Arrows of the Queen (17 page)

Today she wasn't Cook's helper, so following her reading hour was an hour spent in the sewing room, a cramped but well-lit room, crowded with tables holding baskets of uniforms in various stages of disrepair. It was here, with her hands full but her mind unoccupied, that she found she could no longer keep her loneliness at bay—especially not with the other students laughing and chattering away about things and people she had no acquaintance with whatsoever. She found a corner partially in shadow and screened by a mound of things to be mended, and took her basket of work there. The misery had to come out sooner or later, and this was a good time and place; one where she wouldn't be noticed. The torn hose acquired a certain salty dampness before the hour was over.

At least today she wasn't forced to deal with the demonic Alberich—he had delegated the ex-thief Skif as her tutor instead. She had found herself warming shyly to the boy during the past week. Skiff seemed to sympathize with her awkwardness, and was endlessly patient with her. Without rebuke, he helped her position her rebellious limbs and slowed his own movements down enough that she could see exactly what she was supposed to be doing. When she looked downhearted, he cheered her with ridiculous stories about the preposterous things he'd supposedly done back in his days as a street-child, beggar, and pickpocket. She responded tentatively to his open friendliness, and he seemed to know when to reach out to her and when to back down.

From there she went to archery practice, and then to Rolan.

Once in her Companion's presence the ache of loneliness vanished. They worked over the obstacle course until they were both tired, then went off to a far corner of the Field to cool off together and to be alone. Again, simply being with him worked some kind of alchemy on her spirits. When she thought about how lonely she'd been even with her two closest kin—and how fulfilled she felt when she was with Rolan—the price she had paid for coming here no longer seemed so high. By the time Rolan was brushed and curried, Talia had very nearly regained her cheer. Whenever she was with him, she knew without doubt that she was loved and that
he
would never leave her friendless.

Either she was growing used to the pace or her endurance was increasing; she was not tired enough to stay indoors after supper, so she decided to explore the gardens that abutted the Collegium grounds.

It was there that she learned why Sherrill had warned her not to confront the unaffiliated students alone.

She was walking the graveled paths between the mathematically-laid-out flowerbeds, as the sun set and the coming dusk seemed to thicken the air and turn it blue. The scent of the roses mingled with that of the nightblooming flowers that were only just beginning to open. She was half daydreaming and didn't notice that there was anyone about until someone spoke.

“Do I smell manure?” a male voice behind her sniffed superciliously. “I really believe that I do!”

“Perhaps the gardeners have manured the flowerbeds?” It was a girl's voice this time, and one with a nasty edge to it.

“Oh, I think not,” the first replied. “This smell is most decidedly fresh, and altogether goat-likes.”

Talia turned, startled; there were four or five adolescents in blue uniforms lounging in the shadow of a hedge.

“Why, what have we here?” the first speaker feigned surprise at seeing her. “I do believe that I've found the source of the odor!”

“No doubt of it,” the girl at his side replied, “since it's that wench from the Border. What a pity—they'll allow
anything
into the Collegium these days. Still, you'd think they'd bathe it before letting it roam civilized surroundings.”

They watched her with expressions of sly anticipation. Talia had first thought to give them word for word, but thought better of the idea at once. There were five of them, and she was alone—and from what Sherrill had said, they weren't likely to stop with insults, nor to fight fairly.

“My Lady, these creatures are steeped in filth; a hundred baths couldn't wash the smell away,” the boy continued maliciously. “Which isn't surprising, considering that they are also steeped in ignorance. I'm given to understand that this one tried to give its Companion back to the Collegium—that it hadn't the faintest idea what it meant to be Chosen.”

Talia's ears burned with shame and anger.

“Is it as stupid as it is smelly?” a third asked.

“It must be, since it apparently doesn't realize that we're talking about it.”

