Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (32 page)

The priest mock-saluted him. “Now I know why you invite me every year. For my fire-starting skills.”

Soren laughed. “Among other things. Now, my friends, we have one more thing we must do.”

He handed his candle to Lydia and opened the little box that had been beside the other things on the table, reaching into it and coming out with something small, black, and shiny. This, he pushed into the earth in the pot, and passed the box to Lydia. She did the same. When it got to Mags, he saw that they were seeds.

When they had all planted seeds, the priest held his hands over the pot and blessed it. “And may we all grow as strong as these seeds, and prosper,” he finished.

Soren nodded, and stood up, looking expectant. “Well, shall we join the rest of the household for the vigil bonfire?”

Mags had no idea what that was, but he was more than willing to go along. They left their candles, still burning, in a special holder with enough sockets to take them all that stood beside the door. Then they all gathered up coats and cloaks and went out to an area of the home that Mags had never seen before—the kitchen yard and garden in the rear.

There was an enormous bonfire there, although from the look of it, it had only just been kindled and had been aided to its roaring state by the liberal application of oil. The servants were all gathered around, laughing and passing mugs of mulled cider and sausages impaled on sticks. The smell of both—the sausages especially, as they were toasted over the fire—made Mags' stomach growl, and he was happy to accept one.

There was a glimmer of white in the darkness beyond the reach of the fire, and Dallen threaded his way through the humans with his head bobbing at every step. He nudged Mags with his nose.
:Finally, now I can join you!:

He hugged his Companion's head to his chest.
:Well, we wouldn' want hoofprints all over Master Soren's fine floors.: :Bah. Bring logic into it.:
Dallen whuffed at Mags' hair.
:Well, now we will be having sausages and roasted apples and drinking songs and games until the sun comes up. The ashes from this fire will be very good for the kitchen garden underneath; sometimes people bring objects of things they want to forget and burn them in this bonfire, but Master Soren, I hear, frowns on that sort of thing. It seems harmless enough, but it's possible for such things to be used as digs at someone else that they know will be attending. And in some parts of the countryside, newly betrothed couples jump the fire together—once it burns much lower than this one is! Most people find this the really enjoyable part of the festivities, but I rather like the part up to midnight better.:

Mags thought about that. “I think I'm on yer side,” he agreed aloud.

“What side would that be?” Amily asked, hobbling up to both of them. She was able to get about reasonably well for short distances using a crutch, Mags had learned. He had also learned to ignore the crutch since that seemed to be what she wanted. “You two sound just like Father and Rolan, with your one-sided conversations.”

“Dallen likes what we did better nor what we're doin' now, before midnight,” he explained. Dallen nodded vigorously, and Mags regarded the young woman for a moment. She looked awkward and uncomfortable and she was too short to really see anything, which was hardly fair. But it also didn't seem fair for her to spend the rest of the vigil back inside, where no one else was. “Ye know what, there's no reason why ye have t'stand there.”

:Oh, good thought, Mags,:
Dallen agreed, picking up what Mags was considering.
:Go ahead.:

“I don't know what you—
eep!”
Amily squeaked, as Mags put both hands around her waist and hoisted her up onto Dallen's back.

“There. Now ye kin see, an' yer safe as houses,” Mags said with satisfaction. Amily stared down at him with round eyes.

“I've never ridden bareback—” she said faintly.

“Then shame on yer Pa's Companion fer not teachin' ye,” Mags retorted, handing a toasted sausage on a stick to her, and holding out a roasted apple on another for Dallen to nibble. “ 'Sides, 'tis a Companion. Ye know ye won't fall. He won't let ye, an' that's a fact.” He found a wooden bucket and overturned it to stand on.

