Mercedes Lackey - Intrigues

And the moments when he was sure he would never, ever go into Whites were getting fewer. Most of the time he thought he was actually getting close to acting like everyone else, even if he didn’t actually feel like everyone else.

:Just keep on acting. Pretend long enough that you belong, and eventually even you will believe it.: Dallan nudged him with his nose. :You might also think about that spot right under my chin... :

He grinned a little, and gently ran the bristles of the brush along his Companion’s chin. Having Dallen as a comforting and persistent presence in the back of his mind kept him steady. It was only when the invisible pressure got too much that he needed to physically come to Dallen for relief.

Just now, the trigger that had sent him here had been a brush of a resentful thought that he was somehow trying to become the teacher’s pet, when in fact all he was doing was trying to stay even with everyone else in class. He couldn’t help it. He was grateful to the teacher for taking the extra time to explain. Why was saying so wrong?

“You allus make me feel good,” he murmured to Dallen’s shoulder. “I dunno why you don’ get tired of me.”

:I’ll forgive you if you actually hand over that apple pie that you promised,: said Dallen, nosing at Mags’ pocket urgently. :You know pocket pies are far and away best when still warm, and you said you’d bring an extra from lunch.:

Happy to have something to take him away from thoughts that were always uncomfortable, Mags reached into his pocket and pulled out the two small rectangular pastries—a special treat for the colder day from the kitchen staff. They were a handy way to take the dessert out of the dining hall and eat it later, they kept your hands warm, and the students always appreciated them. It took a little more effort to make the individual pies, but then again, the dining hall tended to clear that much faster if the food was taken out. That meant the dishes could be worked on faster, tables wiped, floor mopped and the whole job done that much sooner. Everyone benefited.

The door banged open again, showing that Mags wasn’t the only Gray-wearer that had thought to take the chance of a few stolen moments with his or her Companion. Possibly with an extra pie to share as well. Companions did have a sweet tooth. He didn’t bother to see who it was; if they wanted to talk to him they’d already know he was here. And if they wanted privacy he wasn’t going to invade it.

Mags watched the pie vanish as Dallen practically inhaled it.

“I got no idea why you like ’em so much,” he said, “considerin’ that you couldn’t possibly taste it. I’d be surprised if it e’en touched yer tongue.”

Mags took a bite out of his own pie. It was delicious; it tasted as if the apples had been picked today, which was remarkable, considering it was probably made from dried apples from last year. The head cook did pride himself on making food for well over a hundred people still taste as though it was made for a small family meal. He almost always succeeded. Luncheon today, for instance... Mags licked his lips, thinking about it. Thick bean soup with bacon in it, winter greens cooked with ham hocks, lots of bread so fresh from the oven it burned your hands a little as you cut open the rolls and spread them with butter. “Good plain food and plenty of it is what these younglings need,” was what he’d overheard the man saying. “And if the highborn are too good for it, they can go and eat elsewhere.” Well, if this was “good, plain food,” he really didn’t want to eat with the highborn. His head would probably explode.

And, of course, after this luncheon there had been the pocket pies waiting to be taken away at the door instead of regular pies on the table. There were always pies. The cook reckoned pie was a good way to share out fruit now that it was winter, and make it last. Another undreamed-of luxury. At the mine, the only time he ever tasted anything sweet was chewing the ends of clover-blossoms, stealing honey from a wild-bee nest, or grubbing something sweet and burned out of the pig-food.

:I taste my pie just fine, thank you. So, do you feel that you are getting on in classes now?: asked Dallen, his enormous tongue licking teeth and lips and curling up around his nose in an effort to retrieve every crumb and speck of sugar, honey and spices. :Sometimes it’s hard to separate your general air of anxiety from things you and I genuinely need to address.:

:Not doing too badly,: responded the boy in kind, thinking, as he took another bite from the pastry, how he was glad to be able to use Mindspeech. It allowed him to “talk” and eat at the same time. :I think I’m gettin’ better at the history. An’ I like figurin’, but today they started givin’ us this stuff they call geometry, an’ it just makes my head spin. Lena’s not as much help there as she is with history. I can’t imagine why we need anythin’ past sums and all. I ain’t going to be an artificer!: The thought of the morning maths class made him sweat a little. Angles and unknowns and calculations, and nothing as straightforward as adding or subtracting.

:No, you aren’t, but you still need to have a grasp of such things when you go out to the villages. It’s not just artificers that need geometry. It’s part of a Herald’s duty to reset boundary markers after a flood or some other disaster, and to check them when there is a dispute over land.: Dallen nodded thoughtfully, and Mags got one of those mental glimpses of a Herald—as usual, someone he didn’t know—laboring over calculations, then going out to reset boundary stones while two farmers watched him, waiting for the slightest hint of favoritism. :All too often, especially well away from Haven, a Herald is the closest thing to an expert that some villager may have to depend upon for help. That’s why, for example, you take quite a lot of wound-tending and basic healing classes. Nobody expects you to be a Healer—but there might be times when someone is hurt, and you’re all they’ve got.:

Try as he might, he couldn’t picture himself in that position of authority. It still made his brow knit, and sometimes his head hurt, to think that some day someone would be depending on, listening to, him. Impossible. Who would ever believe in him?

:I believe in you. And anyway, it’s not whether people believe in you, personally. When you turn up on Circuit, they won’t know you, and they don’t have to. They believe in the uniform and what the uniform represents. They don’t care who is inside that uniform as long as he makes good decisions, because the uniform is what they trust.:

Mags chewed thoughtfully, and swallowed. There was one thing he could imagine himself doing. He could easily see himself standing between danger and people who couldn’t defend themselves. After all, he’d already done that, hadn’t he? He’d put himself in danger to save Bear. And before that... he’d given all the information that the Heralds needed to shut down the mine and save the rest of the slaveys.

He shuddered involuntarily when he thought of the revenge his old master might take, if ever he discovered who had betrayed him, and said, with forced levity, “I reckon I might, one day, need th’ healin’ stuff for m’self. I heerd wha’ th’ real Heralds call th’ Whites. ‘Oh Shoot Me Now.’ ”

Oh yes. Being a Herald was dangerous. Sometimes he was glad of that... it was rather like an “I have good news and bad news” scenario. “The good news is that you are going to be respected and all your needs and wants will be taken care of forever. The bad news is that your new name is ‘Target.’ ” Sometimes he was relieved because he just could not bring himself to believe in this life unless there was a steep cost attached.