Notes:

Lesson number one: Never allow your mother near the computer when you're still logged into it.

Lesson number two: Explain to your parents what will happen when they review your stories while STILL logged into your account.

Lesson number three: Stop your parents COMPLETELY.

Replies:

Tessabe made a fine point in, uh, her...his...her/his review. I meant 'apprehension', by the way...you confuse me. And yes, Alberich recognizes the two Heralds, it was just for the sake of the readers I added their descriptions. As for what they were trying to do...well, you'll see soon enough.

It's interesting you say that, Triaxx2...Why? You'll see soon enough. And boy, when those Trainees pull that prank on Alberich...they're gonna wish he had a sense of humour. Whoo -- will they ever! Thanks for reviewing.

Oh, speaking of pranks...just wait another chapter or two. Please believe me. It'll be worth it! I just gotsta put the plot in motion before I dish out the twists...heh heh heh...

Disclaimer: Consult previous chapter.

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Creigh learned a few things over the next three days. For one, the Healers at this 'Collegium' place were hardly anything like the Priests back in the villages at home. The Priests would sooner sell the robes on their backs than waste their time Healing a farm boy with a small concussion. In fact, he could have stumbled onto their grand doorstep with two severed arms and dagger in his back; the most he would have received would have been a polite nudge with their fine linen boots and a warning to not soil the sacred steps of their holy place.

The Healers here acted as if a mace had brained him.

He was rather active the morning after his visitor from the Karsite Armsmaster and Herald Mical. His usual grogginess had dwindled to a mere headache, though he no longer felt dizzy. On the other hand, he'd hardly made it to the door of his sweet-smelling prison before a man in green robes bustled in and spoke harshly to him in Valdemaran. Creigh understood very little, distinguishing the multiple uses of 'no', 'healed' and 'bed' amidst the Healer's jabbering.

Creigh obeyed reluctantly. And so, he spent the next few days sitting in bed, eating the warm food and drink they brought him with less skepticism after every meal. He was bored, it drove him nearly mad, and there was little more he could do than wait out this invisible illness they had wrapped about him.

There were no mirrors in his room, so it was blatantly impossible to see just how bad his head wound was. It certainly wasn't serious; there was no gaping hole in his skull, no puncture that constantly bled or threatened his mental well-being. The gash the Companion's hooves left was fading quickly, even though it stung whenever he managed to brush it against something.

Luckily for him, the wound was well hidden beneath his thick, light brown hair. He enjoyed keeping it short, even though his mother used to fuss over the way it constantly stuck out and made his head look like the back of a porcupine.

As for the rest of him, there was not much to be impressed about. He had a strong build, however wiry; the results of being a farm hand for the majority of his life. Hard work had built some muscles on his normally thin frame, but a diet of sheer wheat and poultry had shaped him into a lightweight, in some places angular, stiff-jawed youth. There was some definition to his cheekbones, but it was likely that no amount of fattening would reshape them.

Not that he was expecting any amount of fattening at all. After all, these Heralds could hardly be any different from the soldiers in Karse, nor the Collegium differ at all from the normal kind of training camp. The only difference was the horse-

Companion, he reminded himself. Or at least, he thought he reminded himself. It was difficult to tell whether Donli had planted that idea in his mind, or he really was beginning to accept that these ghostly beasts were any different from the warhorses he'd once thought them to be.

But the brief conversations with his Companion were all that kept him from lapsing into delirium. He was grateful to have someone to talk to, seeing as no one else bothered to notice his current state of absolute boredom.

Finally, on the third morning since the 'encounter', he heard a roughly familiar voice somewhere outside his door. Then came the sound of approaching footsteps -- only one this time, but nothing quite like the quiet footfalls of the Healers that passed by his room.

Someone opened the door and stepped into the room. It was Mical. Creigh breathed a sigh of relief, then cut it short. It was too late -- the Herald had already noticed.

"You don't look so sick to me," the Herald observed, pausing in the doorframe. "How do you feel?"

