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  Which’s pretty hard on th’ feller what’s far off, Mags reflected. Ain’t like he kin wait, like a judgment can. Things had to be rather dire before a Healer would leave a House of Healing or his own home village to attend a remotely situated patient—this was on the logical grounds that if he went riding about, no one would know where to find him in an emergency. The unspoken rule was that the patient came to the Healer, not the other way around.

  As with so many things in Valdemar, that had been all right before Valdemar got so big that the Healers were stretched as thin or thinner than the Heralds were. And now, well, it did make sense to keep a scarce resource in one place at all times. It made sense, but in Mags’ view, and Bear’s, and evidently that of the Collegium itself, if you were going to put people without a local Healer in the position of “stay put and die, or be moved and suffer,” you had better be prepared to offer them an alternative for things that they could handle themselves so long as you showed them how.

  Unfortunately, some of those highly conservative Healers were Bear’s own family.

  He’d fought them once over the packs—they had been using the “scandalous and foolish” invention as the reason to haul him home so he could marry some neighbor girl. Unlike the rest of the male members of his family, Bear did not have a Healing Gift. He was a pure genius with herbs and had the skill of a prize-winning seamstress with knife and needle, but that seemed to matter not at all to Bear’s family. Mags suspected that the only reason they had allowed him to attend the Collegium in the first place was with the vague notion that the Collegium might trigger something dormant in him to make him like the rest of them.

  Like a Gift’s contagious or somethin’. Or like soot, an’ it c’n rub off on ye.

  When it didn’t—and when the Collegium began to foster (with considerable delight) Bear’s very real abilities with herbs, surgery, and bonesetting, their solution to the “problem” was to bring him back to breed to a willing girl, in the hopes that one of his children would have the Gift that he did not.

  Which’s stupid an’ mean-spirited an’ treats him an’ thet poor gel like a couple’a prize cows.

  Mags approached Bear’s booth quietly; it was, on this last day of the “festival” even more popular if that were possible. Like the other booths, it was a half-tent, providing welcome shade for those who came to be instructed and issued a voucher for the kits that would be going out soon with the Guard supplies. Today people were not only listening attentively, they were asking questions. From where he stood, Mags couldn’t hear most of them, but the Healer kept nodding slightly with approval and had a slight smile of satisfaction on his face.

  No, it was far more than just satisfaction. This was the look of someone who was not just satisfied, but proud of his pupil.

  Mags stiffened, suddenly, as he sensed someone who was not. Who was, in fact, in a towering rage. He turned slightly, to see a man in Healer’s Greens to his right and behind him, whose face was utterly rigid, and every muscle tight. He did not have to lower shields to know why; although he had never actually met one of Bear’s family, there was no mistaking the features. The shape of the bones beneath the skin was the same, especially about the cheekbones and chin. The hair was the same chestnut brown, and the man had the same sturdy build, with added muscles that Bear would no doubt acquire with age and work.

  Mags did not hesitate. This man was so angry with his young relative that he wasn’t even thinking of the damage giving free rein to his temper could cause. The confrontation he was about to start was going to turn into an Incident, one that would cause a great deal of harm, not only to Bear, not only to the Healers, but to all three Collegia.

  He half-closed his eyes and concentrated on the Healer overseeing Bear. He didn’t know the man, but after all, his Gift was to Mindspeak into anyone’s head, whether or not they had the Gift themselves. Meanwhile, Dallen would be doing something on his own—possibly alerting the King’s Own’s Companion, Rolan. He didn’t even have to tell Dallen what was going on; they lived in each other’s heads so much that unless either of them blocked out the other, what one knew, the other did. Maybe not everyone would care for that sort of closeness and lack of privacy, but Mags liked it, and it certain made things easier at times like this.

  ::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.”

  She shook her head and wiped her eyes. “I’m probably just not good enough,” she said shakily. “Not like Farris.”

  He drew a complete blank at the name. “Farris? Who be Farris?”

  She left off pretending to play, and fished out a handkerchief. “Farris Grevner. He’s new. He’s Father’s protege. They gave him three solos.”

