Mercedes Lackey: Changes

::Sir!:: he said urgently, and saw the Healer start. ::’Tis Trainee Mags. One’f Bear’s family’s here, an’ he’s about t’make a mighty to-do!::

The Healer looked about and quickly spotted both Mags and Bear’s relative. Mags kept his mind open, and “heard” the man’s halting reply.

::Can... you... summon... discreet... help?::

::Yessir,:: he replied immediately. ::Already on th’ way.::

::Done, Chosen,:: he heard Dallen say as soon as he had replied. ::But it will take them a few moments. If Bear’s brother makes a move toward the tent before the ‘reception party’ gets there—::

So—it was Bear’s older brother. Not good. ::Got it,:: Mags said, just as he saw the man’s face harden with decision, and the little movement that suggested he was about to stride toward the booth.

He ran up to the man before he had a chance to take that first step and stood directly in his path. “ ’Scuze me, Healer!” he said, with a combination of deference and authority. “I don’ b’lieve ye’ve got yer badge on.”

The man stared at him, taken completely by surprise. “Badge? What—who are you?”

“Ye gotta hev a badge, sir,” Mags said insistently, without identifying himself, just in case Bear had ever talked about him at home as being a friend. Besides, he was in Grays. That should be identification enough to give him the authority to accost anyone he needed to. “Ye gotta hev a badge. Badge sez who ye are, an’ if’n yer fambly, if’n yer teacher. They be clearin’ townies out soon. On’y famblies an’ teachers kin be ’ere then. Ye gotta hev a badge, sir!”

The man’s face darkened. “I don’t need some stinking—” he began, and at that point, the “help” arrived.

He found himself engulfed by a crowd of Healers and Guards, four of each. The Healers greeted him heartily, the Guards interposed themselves in such a way that there was no way he could get past them to Bear without forcing his way through, something they were not prepared to allow. His face reddened, but the Healers were all talking loudly, one of them, the largest, flinging an arm around his shoulders. Before he quite realized what they were doing, they had hustled him off toward Healers’ Collegium, quite the opposite direction from Bear’s booth.

Mags sensed that the confrontation had not been prevented, however. Merely postponed.

He winced inwardly. This was going to be a bad day for poor Bear. No matter what the outcome, Bear always emerged from a clash with his family feeling miserable.

Most likely ’cause he kin never win.

Well, at least he would have had his week of approval before getting hit with the hammer of Family Scorn.

Mags could never figure this sort of thing out. Why couldn’t they see? It made no sense to him. And even if they couldn’t see, why didn’t they just leave him alone? Bear had the approval of the Collegium. Why wasn’t that enough for them?

::Possibly because they feel that they know best, and cannot imagine that ‘There is no one, true way’ actually applies to them,:: Dallen said. ::Remember, Bear is the first of his family to be trained here at the Collegium rather than at home by the elders of his extended clan. They might give lip-service to the Collegia and Healers’ Circle, but in their hearts I imagine they think that they have the only answers worth knowing.::

::I’m beginin’ t’think ain’t so bad bein’ a orphant,:: he replied wryly.

::And on that note, you had better go console Lena. She’s feeling downcast.::

Mags shook his head, and went looking for his other best friend. He found her, as he had half expected, sitting on the grass of one of the lesser gardens beside the bush that hid the grave of her pet rabbit. She had a lute with her and was playing it softly—too softly to attract any listeners, who had dozens of Bardic Trainees standing or sitting all over the grounds, all vying for their attention. The dead rabbit was what had brought them together in the first place; she had brought her pet with her to keep her company, but it had been elderly and had died during her first winter here. Mags, who himself had not been at the Collegium for more than a few days, had found her sobbing out here alone with the poor thing in her lap, trying to scratch out a grave for it in the hard, frozen ground.

“Heyla,” he said, plopping down on the grass. “Why th’ long face?”

Lena sighed and brushed her dark hair out of her brown eyes. “Melting” brown eyes, Bear called them, with a sigh of admiration. Bear had taken to talking a lot about Lena when he and Mags were together and she wasn’t with them. He said a lot of nonsensical things about her looks, always with sighs or a foolish grin.

Most of it didn’t seem to make much sense. Fine, call her eyes “pretty,” or “soulful,” or “entrancing”—those all made sense. But “melting?” Mags didn’t see how you could call her eyes “melting”; if her eyes were doing that, it would be hideously painful for her, and rather nasty to watch.

He grabbed his concentration back from where it was wandering among words in time to catch what was making Lena so sad. Funny thing about heat, it made your mind want to ramble off somewhere.

“It’s the concert,” she said mournfully.

“Aye?” That had him confused. “They gi’ ye a solo ye don’ like?” “They” being “he,” actually; Lena’s father, Bard Marchand, had been put in charge of the concert. Possibly because if he was put in charge, everyone knew that he wouldn’t load the thing up with his own solos as some other Bard might be tempted to do. That was not because Bard Marchand was modest, nor because he was fair, nor even because he was generous. It was because there would be no one of importance at this concert—only the common folk of Haven and the parents and other relatives of the Collegium Trainees. The highborn, who had the Trainees of the Collegia about them all the time, really had not given a fig for the activities of this week with the exception of the Kirball game. They could hear the Trainees any time they liked, and many of the teachers made extra money by playing at their parties. So for the notables and wealthy of Haven, only the Kirball game had provided a variation in their usual schedules, and they would much rather enjoy music in the cool and luxury of their own dwellings than out in the sultry night in the park.

And Marchand would really rather be there too. If the audience didn’t contain anyone important, Bard Marchand was not particularly interested in putting in more than a token appearance.

He’d have to do something, of course. He was the famous Bard Marchand. There was no way he’d get out of some sort of performance. But it would be short, and there would be no encores.

“They haven’t given me any solo at all,” Lena said tearfully. “I just found out today. All I have is my part in the chorus.”

The schedule still hadn’t been set this morning. There were a lot of Bardic Trainees, all of them wanted solos, and it had been decreed that the only fair thing to do was wait until the last minute to decide who would be performing what to allow for people suddenly improving. Mags blinked. “What? Why?”

“They said it’s because I froze at the Contest,” she said in despair. “And they said it’s because I chose such a simple song for the Contest. They said I’m not ready for such a big audience.”

Now, Mags knew very well that the only Trainees at Lena’s level who were not getting a solo were the ones who were performing in some sort of small ensemble or who had specifically asked to be let off. He tried to put a good face on it, although inwardly he was angry. If Lena had known she wasn’t going to be given a solo, she could at least have gotten into one of the smaller groups. She was well liked among the Bardic Trainees, and when she sang in a group she never tried to overwhelm anyone else. People appreciated that. But he throttled down his temper and tried to put a good face on things. “Well, ye are summut shy,” he told her. “Could be they thought they was doin’ ye a favor, could be they reckoned ye’d be able t’ enjoy the festival w’out getting’ yerself all over pothered worritin’ over yer piece.”