence and none of them seemed to even remember his name without prompting from a Companion.
So, gifted with this unexpected bit of free time ... he found he had nothing with which to fill it. On the other hand, the one thing he had not done yet was explore around the Collegia; he had been so busy that he hadn’t seen much outside of his classrooms, the salle, the riding grounds, the eating hall and the stables. Curiosity was not encouraged at the mine, but now he slowly felt it stirring. There would be no harm in looking about a bit.