Mags furrowed his brow. “Huh. I think I see. That’s gonna to take some thinkin’ about.” Actually, it looked as if the amount of planning was going to equal the amount of playing. Well as long as it wasn’t him having to do the planning. . . .
“Yes, it certainly is. Anyway, the riding instructors are going to be pushing people onto the teams as I permit. We don’t want people getting onto teams that aren’t fit for a bit of roughhousing, after all.” Caelen raised an eyebrow at him.
“ ’M pretty tough, sir,” Mags said, since he could sense Dallen’s excitement in the back of his mind, and didn’t want his poor Companion to explode. “Reckon this’d make me a mite tougher, too, an’ that ain’t bad.”
Caelen nodded. “Once this gets well underway, I suspect that your weapon instruction might be more focused on defending yourself from the back of a Companion as opposed to merely on foot this year. And if what I hear about the way you ride is correct, you’re going to be a popular pick for one of the two Heraldic positions on a team. Ordinarily I’d eliminate a first-year Trainee just on the basis of lack of skill and experience, but you have more than enough skill to make up for any other lack.”
That startled him. The idea of being popular and wanted for something was quite unexpected. He had never really thought of himself as excelling in anything other than riding, which was, face it, a rather solitary occupation; oh he was good enough with weapons, the hand to hand ones, but he wasn’t brilliant. And the riding, well, that was mostly Dallen’s doing, and he had figured everyone knew that. He didn’t quite know what to say in response.
Caelen looked pleased at his reaction. “Didn’t think you were any good, eh? Still worrying about not measuring up.” He gave a soft chuckle and tousled Mags’ hair. “Don’t worry about it. And don’t stand there gawping like a fish gasping for air. Go now, off with you. And if you change your mind about rooming up here in the main building, you let me know. All right?’
Mags closed his mouth, still blinking and tried to exit the room gracefully. He leaned against the wall outside, feeling a little breathless.
Dallen was amused. :Of course you’re a good rider. You’re on me! Who wouldn’t be brilliant on the fastest, sleekest, most handsome Companion in all of Valdemar?:
That broke his shocked mood, of course, and made him laugh. Still laughing, he headed on toward the dining hall.
He clattered down the stairs to the main hall, and joined the thin stream heading in the direction of food. Savory scents were already filling the hallway, making everyone hurry. On the way, amidst a gaggle of other students, he spotted the dark, curly hair and rust-colored uniform of his best friend Lena, herself a Bardic Trainee. He called her name and she waved, and weaved her way through the crowd toward him.
“Mags!” she greeted him. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy—”
“You better’ve been eatin’,” he chided her. “I ain’t seen ye fer two days!”
She ducked her head, guiltily. “I’m sorry. I got caught up in a special project; it’s a four-person performing group. And yes, we were eating; our teacher had food brought in so we could eat while we worked. Did that history paper go over well?”
He grinned at her, relieved, as she tucked her hand into his arm and they breasted the crowd together. “Aye. It did, and thankee kindly, miss teacher. King Tyrdel and the war of the harvests, and how after ’e died, his daughter Elspeth made peace and expanded the borders wi’ treaties and a marriage.” He patted her hand. “I reckon a Bard coulda tole the tale better though.”
She smiled back. “Well, it sort of is our job to be historians, Mags. Bardic talent goes hand in hand with a love of stories; and it doesn’t matter if we make them up ourselves, nor if they are modern or from deep in history. At least so my tutors keep telling me.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Huh. I cain’t ’magine why anyone’d haveta keep tellin’ you anythin’. You never seem t’ ever stop workin’.”
“Oh they tell me plenty,” she replied, making a face. “Like I need to quit trying to write pieces with arpeggio if I’m no good at doing it myself. But I like arpeggio.”
He squeezed her hand as they got within sight of the door of the dining hall. “So, wha’s the answer?”
She sighed. “Practice I spose. As usual. Practice seems to be the answer to everything.”
The crowd in the entrance thinned as students filed into the dining hall and took seats for the meal. Lena started to pull Mags along.
“What’s the hurry?” he asked.
“It’s roast beef tonight, and beans with bacon. There’ll be nothing left if we don’t get in there,” she said. “Honestly, some people are just like locusts!”
She was exaggerating of course, and Mags had no fear of that. It hadn’t happened yet, and he didn’t think it was likely to in a hurry.
On the other hand, she was right about some people being like locusts. It was entirely possible that the choicer portions would have been snapped up if they didn’t get to a seat quickly. He increased his pace to match hers.
A figure in a full Bard’s outfit stepped in front of them, from one of the staircases that led to the upper stories. A tall and very handsome man, with dark hair that was greying at the temples, held out his hand imperiously, forcing them to a halt. “Ah, Trainees. Excellent. I need one of you to take this note to the King’s Own Herald. I shall be performing for an entertainment for the King this evening, and he needs to discuss with me which pieces would be best for the audience.” He held out a folded piece of paper.
Mags expected Lena to take it, since she was the Bardic Trainee, and this was definitely one of her expected duties. He glanced at her, and was surprised to find her white-faced and unmoving. He reached forward and took the paper from the man, and nodded. “I know Herald Nikolas, sir. I’ll take it.” The Bard nodded, and turned on his heel without a further word. Mags turned to Lena.
“That was rude.” he muttered. “ ’E coulda said please at least.”
Lena was staring open-mouthed at the retreating figure. Mags looked from her to the man, curiously. “D’you know him or summat?” he said, “Doesn’t look like he knows you too.”
Lena blinked slowly and shook her head. “He ought to have recognized me,” she said, in a strained tone of voice. “He’s my father.”
Mags stared at the note in his hand and looked at the retreating bard, nonplussed, and then back at Lena.
“But... ” was all he managed, looking at the shaking girl. He just couldn’t think of anything to say.
She made it easier for him—in the sense that she abandoned any pretense of conversation when she turned and hurried back down the hallway the way they had come without saying another word to him. He went after her, but when she broke into a sprint, that made it quite clear that she didn’t want him around. Or, knowing Lena, anyone around.
She dashed around a corner and was gone before he reached it. He slowed to a halt, and caught his breath, looking down the corridor, but she must have run out the door. Probably heading back to Bardic and her room.
If she was determined to be alone, he was going to have to give her that, even though he really doubted that she should be alone right now. He gave a frustrated growl and stared back the way he had come.
Her father? But the man hadn’t recognized her! Surely Lena’s father couldn’t have failed to recognize his own daughter. . . .
He glanced back at the vacated corridor ruefully. Lena certainly seemed to believe he could be capable of that. Her shock had been real... but there hadn’t been any surprise. Just bitter unhappiness.
He thumped the wall, frustrated. Here he was, stuck between two duties, torn between going after his friend and taking the note in his hand to Herald Nikolas.