Valdemar 03 - [Collegium 01] - Foundation (40 page)

When it was Dallen's turn, Mags, who had watched the procedure carefully, jumped off and did his own chaining-up, much to the approval of the log tenders. He didn't bother getting back on; Dallen couldn't go fast with that heavy log behind him, and he didn't want to burden his Companion any more than he had to.

Already there was a sense of urgency in the air that Mags entirely approved of. No one who hadn't tended a fire himself had any idea of how much wood was going to be consumed over the next three days. In a way, he hoped that there
were
snowdrifts up to the rooftops. Those drifts would seal off the wind and insulate against some of the worst of the cold.

:I have approval to take our logs to Bear, Chosen.:
Dallen's muscles rippled as he pulled the dead weight forward. Mags wished he could take some of that burden himself.
:Bear was right. Some of those medicinal plants are absolutely without price, and we cannot risk them freezing. That was good forethought on his part.:

:I'll tell him ye said so.:
Mags raced ahead to pull a fallen branch out of the way, then returned to Dallen's side. He watched the log as it plowed a furrow through the snow to make sure it didn't get hung up on anything, and ran ahead to get obstacles out of Dallen's way.

After that, they both saved their breath for work. Despite the unspoken feeling of urgency, there was no outward sign of a reason for that urgency. Overhead, the sky was blue and mostly cloudless. But Mags remembered very well that first blizzard of the year, the one that he and Jakyr had barely beaten. It, too, had begun with cloudless skies, and had churned up over the horizon like some terrible monster.

They left their log with Bear, who had managed to round up three woodcutters, all in the green of Healers, and returned to the log pile at a trot. Soon the steady procession of logs had worn the road smooth, which made pulling easier for horses and Companions. Each time Mags got to the buildings, he could see them swarming with people bringing in supplies of all sorts, workmen nailing shutters on the windward side of the building closed, and a steady procession coming toward the stable of carts hauling hay from what must have been a storage barn. He wondered where they were going to put it all, then ceased to worry. Let them figure it out; his business was not in the stable. Right now, he and Dallen had logs to haul.

After six runs, something had changed up at the Palace, heralded first by a
crack
that sounded as if lightning had struck the place and made everyone jump. It turned out that there were some mechanical aids for reducing all that wood to manageable size. For the life of him, Mags could not see how the things worked, but there were two devices that were splitting entire logs lengthwise into quarters, which were then taken to two-man saw teams to be reduced to fireplace and furnace size. The sound of the logs splitting was startling even when you knew it was coming, and the horses shied every time it rang out. They were all working as hard and as fast as they could; horses and Companions alike steamed with sweat, their breath coming in great moist clouds as they pulled on their burdens.

Finally, as dusk fell, the sound of horns rang out over the entire complex, joined by all the bells of the Collegia.

:That's the signal,:
Dallen said, heaving at the log.
:No more. The storm is almost on us, and these will be the last loads.:

And, indeed, those Companions and horses that were not already carrying logs were turning back, heading to their stables.

Mags had long since delivered plenty of wood to Bear; the last couple of candlemarks he had been taking their loads to one of the Palace entrances. Now he and Dallen delivered their final burden, Mags tucked the chains up into the harness, and they plodded wearily back to the stable.

And there they found one solution for the hay storage problem. The Companions were no longer in commodious loose-boxes. The stable was full of rectangular bales of hay, from floor to ceiling. One by one, the Companions were being rubbed down to take off the sweat before they chilled, covered with not only their own blankets, but extras. Then they were backing into narrow slots in those enormous stacks of hay bales. They looked for all the world like toy horses being put away on a shelf. The bales were stacked so closely together that they touched the Companions on either flank.

They won't be keeping the stable warm with the fire, Mags, so you had better get what things you need and find someone at the Collegia to stay with,:
Dallen told him.
:All this hay will keep us cozy, but there is no point in keeping the fires going in the ovens right now, when the wood could go elsewhere and we can tend ourselves.:

:What'll ye do for water?:
Mags asked in dismay.

:I think there will be plenty of snow,:
Dallen pointed out drily.
:And we know how to open and shut doors. Now hurry. Go to the eating hall. You can probably find someone with room there. Bundle up in as much as you can, wear both pairs of mittens. Wrap up your face. Take your bedding and whatever else you think you will need.:

He dove into his room, and took a quick look around. Well, what he would need would be clothing . . . the bedding, as Dallen had pointed out. If he was going to be up at one of the Collegia, the last thing he would need would be books. There didn't seem to be much else. He pulled on extra knitted shirts, then another tunic over that, and a second pair of trews. He packed Dallen's saddlebags with more of his clothing, made all of his bedding into a fat roll that he strapped across his shoulders over his coat, grabbed both packs and reached for the door of his room—

Just as the blizzard hit the stable like a battering ram.

The walls boomed. The wind
howled
around the walls, which shook with the storm's fury. Atavistic panic clutched at his guts for a moment before he managed to fight it down. But some fear still remained, and despite all the layers of clothing, he suddenly felt cold. Mags went out into the stable to see the lamps going out one by one, blown out by the cold drafts forced in through every tiny crevice.

He froze in place, suddenly picturing what it must look like out there. Not only was it dark—not only was there going to be snow so thick he'd have had trouble seeing in daylight, but that wind was going to make it hard to walk, and all the lamps on the buildings must have blown out instantly. How was he going to
get
to the Collegia?