Creigh was glad enough to hear Karsite again, let alone get the chance to speak it. "I'm fine," he said breezily. "I would rather this was a dream, but other than that, I'm fine."

"Good. Fantastic," said Mical. "Now, if you'll come with me, we'll start with Training Fields."

Creigh was too stunned and confused to speak. It took a moment or two of Mical's insistent staring for him to recover.

"Come with you?" he said at last. "I thought the Healers-"

"Them?" Mical grinned broadly, displaying a neat set of clean teeth that gave the impression of mischievous imp. "They won't bother us. They're always looking for some excuse to keep us Heralds, or in your case, Trainees in beds, stretchers, casts, bandages and the lot. Geri insists that they're concerned for us is all, but I'm certain they just like it when we're helplessly under their control."

There was something about the way the Herald spoke that reminded Creigh of Leindal. Not just Leindal, in fact, but another young man he'd known for almost his entire life. But that man, an older boy really, had been enlisted as a soldier to patrol borders in Northwestern Karse. The last he'd ever heard of him was a rumor that "Leindal's boy" had made the rank of major. There was no doubt that he was just learning about Leindal's recent tragedy. Either that, or he was dead.

"First things first," Mical rambled on, more or less to himself than to Creigh. "See if we can get a decent Trainee's uniform before there's a mad scramble for them when Midsummer's over."

Creigh both disliked and appreciated the fact that this Herald didn't mention the so-called 'choice' Alberich had proposed on him. He'd already decided what his fate would be, and done so in less than a moment after they had left his room. No doubt the Armsmaster already knew what he would choose, or else Mical would be much more careful with his words.

Or would he? Creigh was starting to feel that this Herald scarcely did what anyone told him to do, if that.

"Donli-" he began to say, before he could stop himself.

"Already tacked up and waiting. He misses you, in case he didn't mention," Mical assured him. With a face that open and cheerful, how could anyone not believe him? "Ready to go?"

Ready or not, Creigh was convinced, did not matter. Truthfully, he knew he was stuck with no chance of release -- or escape, for that matter. Outside this school, or 'Collegium' as they made a point to call it, he would sooner be found out and given to the Fires before he found another refuge. If he found another refuge.

He tilted his head towards the young Herald. "Ready enough," he agreed tonelessly. Let him be the judge, he decided. I won't let him think I'm taking this all willingly.

After all, there was no reason to believe was wanted here.

No reason at all.

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Alberich's visits to Haven were becoming less frequent, farther apart and none too successful with each attempt. Either everything was all right in the world, or something was very, very wrong.

He wanted to believe that his imagination was running away with him, that everything was just fine, but he found that he could not. It had been less than a year ago since the assassination attempt against the Queen, with no signs of turmoil in the streets whatsoever. It could be that his numerous disguises were becoming too familiar, or someone was watching him, warning others of his true identity.

Or it could be nothing at all. Perhaps there were no more threats to Selenay or the Heir to contend with. Maybe all that remained was old news and leadless rumours. That could have been it.

Maybe.

He'd left, reluctantly, Mical in charge of the Karsite boy. It was done and undoable, but it didn't ease his thoughts to think of the bad habits the boy might pick up from the newly assigned Herald. Regardless, it was his best choice. To put someone else in such a position, a serious Herald with a biased sense of Valdemaran pride for instance, would likely drive the boy to hate the Collegium and its Heralds even more

No, better it be a fool to teach the boy about Heralds. An experienced fool, yes, but still a fool.

Alberich changed out of the plain hide tunic and breeches he'd adorned for his brief scour of the city. By now, the sun was well below the horizon and the lanterns aligned on the walls of the salle had been lit. The strange, moonless darkness seemed to reflect his sour mood over the night's fruitless expedition. A disturbingly uneventful expedition that had him convinced that something was happening, and he was unable to uncover a single piece of the puzzle.

