Mercedes Lackey - Foundation

“The boy’s not fit to travel, Jakyr,” the Healer said firmly, as Jakyr munched on his snack and the kitchen staff went back to work. “Maybe if it was summer—but he’s malnourished and overworked, and travel with winter coming on, even Companion-back ... I wouldn’t advise it. You’ll be courting sickness with him, and what if you’re caught in weather? What if he got sick and you were stuck in some Waystation somewhere?”

I’m keeping the Herald from going somewhere— The thought suffused him with guilt and apprehension, both of which were blown away like mist in the wind by Jakyr’s next words before Dallen could say anything other than start that wordless reassurance again.

“I’ve a bit to do here yet, and I’m not averse to a rest. There’s nothing that urgent waiting for me at Haven that we can’t afford to let the lad rest and at least start to get some meat on him.” Jakyr even seemed a bit relieved. “I’ve friends enough here to make a pleasure out of necessity.”

“And if something urgent should come up?” the Healer persisted, his brows furrowed.

“Then I’ll go back alone, and one of the Guard can give the boy an escort to Haven.” Jakyr smiled as the Healer nodded with satisfaction. “And if, because of that, they go at a horse’s pace and not a Companion’s, well, that will do no harm.”

“I want that boy eatin’ meat afore you take him out of here,” the cook tossed over his shoulder, with a scowl. “Gods’ a-mercy, if the rest of them mine kids look’s bad as him, I’m tempted, sore tempted, to ride over there meself and thrash the bastard till he bleeds.”

“It’s being dealt with, Scully, never fear,” was all that Herald Jakyr said, the same words that Dallen had used. But Mags had no chance to think much about that, since the Healer whisked him away for that threatened bath.

Only this time he didn’t have anyone scrubbing at him with floor brushes; in fact, he was left quite alone, and to be honest, he would have been at a bit of a loss if Dallen hadn’t told him what to do and how to do it. Soap, that was new. Hot water enough to drown in. More outgrown clothing was waiting for him, dropped off by some young fellow of the Guard, when he got himself well dried off. It, like the last batch, was a bit oversized but soft and warm, and without tears or holes of any sort.

Then he was at a complete loss. Never in all of his life, had he ever had a moment when he was not doing something, except when he was asleep. It was a strange feeling, unsettling, and once again he felt as if the world had suddenly turned upside down. And although he still found himself wrapped in that calm lassitude, he wasn’t sleepy as such. He finished cleaning up the room where the baths were so that it was in the same pristine state it had been before, and then stood there in the damp heat, wondering what to do with himself. His hands twitched a little. His body knew what it expected to be doing—it expected him to be down in the mine. What was he supposed to do with himself?

:Would you like to read a real book?:

Of all the things that Dallen could have said, that was one that took him utterly by surprise. His mute assent led Dallen to direct him down a hall and up two flights of stairs to a small room that was comfortably warm and lit with two of those large glazed windows. There were heavily cushioned benches beneath both of them, and the walls were lined with cases crammed with something he had never seen before, but which the memories he had gotten poured into his mind told him were those mysterious objects— books. Row upon row of them, thick ones, thin ones, bound in all manner and colors of cloth and leather. The room had a smell like nothing he had ever known; leather, but also an odd, faint, sharpish smell, and a hint of dust. The scent Dallen identified for him as peculiar to books. He stared at them avidly. There must be so many things in those books, and he wanted to read them all.

But which one to start with? There was no way of telling what was inside any of them.

:Let me look through your eyes,: Dallen suggested, and when Mags gave him a puzzled assent, he got a most peculiar sensation, as his own eyes flickered over the backs of the books without his own volition.

:That one,: Dallen suggested, and his eyes rested on the tack of one in dull blue leather. Carefully, Mags pulled it out and carried it over to one of the benches.

He was almost afraid to touch the pages with his rough hands, they seemed so fragile to him. When he opened the book, he wasn’t sure what he was going to see. But his speculations were not what met his eyes; what he saw was long rings of words in sentences, written small, like rows and rows of ants on the page. It took him a breathless moment to realize that these were words he knew, that he recognized , that he had written. Most of them, anyway.

:I will help you with the others,: Dallen promised . :Now don’t be afraid of the pages. They will withstand being turned, they are are tougher than they look. Go ahead.:

He took a seat on one of the benches, with the weak, but warm sunlight pouring over his back and licked his lips, then plunged in.

Slowly, sentence by sentence, sometimes word by word, Mags began to read his first book.

It was harder work than he thought, but it was also engrossing, once he realized that this book was telling a story. Of course, he didn’t understand a lot of it, because it talked about things that were so foreign to his life, but Dallen helped by giving him mental images of what was going on. It was ... magical. That was the only possible word for it. Here he was, puzzling out a story that someone else had told, someone who probably lived a very long way away from here, and every person that picked up this book would get to learn the same story.

He got so involved in it that when a bell sounded through the building, he jumped. He didn’t yelp. Yelping got you hit. But he was genuinely startled, and he sat there for a moment with his heart racing, wondering if he had somehow done something wrong and triggered an alarm.

:.That is the bell for noon meal,: Dallen informed him merrily, taking no notice of his panic. And his stomach rumbled. He was so used to being hungry that it hadn’t registered with him. But his stomach had gotten two good, big meals so far, and it wanted another.

He could find his way around a mine, so it was not hard now to remember his way back to the mess hall. But even if he had not known how to get there, the stream of Guards all going in one direction would have given him the clue. This time the room was full of men, and he wondered what it was he should do and where he should go.

But one of the young men spotted him, no doubt because in his ordinary, if over-large clothing, he stood out among the blue uniforms like a rock on a snowdrift. The fellow steered him over to a table, and consulted with someone who was bringing platters of food around.

And that man returned with another big bowl of soup and a half a loaf of bread. “Healer’s orders, Trainee,” the man said, putting both in front of him. “Soup fer you, he sez, till ye be used ta eaten regular. Mebbe some cheese an’ fruit. An’ no beer for ye. I’ll bring the tea, foreby.”

Mags hardly cared. This time the soup had chunks of chicken meat in it as well as the thick rafts of vegetables, and round white things he couldn’t identify, but which tasted glorious. There was more wonderful cheese, and another apple. More herb tea, this time sweetened with honey that somehow blended with the flavors of the herbs and made them stand out more. Part of him still wanted to be wary, afraid that someone would decide to take all this away from him, but Dallen kept up a steady flow of certainty, and eventually he just gave himself over to the food.