From their vantage point, they could see everything. The musicians, who looked and sounded professional, struck up a very fast and lively dancing tune. Some folk began a ring dance around the fire, which then broke and turned into a spiral dance with people being added to the end of it when the rearmost reached out and grabbed them. They watched Lydia and Marc get added to it, and laughed to see them romping like children. The dance kept snaking out longer and longer as more people were added to the end. Finally, it reached the point where those at the end couldn't keep up, but rather than falling apart, it broke into two with Lydia at the front of one. It looked like fun, but Mags was not going to desert Amily and Dallen. The dancers wound around and around the fire, as sparks flew all about them, with the two chains snaking in and out and around those who weren't dancing. At last, the musicians themselves ran out of breath and brought it to a halt by the simple expedient of stopping the tune.

That was when someone—Mags didn't recognize who—spotted Amily sitting regally atop Dallen, and set up a cry.

“The Midwinter Queen! The Midwinter Queen! She looks like a Queen on her throne! Make Amily the Queen!”

Literally everyone seemed to think this was a fine plan. Soon everyone was shouting the same thing; some people ran off and came back with evergreens in their hands. Blushing furiously, trying to protest, Amily laughed as the whole crowd converged on them. Dallen soon found his neck hung with garlands of soft cedar and apples, and Amily was adorned with a crown of holly on her head. Then the two of them were paraded ceremoniously three times clockwise around the fire while the musicians played a march, Amily was handed a branch twined with ivy for a scepter, and the entire gathering knelt in homage to her.

“Tell us your decree, O Queen of Misrule!” Lydia laughed. “Rule us! Rule us!”

Everyone else took up the chant. “Rule us! Rule us! Rule us!” until Amily waved her branch for them to be silent.

Amily's eyes sparkled, although her cheeks were crimson. “I say that since we ladies get fair weary of waiting to be asked to dance, now every woman who wishes to tread a measure must choose a man to her liking and dance! And no man may deny her! Musicians! Let the dance be ‘Sir Tyral Devale'!”

Cheers greeted this pronouncement, and Dallen ambled genially to one side as there was a mad scramble for desirable partners which Mags escaped by virtue of the fact that there were more men than women. The musicians started up again, and the dancers cavorted in the space around the fire in pairs. Mags made his way to Amily and Dallen's side again. She glowed, as much from happiness and pleasure as from the firelight. Dallen stood like a statue, his neck curved proudly.

“Ye make a good Queen,” he said, looking up at her. She flushed.

“It's usually Lydia,” she replied, almost apologetically. “I don't know what they were thinking . . .”

“That ye'd make a good Queen,” he said, and felt gratified when she ducked her head with modest confusion. “Just as simple as that. What're ye supposed t' do, bein' Queen an' all?”

“Think of things they should do.” She laughed. “It needs to be things that will keep them awake! Lydia always had them dancing most of the time.”

“Well, ye're a clever one. I reckon ye c'n think of somethin'.” He nodded

The rest of the night was taken up with games and other nonsense that Amily devised, as silly as possible. She was a very good Queen, since that was what the Midwinter Queen was supposed to do. After the first dance was over, she called out, “Duck, Duck, Goose! And Marc is Goose!” That was utterly incomprehensible to Mags, but shouts of laughter erupted, and soon the entire company was arranged in a circle around the fire, watching covertly as Marc walked behind them all. He tapped each person he passed on the shoulder, solemnly pronouncing the word “duck” each time. That is, until he came to one of the twins. “GOOSE!” he shouted, and ran. The twin chased after him but was unable to catch him, and Marc dashed into his place. Then the twin repeated the formula.

It must have been a children's game, but that seemed to be what people wanted. When Amily judged that people were wearying of it, she decreed another dance, this time with the oldest dancing with the youngest. And then, another game. She seemed to be enjoying herself, too, and Mags wondered if part of her quietude most of the time was because she worked just a little too hard at being overlooked. He didn't know a
lot
about girls, but one thing he was sure of—no matter how hard they might work at being in the background, deep in their hearts they really wanted to be seen and made much of once in a while.