Despite the disappearance of the sun, the night was still incredibly warm and humid. As he had no intention whatsoever to stay in his furnace-like quarters at the salle, he locked the door behind him and left the training grounds via the field past the multitude of straw dummies. The air was thick with moisture, and yet there somehow managed to stir a small breeze. It could be better felt in open areas, thus his choice of an unusual route to the Herald's Wing.

It just so happened this route took him directly past the Healer's salle, in which he paused momentarily, decided against 'checking in' on the Karsite boy, then moved on. It was likely Mical had already moved him to the Trainee's quarters and somehow managed to settle him in. It was late, also. Many of the patients residing there would be asleep.

He most likely would have made it to the Herald's Wing uneventfully, had slight noise not stopped him in his tracks. It came faintly at first, inciting his interest, so he waited for a second or two. Then it came again. It was a sound he knew well, and had grown to loathe.

-the sound of children laughing.

Not just any children, mind - these were boys, and by the sound of it, there were more than half a dozen at least. Not young children, either. Older ones, likely to be Trainees rather than servants. Alberich had never once caught a servant out of their quarters past curfew.

Trainees, on the other hand, were a different story entirely.

He resumed a careful pace, keeping it slow and casual. Only when the laughter rang out again was he confident that no one was scouting him, and therefore no one would return to his friends to warn them. Apparently, the miscreant pack of boys were engulfed in whatever pleasure activity they had chosen to break the rules for.

First mistake. He was delighted, a grim sort of delight over catching the renegades at their false play. That morbid delight lasted for another second or so, before it was replaced by pure, cold outrage.

Another sound had reached his ears, echoed by the same faceless laughing as before. The first sound however, had not been a laugh of any kind, but a muffled yell; one of both pain and anger. He heard something else, although much fainter and much more difficult to place. There was no need to identify it. Alberich was already quite sure what was going on.

Stealth be damned, the Weaponsmaster turned on one heel and began to run towards the source of the disruption. The House of Healing and the Healer's Collegium were attached, both darkened and quiet while their residents slept. It was not from here the trouble was fermenting, but a smaller building some thirty yards away a tack shed used by Chosen and their Companions.

The shed was a two-sided structure with a roof and a few half-stalls on its perimeter. No one stationed here during the night. It was the perfect place to create mischief, or worse, a bullying mob.

Alberich's steps immediately fell silent as he reached the closest wall. The boys were no longer laughing, but the quieter sounds of sniffling and sobbing were evident. Setting his jaw firmly, Alberich slipped effortlessly into a shadowy corner around the tack stalls. From here, he had a clear view of what was happening.

There were eight of them, all dressed in their blue Guard trainee uniforms. They were all students, obviously, the oldest looking no older than fifteen or sixteen – it was difficult to be precise in the dark, as there was but one lantern to illuminate the area. On the ground, not far from the apparent leader of the group, was a figure hunched over in the half-shadows. He could not determine the colour of the stricken boy's clothing, but it was definitely light, not dark.

"Still not going to talk?" sneered the 'leader'. "Filthy, ugly, Karsite piglet! It's not even worth wiping your nose at! Look at it!"

The chorus of jittery laughs flared in his ears, but Alberich barely heard them. He suddenly knew, washed over with the realization of whom the highborn brat was referring to. The term 'Karsite' was as mind numbing as the hollow tone of the Death Bell, the way it was spoken.

The boy on the ground was Creigh.

It took sheer force of will to stay hidden, to not bear down on the group and send cuffs flying in every direction. A moment buzzed by when a sort of shaky, but defiant voice broke the still air.

As diminished as he was, the figure on the ground managed to lift his head a little and spit one of the most creative curses Alberich ever heard at his tormentors. And it was spoken all in Karsite, so that no one but the Weaponsmaster understood. It left a bitter taste in his mouth. That lad was brave indeed, but he had just summoned upon himself yet another savage beating.