  Mags felt his temper flaring and threatening to escape the leash he had put on it. If Mags had had Bard Marchand in front of him at that moment, he’d have flown at him and broken his nose for him. It was bad enough that half the time Lena’s father seemed to have forgotten that she even existed, and the other half used her to get to people he deemed important—like Mags himself, back when he’d saved Bear from that assassin and when he’d been the first “star” of a Kirball team. But to take on a protege? When his own daughter was right here and would have cut off her own hand to get some approval from him?

  Then to give the boy three solos in the concert and Lena none?

  It was beyond belief.

  “Father can’t show me any favoritism,” she said, her voice sounding wretched. “I understand that. Everyone knows I’m his daughter, and he can’t treat me differently than anyone else. It’s not right—”

  “ ’S also not right t’give his Trainee three solos,” Mags replied, voice thick with indignation. “Tha’s th’ same sorta favoritism!”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter!” she exclaimed tearfully. “One, three, the only thing that matters to me is that I didn’t get any!”

  Mags patted her hand helplessly. There wasn’t much he could say or do at this point. It was too late to ask to be included in a small group; even her best friends wouldn’t do that without at least a little time to rehearse. All he could do was to let her cry on his shoulder and remind her that even if it had been meant as a slight, she was still going to get to enjoy the last day of the festival without getting all of a knot over her piece.

  And to rein in his own temper, tight. He had to think of something to distract her. He wouldn’t leave her to sink in misery.

  Another of those welcome breezes sprang up, cooling his head and helping him to cool his temper.

  “Jest go give yerself a wash,” he suggested. Then, as he wished that Bear was here, something else occurred to him. One sure way to distract her would be to give her something else to think about. “One’a Bear’s relations turned up. Dallen says ’tis his older brother. He got ambushed by some’a th’ other Healers ’fore he could make a pother, but you gotta know he’s gonna chew on Bear afore he goes home.”

  “That’s true,” Lena replied, looking faintly alarmed and drying her tears on her sleeve.

  “Well, reckon Bear’s gonna need some coolin’ an’ a friendly face, an’ I misdoubt th’ one ’e’ll wanta see is mine.” He put a little force into his words, and she nodded. He was thinking furiously now, trying to figure out if Marchand had done this to his daughter out of anything other than sheer lack of caring about what she thought or what happened to her. And what if it wasn’t Marchand at all? What if this new pet of his was behind it all?

  “An’ look ye, if some’un did mean ye t’get hurt by this, well, if they see ye cryin’, ye jest gi’ ’em what they want. Eh? So don’t.” He made her look at him. “Mebbe ’tis Farris. Mebbe ’e wants ye t’feel like ’e’s better nor ye. Mebbe ’e wants t’lord it over ye. Eh? Mebbe ’e’s the mean-natured kind. We already know ye got all three Bardic Gifts. Mebbe ’e on’y got two. Or mebbe ’e ain’t mean-natured, but ’e’s feelin’ pressed, ’cause yer th’ one with the Marchand name and ye got all three Gifts an’ ev’one knows it. So ’e pressed fer all th’ attention. So. No matter what, ’e don’t deserve no reward of makin’ ye feel shamed an’ bad.”

  She blinked, and looke
d at him in a way that suggested she was shocked. Certainly that had never occurred to her.

  Well, a’course it didn’t. She never had t’fight fer nothin’ till she got here. While this sort of thing was very different from the daily, frantic scrabble for food and shelter and even the tiniest bit of comfort that Mags had endured for most of his childhood as a mine-slave, the motives were much the same, and he recognized them for what they were.

  “Now, best fer ye t’do is sit down an’ have yerself a hard think,” he told her firmly. “Lookit how good this is fer ye. Ye got no pressure. Ye want t’ play fer folks, well, ye kin sit down jest ’bout anywhere an’ do it, like ye bin. An’ enjoy it wi’out havin’ t’ match up wi’ any’un else. So there. Git a wash. Make yersel’ pretty. Go take a nice corner an’ git a liddle audience. Make ’em happy. Be happy. Then come git dinner wi’ me an’ the rest and hev all yer favorites ’cause yer stomach ain’t in a knot, thinkin’ ’bout the concert.” He smiled wickedly. “An’ then—once yer fulla strawberry tart an’ cream, bacon-an’-egg pie, cake—then ye go by Farris. Betcha ’e’ll be green as grass, thinkin’ ’bout that concert an’ three solos, an’ ’e won’t hev been able t’eat. An’ ye smile at ’im, and wish ’im luck and mean it.”