As he reached the door, the last of the lamps was blown out, leaving him to fumble it open in pitch-darkness. The door was in the lee of the building, so it wasn't torn right out of his hands when he opened it. But he couldn't see a thing; it was dark both behind and in front of him, as dark as being in the mine without a lamp.

All right. He was used to the dark. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and reminded himself of that. He closed the door behind himself and felt to the right until he encountered the rope—a good thick one that hummed and vibrated with the force of the wind on it. He grasped it in both mittened hands—and as Dallen had advised him, he was wearing not one, but two sets of mittens, felt ones inside sheepskin—and stepped away from the shelter of the building.

He was immediately glad that he had both hands on the rope. The wind nearly blew him over when it hit him, and within moments every inch of him was snow-caked. What little skin he had left exposed stung and burned with the snow being driven against it. The scarf around his mouth was damp and ice-rimed; his breath froze as soon as it hit the fabric.

From that moment on, he thought of nothing more than the next step. Hunching his shoulders against the wind, head down and eyes closed—it didn't matter if his eyes were open or shut, since he couldn't see anything—he hauled himself along the rope, hand over hand. He had never been outside in a storm like this before. At the mine, he had either been in the mine or in the sleeping hole, and had no reason to go anywhere. He would have been terrified if he'd had the strength to spare for terror. He was already tired from the hauling; shortly, he was exhausted, and every step was agony.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Dallen encouraging him, cheering him on. That was the only thing that kept him going, as his feet got heavier and harder to lift, as his arms felt like lead, as his hands numbed and his body ached with the cold.

The harsh air burned in his lungs, his throat felt raw, and every intake of breath brought a stab of pain at the end of it. His toes and fingers burned.

All he really wanted to do was to sit down and rest, and he knew that was the last thing he could do right now. If he stopped, even for a moment, the cold would get him. The simple journey to the Collegium stretched on into a hellish eternity—

And then, suddenly,
at last
, it was over. He had expected to have to get the door open himself, but as Dallen had said, there must have been a crew of rescuers waiting right there for him. He felt people grabbing his arms and pulling him along, felt a blast of air on his face so hot in comparison to his chilled flesh that it felt like a furnace. His eyes were caked with snow and frozen shut; he just let people hustle him along, passing him toward another set of helpers who pulled off his pack and saddlebags. More of them unwrapped the scarves from around his head and face, and helped him take off a coat that was so ice-caked it was as hard as armor. As soon as the coat was off, someone else came to wrap him in fire-warmed blankets. That same someone pushed him into a seat and he just fell back into it; he found a hot mug in his hands, and as the snow finally melted from his eyelids, he was able to open his eyes.

At first all he could see was a fire, and feeling still numb inside and out, he stared at the flames, thinking that he could never, ever get enough of them. He was not the only person here; there were two more blanket-wrapped figures trying to thaw themselves on the hearth, both Guardsmen.

He sipped at the hot liquid in the mug; it was spiced cider, but there was a good amount of something else in it. Something much stronger than wine!

He was right next to the fire in someone's room and he wasn't the only one crammed in there, bundled in blankets.

Besides the two Guards right at the hearth, there were two of the stablehands and another Trainee, all with identical mugs in their hands and identical glazed looks in their eyes.

“Is that everyone?” He recognized Herald Caelen's voice.

“I'm not sure—” someone else replied uncertainly. “There's no way to know if there is anyone fallen or lost out there unless it's a Herald or a Trainee—”

By this time, Mags' mind had woken up enough for him to realize that the second speaker was right—almost.

He gulped down another big swallow of his drink, coughed, and spoke up. “Herald Caelen—they tell me I got a
strong
Mindspeakin' Gift. Reckon I c'n see if I c'n find anyone out there, if that's—uh—not misusin'—”

He didn't even get a chance to finish that statement. Caelen shoved his way through the people nearest the fire and grabbed Mags' shoulders. “That is most certainly
not
misuse of your Gift!” he exclaimed. “Please, Mags—”

“Right. Here.” He shoved the mug at Caelen, huddled up in his blanket, rested his head against his knees, wrapped his arms around his legs, and closed his eyes.
:Gonna need yer help with this, Dallen.:

He had not done that in all the time he had been here. Dallen had warned him that he shouldn't—had cautioned him that because he had been Chosen, his Gifts would be opening up at a tremendous rate.

Now he realized just how much that Gift had burgeoned. The moment he dropped those shields, it felt as if he was in the center of the Midwinter Market, only a thousand times more crowded, and everyone was talking at once. Worse, it was mostly fear, as people all over the complex, all over Haven, reacted to the storm. It
felt
like being in the storm all over again; all those minds, all those internal voices, none of them putting a watch on what they were saying—it all overwhelmed him, threatened to wash him away in the flood, and he felt as if he was drowning in it—

Then he sensed Dallen, strained to hear him, and got the sense of what Dallen wanted him to do. He began raising the shields again, but one at a time this time. First, all those people farthest away, down in Haven. He didn't need to listen to them. He couldn't help them now if he wanted to, anyway. And they, almost certainly, would not want
him
to know what they were thinking.

That cut the clamor down to a fraction of what it had been, and he let out a sigh of relief. The next shield was easier: to screen out those who were closest to him, in the same building. They wouldn't want him to hear their thoughts either.

And that improved things a very great deal indeed.

Now he was able to actually pick out individual “voices.” One by one, he sorted through them, not really listening to what they were babbling, because most people just had a running internal babble going on, but looking for the nuances that told him they were safe and indoors. Their fears, while real, were not immediate. And their minds were . . . well, they weren't
numb,
the way his mind had been when the cold was getting to him.

He found five that were not.