Unless, the boy was purposely trying to provoke the mob. It certainly seemed that way, especially considering his current condition. But then, why? Only the utterly daft and death-wishing fool would intentionally put himself through that kind of agonizing torture.

It dawned upon him after a moment. The boy wasn't daft at all, but astonishingly smart. There was no doubt he was provoking the other boys, not to earn another skirmish, but to force them into doing their evil deeds in front of a teacher, to prevent them from denying all involvement.

The boy had seen him.

And still, Alberich had absolutely no intention on letting another blow fall. Certainly the Karsite boy was brave, very brave in fact, but he was clearly unaware of Valdemar's justice system. Alberich did not need to see a single rash act to be sure of the terrible events that had taken place. He just needed a reason, and everything else would simply follow.

The restless group was murmuring now, as if disturbed by their victim's surprisingly forceful display of defiance. A few even stepped back, but made no implication that they were going to run. Why should they? Their prey was cornered, and his weak attempt to curse them away was little more than a distraction.

A smirk flashed across the face of the oldest. His fist raised to poise beside the mad glint in his eye. "Say g'night, Karsite."

The moment before that, one of the taller, nervous-looking student happened to glance over his shoulder. His jaw dropped and trembled when he saw who 'chanced' to be standing there, half-concealed by shadows. He started to squeak a warning to his friends–

Too late.

Alberich melted out his dark corner, crossing the distance to the aggressor in three brief strides. With none too gentle a hand, he seized the back of boy's collar and hauled him away from his target, ignoring his strangled cry of surprise. The Armsmaster swung the student around so that he struggled helplessly in front of the remaining perpetrators.

Every one of them had gone pale, whiter than the hide of a Companion on a sunny day. Two of them swore, loudly, and scrambled to abandon the shed and their companions. The rest continued to stare dumbly.

Alberich allowed them a minute's grace before he spoke. "A game, this is?" he said, keeping his tone low and calm. Chillingly calm.

The oldest whimpered pathetically, drawing a scowl from the Armsmaster. "This is no crime, you claim? No one for this fool will speak?"

"Y-You don't...understand, sir," one of them finally spoke. "We was...we were going to take him to the Healers..."

"We just...found him this way," said another daring voice. "Like...like that."

He had expected a lie, and there it was. Steeling his expression, the Armsmaster let his arm down an inch. Then he released his captive, who immediately flung himself around and backed away into the midst of his cohorts. They, on the other hand, took an obvious step away from him.

Seeing the relief reflect in their collective gazes, Alberich smiled. That smile in which no student ever wanted to see their Weaponsmaster use.

"Move, you will not," he said. "Or your training privileges I will remove, and of your transgression, informed you families will be."

Apparently, his warning got through their thick skulls, for there was not even a trace of movement left in their midst. Then, regardless of the humidity, the air in the shed seemed to grow colder. In this frozen respite, Alberich aimed an ironically fiery glare above their heads, took a step back, then crouched on the ground. He placed a hand on Creigh's shoulder-

-only to learn that it was not Creigh. When the boy looked up, a pair of surprised, green eyes took him in. The boy's face quickly drained of colour, until it closely resembled the horrified expressions of his oppressors.

"Y-you're not one of them…are you?" the youth croaked in perfect, yet heavily accented Valdemaran. "I swear I didn't do nothing…"

Alberich wasn't sure whether 'them' referred to the bullies, or Valdemarans in general. In either case, responding 'yes' to either case seemed likely to frighten the boy even more. As of the moment, Alberich was intensely curious as to who he was and why he seemed so unusually Karsite, when that fact would be entirely impossible. Unless this was one of the child refugees…

No, almost everyone one of those children rescued after the Tedrel battle had been adopted into other families. Very few had remained behind at the Collegium to train as students, as Healers, Bards, and members of the Guard. Those children he knew by name and sight, and this boy was not one of them.

So he juggled between two answers for a moment, before abandoning them both for another. "An enemy you will find I am not," he said firmly, tactfully dropping all effort to make his words sound more Valdemaran. "Your mouth works well enough, I see. Then your name, I require."

