He shook his head; as tempting as it was to believe that he had been exonerated, he now had some real crimes on his own doorstep, and those couldn’t be rationalized away. :That doesn’ touch whut I done,: he replied, trying not to cry, himself, as the boy blubbered and whinged next to him. :I hurt you. I said ’orrible things ta Lena an’ Bear.:
:Things with some... truth in them,: Dallen replied, fighting against his drugs. :And they said horrible things to you. But you are the one that took them to heart and ran away.:
:’Cause they’re true.: Mags cringed, contemplating that dark place inside himself. :I don’ deserve you, an’ I don’ belong there.:
:That will be quite enough, Trainee Magpie.:
The sonorous mind-voice wiped out every thought, everything he was going to say, and made his head ring. He’d heard it once before. In the stable, when Rolan chose to broadcast his thoughts. He’d never been the sole focus of that mind-voice before, and it felt a little like having lightning strike at his feet.
:Everyone has darkness inside them. Heralds are no exception. The difference between Heralds and villains is that Heralds overcome their darkness. The difference between Heralds and cowards is that Heralds face their darkness and cowards run from it. The difference between Heralds and the cruel is that when Heralds slip and allow their darkness to speak, they are truly remorseful and make amends, thus allowing the wounds they caused to heal instead of fester. So, Trainee. Which are you?:
Mags waited to see if Rolan was going to say anything else. The inside of his skull reverberated like a bell. But Rolan said nothing else. Perhaps he was waiting for Mags’ reply—or perhaps he was on to more important things, leaving Mags to make up his own mind.
:Come home, Mags.: Dallen’s weary mind-voice fell into the silence like a feather. :Amily and Lena are frantic with worry. Bear has told his brother that he will not leave until you are found.:
Mags bowed his head, and tears fell into the dishwater as the grief at what he had done overcame him yet again. :But I hurt ye!:
:But I was an idiot, galloping in the dark,: Dallen countered. :Rolan has spoken, and you heard him; he stands by you as I do. The others have spoken to their Chosen. That evil creature, whoever he is, has been sensed by others. Everyone knows it is not you. We need you. I need you. Come home. Please.:
He was afraid to believe. And yet, Rolan had spoken. If he couldn’t believe in Rolan, what could he believe in?
With a sigh, he gave in. :All right,: he said :But not right now.:
As he let down the walls he had built to keep Dallen out, he sensed Dallen’s surprise and shock. :But—why not?:
:Because there’s a kitchen fulla people waitin’ on clean pots, an’ the on’y other person t’ wash ’em is a beat-up lay-about,: he replied stubbornly. :If I’m gonna act like a Trainee, then I ain’t runnin’ out with a job half done. I’ll leave after it’s all cleaned up. Not afore.:
Cookie had gone to bed early, and the boy’s continued punishment for his theft of meat was to be beaten again, then locked in the root cellar to sleep, among the mice and rats and black beetles that crawled in the place. This left Mags alone in the kitchen, absolutely unguarded, since in the couple of weeks he had been here, he had shown nothing like intelligence enough to get into any mischief.
He felt he had done his duty at this point. He’d done everything he had been asked to do and had been fed on scraps. They had gotten more than they had paid for out of him, and he owed them nothing. The boy and one of the scullery maids would have to wash the pots tomorrow, until someone else turned up at the door looking for work. Someone would. Someone always did.
Once the entire place was asleep, he checked the kitchen door. As he assumed, it was only locked from the inside, and it was easy to slip out.
Of course now, if there had been anyone watching the place, looking for an opportunity to steal, they would have thought that it was their lucky night, for he slipped out without locking the door behind him. That wasn’t very likely, though, and as he dropped his shields a little just to be sure, he sensed no one within easy reach was awake, much less preparing to steal something.
Somehow, even though he had thought that his mind was in a completely numb state, he realized he had been observing everything about this house the entire time he had been working here. Nikolas’ training had proven too strong to overcome. He knew exactly how to get out of the yard; use the barrel where the chicken manure was deposited every day—it was quite valuable for the garden plants—to get onto the roof of the coop where the chickens slept locked up at night. And from there, make a leap to the top of the wall, and tumble over. That would put him down in the alley.
He had to be careful, of course. The barrel was none too stable, and the roof was not meant to hold the weight of a man, just to keep the weather off the chickens. But being careful was what he had been taught on the personal obstacle courses; moving slowly and testing your balance and the ability of the surface ahead of you to take your weight. Think every move through before you do it.
He eased himself up onto the barrel, using his arms only, as if he was about to try and do a headstand. He noted as he did so that his arms were a lot stronger than they had been—but also that his endurance wasn’t quite as good as it had been. Well, he could certainly recommend pot scrubbing as a way to build up arm strength, but a diet of scraps—and those mostly bread and crust—clearly didn’t do much for the muscles as a whole. Moving at a glacial pace, he got his feet on either side of the barrel rim so that he didn’t go through the top. He stood up, then reached up to the roofline. He felt along the roof edge, found the support beams for the coop roof, and slowly put his weight on them. They held.
He eased himself up onto the roof, spread his weight out over it by lying flat on it, waited for a moment while his arms recovered. After all, it was not as if he had to do this in a hurry. Once his arms stopped aching, he crawled to the side nearest the wall. There was just enough moonlight to see by; he found the beams on the other side of the roof by feeling under the roof edge, and slowly stood up with his weight on the beams and not on the roof between. He took three deep breaths, and jumped, hands outstretched.
His hands caught the top of the wall, and he pulled himself up onto it. Not easily, his arms protested a lot, but he managed to get a leg over, and after that it was a simple fall and tumble down the other side. He got a little bruised doing so, but on the whole, it wasn’t a bad fall. He stood up, brushing himself off—then stopped. Why bother? He wasn’t exactly clean to start with.
:Mags? Are you coming home now?: the drug-sleepy voice in his mind was as comforting as salve on a raw wound. He almost started crying again.
:Aye. Jest need ye t’ rouse sommun t’ get th’ Guard t’ let me past th’ gate. Or I kin wait outside ’till mornin’ an’ ye kin ask sommun then. Reckon I kin find a place t’ hole up till—:
It wasn’t a brush, this time, as that terrible mind impinged on his. It was more like a spear piercing his brain. That mind, that angry, murderous mind, actually hurt, burned, as it touched his. So angry, so hateful, that his knees gave and he sat abruptly down in the alley.
It wasn’t cushioned by anything, and this time he knew. This was not inside of him, some hideous passenger in his head. No, this was a fully formed personality, older than he was by a couple of decades, and its anger and hate carried with them brief glimpses of memories of places and people and things that he had never seen, much less dreamt of.