Tears sprang up, and were as quickly suppressed. There was no way that she would let
this
lot know how their insults had hurt—that would only encourage them. Talia shut her smarting eyes and began to walk away; they moved up on her so quickly that she didn't realize that she was surrounded until a calculated shove sent her sprawling headfirst into a well-watered flowerbed. She wasn't ready for the tumble, and landed hard, getting a face full of dirt and dead leaves.

As laughter faded into the distance, Talia extricated herself. She'd had the breath knocked out of her; the bed had been planted with rose-vines and none of the thorns seemed to be less than an inch long. By the time she got out, her uniform was ruined, and she was scratched and bloody as well as filthy.

Hot, angry tears slipped over her cheeks; she scrubbed them away with the back of a gritty hand and sprinted for the safety of the Collegium, grateful for the cover of gathering darkness.

It was early enough that there was no one in the bathing room; she hastily shoved the ruined clothing down the chute. A long soak changed the angry scratches into cuts she could have picked up in practice and the sound of the running water covered her sniffles as she sobbed, half in anger, half in hurt.

She had no intention of asking Sherrill for help; she couldn't spend all her time in the older girl's company, and the minute she was alone she'd be a target again. Besides, despite what Sherrill had told her, Talia had strong misgivings about her real willingness tolerate the constant presence of a child at her side, day in, day out.

And Talia had had plenty of experience with bullies before this; she knew what to expect. Once they'd started, they wouldn't leave her alone until they'd become bored with the game.

And there was another facet to be considered as well. She pushed her wet hair out of her eyes and regarded the coin-sized scar on the palm of her left hand soberly. How old had she been when Justus had burned that into her hand with a red-hot poker? Nine? Ten? No matter. When the thing had happened, the adults had believed him and not her, when he'd said she'd done it to herself.

So why should anyone here believe her—she was new, unknown; they were obviously children of ranking courtiers. Given the circumstances, who'd be thought the liar? Better to remain silent. They'd had their fun; perhaps they'd become bored soon if she didn't react, and leave her alone.

Her hope was in vain.

The very next day she discovered that someone had purloined her History notes; the day following, a shove from behind sent her blundering to her knees, bruising both knees and elbows on the floor of the corridor. When she collected her books and her wits, there was no one to be seen that could have shoved her—although she could faintly hear giggles from somewhere in the crowd about her.

Two days later she was pelted with stones by unseen assailants as she was running to weapons class alone. The day after that, she discovered that someone had upended a full bottle of ink over her books, and there was no sign that anyone had been near them but herself. That had been a nearly unbearable humiliation—to be thought to have been so careless with a
book
.

She began to acquire a certain reputation for awkwardness, as she was shoved or tripped at least once a week; more often than that if she dared to go anywhere outside the Collegium.

And there was persecution of a nonphysical nature as well.

She began receiving anonymous notes; notes that appeared mysteriously in her pockets or books, notes that picked her shaky self-confidence to tiny pieces. It got to the point where the mere sight of one would bring her to the edge of tears, and she couldn't show them to anyone because the words faded within moments after she'd read them, leaving only common bits of unmarked paper.

And she didn't dare to confide in anyone else—for there was no evidence to her mind that the perpetrators were confined to the Blues. Granted, if things were as they seemed, it was wildly unlikely that any of her fellow trainees was part of the group tormenting her—but Justus had hidden his sadism behind an angelic expression and a smiling face. Things were not always as they seemed. No, it was better to bear things alone—at least there was always Rolan.

But Keren had seen that
something
was wrong. She'd already had her twin's report on the note Talia had received from her family; a session with Elcarth had convinced her that
she
might be just the person to get the child to emerge from her shell of isolation.
She
had seen no evidences of clumsiness when she'd worked with Talia, and the reports of constant accidents sat ill with the evidence of her own eyes. There was something amiss, badly amiss.

As a child Keren had schooled herself to develop incredible patience—had been known to sit for hours with a handful of breadcrumbs, scarcely moving an eyelash, until the birds fed from her hand. She used that same kind of patient stalking with Talia now; dropping a word here, a subtle encouragement there. If there was someone persecuting the child, soon or late Keren would find out about it.