"H-Haschel...sir," the boy added, as an afterthought. He relaxed – slightly, although he did uncurl himself from his fetal position a minor fraction.

Alberich was surprised to discover that this boy, Haschel, was not even past his tenth winter. Or, if he was, his docile boyish looks were being stubborn in their natural process of weakening. He was exceptionally large for his age, resembling someone closer to the age of fourteen or fifteen. But there was no mistaking the gangly form of body and round features of his face.

This boy was young, very young; too young to be a Trainee. Then he was a page?

:Not exactly. He's nothing,: Kantor suddenly 'entered' the back of his mind. :By that, of course, I mean he's not a page and he's not a student at any of the Collegiums. Daft and Dafter 'rescued' him during the great escape across the border. One of them had enough brains to sense that he had a mind-Gift and hauled him onto his Companion's back before they ran away. We decided you were busy enough with the older one, so we made a point to not tell you.:

Kantor's Chosen 'sent' him a mental scowl. :'We', I assume means 'we Companions'. Or is it 'we, the entire Royal Council'?:

:A bit of both, actually,: his Companion admitted with a brush of amusement. :If it's any solace, Selenay concocted the idea of keeping him a secret, to keep him out of your misery.:

Misery was not what Alberich would have called this situation. But then again, the Queen knew nothing of the dangers lurking behind highborn boys' grins and taunts.

"Haschel," the Weaponsmaster confirmed impassively. "Able to stand, I trust you are, as badly injured you seem not."

"Yessir," was the solemn Valdemaran reply. The boy then realized that the mark on his head was bleeding and jerked his hand to cover it, averting his eyes embarrassedly.

"Leave it," Alberich ordered him. "Your fault, your injuries are not, and you should not feel ashamed. Those who are responsible, punished will be."

Haschel opened his mouth, as if to say something. His chance to speak was stolen, however, when a loud crash sounded. The oldest of the bullies had clearly lost his nerves over his pending doom and decided to take his chance at fleeing, shoving past his friends and duck out of the opposite side of the shed. He knocked over a stack of empty feed buckets in the process.

Alberich leapt to his feet, but made no attempt to pursue the boy. Instead, he reached out and contacted his Companion with a none-too-gentle shove. :Kantor!:

: I'm one step ahead of you,: came the almost 'lazy' reply. And sure enough, a split moment later a surprised yell split the night. Alberich didn't even have to strain his eyes to see the trembling figure of the fifteen-year-old back his way out of the safety of the open darkness, into the bleak light of the lantern again.

The ghost-like form of a Companion emerged next. Kantor herded the eldest student back towards the shed with an irritated toss of his head and whicker that was no friendly greeting.

The remaining bullies looked panicked; both of their escape routes were now blocked. On one side, they could try to slip past Alberich. Unlikely. On the other, they had to deal with a Companion, whom seemed to share a disposition with his Chosen. And even though it was likely that they weren't all going to be caught, no one was ready enough to step forward and make the first move.

"A Companion I have, you seem to forget," said Alberich mildly. "Yes, a Herald I am, and because I so am, the law I will confide. Expulsion is the reward should another student you harm. And harm you have done, so know that I will your removal from training be seeing to."

"But he's not-" one of them began to protest.

"Under the Queen's protection this boy has been, since here in Valdemar he arrived," the Weaponsmaster interjected icily. "Each one of you, your names and families I will hear. Now, tell me."

The eldest, whom had nestled himself safely in the midst of his friends once more, took this demand with an open-faced snarl. "You can't rat us out if you don't know who we are! What makes you think we're stupid enough to tell you?"

:Does he remind you of someone?: Kantor wanted to know.