As for himself, he got a great deal of enjoyment out of
her
pleasure, and when at last the sun crested the horizon and was greeted with cheers and toasts, he felt as if he had done a very good thing, putting her up on Dallen's back to be noticed like that.

Nor was she allowed to hobble back into the building on her own as they toasted the sun and the new year with the last of the cider, shared in the breakfast feast that was brought out from the kitchen, and then went off to their beds. The twins hoisted her up onto their own shoulders and carried her in triumph at the head of another parade back to her room. Smiling, Mags divested Dallen of his garlands, led him back to the stable, and made sure he had hay and water and was warmly covered in his blanket.

:That was well done,:
Dallen said as Mags refilled the manger.
:I've not seen her have that much fun in a very long time.:

:How long's she been like that?:
Mags asked.
:Crippled, I mean.:

:Since the accident that killed her mother when she was very small. There were no expert Healers where they were, and by the time they got her into good hands, it was deemed too painful to rebreak the bones and reset them.:
Dallen sighed.
: There are many who are surprised she wasn't Chosen.:

Mags pondered that.
:There's a good reason, aye?:

:Her father. She is the light of his life, and being a Herald is dangerous. He has more than enough to worry about, being King's Own. If Amily was Chosen, and he had to worry about all the dangers she faced along with all the cares of the King, he might kill himself with the strain.:
Dallen shook his head.
:Amily knows why, and she agrees this is for the best. We had to tell her, of course. It didn't seem fair, when she was pining over the Field every day.:

Now, Dallen had never lied to Mags . . . but he got the feeling that there was more to it then just that.
:Anythin' more ye'd like t'tell me?:

:Oh, just that it is frustrating for her, I think, being unable to
dare
as much as she would like to. And for those of us who know her . . . well, seeing her as only her father's helper is sometimes like seeing a fine dagger being used as a paperweight. It serves the purpose very well, but that is not what it is
for.
:

Mags had to agree. But what could he do, that the Companions couldn't?

Still this night had made her happy. That had to count for something.

He was one of the last to come in, and the halls of the house were quiet once again. He found his room, buried himself in that lovely cloudlike bed, and dreamed of nothing at all.

T
HE holiday had not been kind to Bear or Lena, as it transpired.

They arrived together, but Mags was not there to see it. He was carrying out his assignment to keep an eye on the foreign mercenaries, and there was something exceedingly peculiar going on with them. They seemed nervous, wary—and yet they were, so far as he could tell, oblivious to the people around them. Instead, they were looking constantly over their shoulders for something. What? There was no clue in their behavior or, at least, nothing that Mags could interpret. If they had been worried about an attack on their overlords, they would have been sticking more closely to them. They were not; They were, in fact, going about their usual business.

All he could do was make careful note of how they were acting, and what set off their odd reaction. Not that he could go into the Palace to watch them—on the other hand, when they were on duty, they probably were a lot more careful to keep up their facades.

He had first gotten wind of their peculiar behavior that morning, when he overheard two of the Healers talking about it. He had been slowly eating his breakfast, enjoying one of the last leisurely meals he would have before classes started again. Already most of the extra workmen were gone—but the fruits of their labors were visible in newly opened sections of all three Collegia. More rooms for Trainees in all three, all the work on the Heraldic Library was complete and now the books just needed to be moved in, the dining hall was finished but the kitchen still needed work, and there were rumors that there was some sort of addition for the bathing room that would make all that tedious heating of buckets of water a thing of the past. It wasn't a reality yet, however.

So he had just had a morning bath and was savoring eggs and sausages and biscuits when two Healers sat down on the bench across from him and picked up what sounded like an interrupted conversation.

“It's bad enough that they are rude and arrogant, and that half of my work consists of patching up injuries they've inflicted during ‘practice,' ” one of them said as he got a bowl of porridge. “But this . . . how can I tell if something is wrong with someone if he won't tell me the symptoms?”