There were times she cursed the protocol of those Gifted with thought-sensing; if not for those constraints, she could have read plainly what was bothering the child—or if she couldn't, there were others who could have penetrated
any
shield. But the protocols were there to protect; one simply didn't ruthlessly strip away the inner thoughts of anyone, no matter how well-meaning one's intentions were. If the child had accidentally let something slip, it would be another case entirely. Unfortunately, she was entirely too well walled off. Nor was there any likelihood that someone more talented than Keren would “hear” something; Talia's reticence was being interpreted as a desire for privacy, and was being respected as such. Those who can hear thoughts tend to be fanatical about privacy, whether their own or others; a good thing under most circumstances but a distinct handicap for Keren in this case.

Although Talia hadn't consciously noted Keren's solicitude, the attention was making itself felt. She was on the verge of telling the riding-instructor about the notes, at least, when she began receiving another set—

Do go and tell someone about this, bumpkin,
these notes said,
it will so entertaining to watch you try and explain why you haven't got anything but blank scraps of paper. They'll think you're mad. They might be right, you know....

That frightened her—the specter of madness had haunted her ever since she'd gotten the first of the letters. After all, how could letters vanish from off the paper after they were read? And if they only
thought
she were mad—they might turn her out of the Collegium, and then where could she go? It wasn't worth the risk. She confided in no one and wept in private.

Then, just as her nerves were at the breaking point, the three months of Midwinter revelry began at Court and the persecution ceased abruptly.

When several days passed without even a note, Talia began to hope; when a week went by, she dared to relax her guard a little. By the end of the first month free of pursuit, she decided that they'd grown tired of her non-reaction and found some other game.

She threw herself into her life at the Collegium then with such unrestrained enthusiasm that before Midwinter Festival she began to feel as if she'd come to belong there. Her Family's rejection no longer ached with the same intensity.

The Collegium suspended classes for the two weeks of the Festival; those students that didn't return to their own homes for the holiday generally visited with friends or relatives near the capital. It was only Talia who had nowhere to go; she had kept so much to herself that no one realized this in the rush of preparations.

The first day of the holiday found her wandering the empty halls, listening to her footsteps echo, feeling very small and lonely, and wondering if even the Library would be able to fill the empty hours.

As she listened to the sound of her own passing echo eerily in the hallways, another, fainter sound came to her ears—the sound of a harp being played somewhere beyond the doors that closed off the Heralds' private quarters from the rest of the Collegium.

Curiosity and loneliness moved her to follow the sound to its source. She pushed open one of the double doors with a faint creak, and let the harp-notes lead her down long corridors to the very end of the Herald's wing, and a corner overlooking the Palace Temple. It was quiet here. Most of the rooms were singles, occupied by Heralds currently out on Field duty. The place was easily as empty as the Collegium wing. The harp sounded sweet and a little lonely amid all the silence. Talia stood, just out of sight of a half-open door on the ground floor, and lost all track of time in the enchantment of the music.

She sighed when the harp-song ended.

“Come in please, whoever you are,” a soft, age-roughened voice called from within the room, “There's no need for you to stand about in a dreary hall when I could do with some company.”

The invitation sounded quite genuine; Talia mastered her reluctance and shyly pushed the door open a bit farther.

Sunlight poured in the windows of the tiny room on the other side, reflecting from paneled walls the color of honey and a few pieces of furniture of wood and fabric only a shade or so darker. A brightly burning fire on the hearth gave off the scent of applewood and added to the atmosphere of light and warmth. Seated beside the fire was an elderly man—older than anyone Talia had ever met before, surely, for his silver hair matched the white of his tunic. But his gentle, still-handsome face and gray eyes held only welcome, and the creases that wreathed his mouth and eyes were those that came of much smiling rather than frowning. His brow was broad, his mouth firm, his chin cleft rather appealingly, and his whole demeanor was kind. He held a harp braced against one leg. Talia's eyes widened to see that the other, like that of the village guard she had met, was missing from the knee down.