Alberich shot his Companion a scarce glance. :I only wish it weren't so. Believe me or not, I am trying to refrain from making more enemies in the high-born part of Haven.:

:Oh, I believe you,: the Companion assured him. :Too bad so many of them can't tell their heads from their tail ends.:

He laughed at that inwardly, but made no such gesture on the outside. In fact, his expression hadn't yet changed by a fraction since he'd become involved in this late-night mess. Well, perhaps it was time to show a little more sincerity, and a little less mercy.

Whatever confidence the eldest boy had regained faded quickly as Alberich bored down on him. He didn't even move when the Weaponsmaster stood directly over him with a glowering look of disapproval. Fear of his inevitable punishment made him stick to one place like a rock. He simply stood stock-still, trembling and scouring his brain for a belated apology - or was it another witless insult that danced on his lips?

"Your name I do not know," said Alberich; he was forcing his voice to a level something more than a whisper. "This matters little. You are a first year, and nothing of your rank have you learned! You know not that a face, I never forget. A face, perhaps, I shall see while in your classes you are training?"

Judging by the boy's stupid look, he still did not understand how deeply in trouble he was. Nor did he seem to realize that Alberich was not just a Herald, but his soon-to-be Armsmaster as well. His friends, on the other hand, realized that particular fact immediately. And finally, one of their shells cracked open.

"Nivel, s-sir," croaked the skinny one that had first spotted Alberich in the shadows. "Nivel Gadrean. I-I didn't think we'd hurt him…that much, really. I just thought, well, he'd…he is Karsite, isn't he?"

Alberich gave him an almost crippling look. These imbeciles knew even less than he'd thought, if they weren't even remotely educated as to his own background. Apparently, the one or two second-years in this bunch had failed to tell their peers about a few life-saving facts about their Weaponsmaster. Not that it mattered; it was not something he would hold against them, after all.

"If Karsite, evil and deserving cruelty is, then show me. No trained, battle worthy Karsite you will meet for many years, other than myself. Attack me, then how little you know, you will see." There. Let them think about that.

Apparently, it was enough to coax a few more names from their babbling mouths. Relvatre, Guire, and Farson were among the high-born mutterings, which not amidst the unexpected things he had experienced that night. Aside from Gadrean, a name more deserving of their good fortune, they were all names he'd heard involved in all assortments of crimes in Haven. None of which he could provide enough proof to bring to justice, however. Unfortunately.

At last, the face of the eldest boy grew red, from either embarrassment or unkempt anger. He turned his head away and spoke through his teeth. "Darte. Graxon. My father…my father will here about you. You think you have the authority to mistreat me like this! Well, you'll see yourself thrown out of the Collegium and into the streets!"

This, Alberich had no trouble disbelieving. Graxon was also a name familiar to him, although in a more amusing sense than the others. Lord Horand Graxon had recently lost many of his estates in a series of bad gambling bets. As of the present, his family was the 'poorest' of the high-born nobles. No wonder his incompetent son was fated to be a City Guard instead of a more dignified profession, like cartography or alchemy. Even less wonder that he'd been dumped into the hands of one of the strictest teachers in the Collegium.

But Darte obviously knew none of this.

:I don't think it would matter if he was the Heir of Valdemar,: said Kantor with a flick of his tail. :No Chosen is ever thrown out. Especially not for forcibly putting a noble brat into line. I think he'd be lucky to set foot in the palace stables after this.:

"Your homes and your rooms you will return to, now," said the Weaponsmaster. "To the Queen I will take this act of treason, as it is her guest this boy is. Out of my sight, all of you. Go!"

And just like that, every last one of them took off like an arrow from a quivering string. Graxon lingered a second longer to glare and sneer, but only a slight movement of Alberich's hand was needed to send him scrambling after the others.

Haschel was staring wide-eyed when Alberich then turned to him. He was not even fearful anymore, but clearly upset. "Why did you do that, sir?" he said quietly. "Won't they get you into trouble? I'm not worth that, sir, really!"

It was Alberich's turn to stare. That surprised him. "No," he said, strategically using Karsite instead of Valdemaran to hopefully ease whatever misgivings the boy had left. "They will not even try, I think. They were wrong in their actions, and so should Valdemaran law reprimand them. Did they injure you seriously?"

The boy was momentarily caught off guard by the Armsmaster's use of Karsite, but he was quick to recover. "I…don't think so, sir," he replied hesitantly, in the same language. "I'm bruised to the liver, but they didn't break nothing. Are...are you really a Dem- a Herald?"

Alberich nodded hesitantly.

"But…but you're not dressed like one! And your horse-"

:Companion,: said Kantor mildly.

"-doesn't look like any kind of witch-beasts I learned about! And your Karsite, like me-"

"All of which matters nothing to the Companions, who are not in fact, witch-beasts," came the stern reply. "Just as you have been told Heralds are not witches, I believe. Would you, Haschel of border village Leindal, feel comfortable in the dress of your former enemies?"

The nine-year-old's mouth hung open for a brief moment before he snapped it shut. He shook his head.

"Neither would I," said Alberich. His expression hardened. "For now, you will see a Healer. Tomorrow, I will see that an instructor comes to your room to provide you with whatever needs you see fit. Who was given your charge?"

The boy seemed thoughtful for a moment, even under his mask of purple and yellow bruises. "Her name is…Rena, I think. She's a Healer, from that building-" he pointed towards the Healer's Collegium, wincing as he did do "-and she's really nice. I was s'posed to get a lantern from the shed that she'd left, but they quick-jumped me, as if they'd known I was coming all along."

"A mistake they will now forfeit their privileges to," Alberich assured him. "I have…further business tonight, which I must see to. But I will take you back to Healer Rena."

Alberich stated forward, only to realize that Haschel, in his attempt to pursue, had stumbled and fallen down again. The Weaponsmaster frowned slightly and knelt to aid the boy to his feet again, and froze-

Haschel's ankle was swollen to the size of a small apple. It was red and black and purple, obviously broken and obviously very painful. There were tears in the boy's eyes next, which killed any frustration of Alberichs' at the boy's lie. Alberich set his jaw and lifted the boy back onto his uninjured foot.

"I swear I didn' feel it-" Haschel choked, despite the pain. "I thought it was just another bruise."

"You are fortunate Rena is a Healer, or your bruises would take days to heal," put Alberich mildly. "The pain you feel now is the least of your problems, however. She will need to concentrate on warding away infections, which can intensify pain for a matter of hours."

He heard the boy whimper, and did not condemn him for it. He knew how the healing process was for open wounds, and this poor child just happened to have many of them. Unconsciously, Alberich's gaze drew closer to his Companion.

:Oh, spare me the look,: said a disgruntled Kantor. :What kind of glorious symbol of kindheartedness would I be if I didn't offer to carry him? At least he'll be lighter on the back than you, my pile-of-bricks Chosen.:

:You could easily carry twice my weight across the Hardorn border and back before you felt a difference,: Alberich informed him somberly. :Try to avoid jolting his leg. The child's been through enough for one day.:

The boy was brave, and managed to make no sound as Alberich aided him onto Kantor's back. At first, Haschel appeared nervous to be mounting a creature he would have found terrifying beyond reason just a few days ago. But he relaxed soon enough, clearly putting a great deal of trust in the Chosen of this Companion he now rode. This in turn, relaxed Alberich a little.

He delivered the shaking boy to the Healers and made a swift exit before they could smother him with embarrassing praise. Rena, in fact, had met him outside the building, having prepared to set out and search for the overdue boy herself. It made his disappearance much easier, and with one encouraging nod to the boy, he retreated.

In less than a week, the Midsummer break would end. By then, he hoped to have uncovered whatever unpatriotic events were happening in Haven, before he became too busy to visit the city regularly. Tonight, maybe, his attempts would prove to be rewarding.

With that in mind, he abandoned his idea of returning to the Herald's Wing. He went to the salle and changed his clothing, before setting out to the city.

The night was very young indeed.