If I Were a Herald

Chapter 7

Life's a Dance

Disclaimer: Don't own the idea. Don't own the lyrics. Not even sure if I own the plot. What there is of it. It's a romance, so I'm sure it's been done before. Although a Herald and a pir—ah, nevermind. Mustn't give anything away. Not that y'all haven't already guessed where this is going. Especially after… oh, wait, that's a future chapter. The very next chapter, in fact, unless I change my mind between then and now.

Fireblade K'Chona: Well, as for what's going to happen next… unless I change my mind, I know what's going to happen just about up until it's time for me to go on patrol, in expectation of earning my Whites. As to whether I actually earn those Whites, well, we won't go into that. But I spent about four or five hours today just sitting on my butt staring at the computer screen and working on this story, when I really should've been doing my Chem homework. Ah well, Chem homework will get done when roommate comes back from work. But the point is, if you have any awesome ideas for pranks cooked up between me and Jorjie, you need to suggest them now. Of course, we could always go south after the patrol, and meet a Hawkbrother named Fireblade….

It took me a few weeks, but eventually I settled into the routine of life at Heraldic Collegium. After the first week things were easy—there's nothing like double chores to make a person appreciate free time. And to find ways to fill it. My sword was sharp, as were all my knives. Including the new ones I'd gotten from market.

I adjusted well, as I had known I would. Life's a dance you learn as you go. Etiquette and Diplomacy with Lord Boron—no wonder he was so boring, he was a bloody Lord. And named after an element. That class involved a dance wherein I threw veiled insults at His Highny the Lordship of the Periodic Table, and His Highny the Lordship of the Periodic Table did his best to keep me in line. I think I learned more about court intrigue in that class than either Etiquette or Diplomacy. Of course, Etiquette I already knew—my parents had at least tried to teach me how to act like a civilized human being. Diplomacy not so much. Subtle just wasn't one of my strong points. But I was learning. I was also learning which languages the teacher did and did not know. He didn't know Russian, French, Latin, or Khéósin. He did know Shin'a'in, Karsite, and just about every language on the entire planet of Velgarth.

Weapons training was a dance, too—a dance of a different sort. I'd never been what you could call graceful, but I always strove toward grace, and the forms were a dance of their own, flowing from one to the other in perfectly controlled movements. I even took to rising with the sun for a little pt of my own.

Within two weeks, my muscles were ready to mutiny.

Another week and they'd given up mutiny as a lost cause.

My Gift training was progressing nicely as well. Fetching, I found, was especially useful. Particularly when I heard a certain young nobleman was planning an excursion into town with all his friends. Wouldn't it be inconvenient if he forgot his purse? And if some of the coins just happened to end up in my room, well, I certainly had no idea how they'd gotten there.

I got in so much trouble for that, but it was worth every minute I spent scrubbing toilets just to see the look on FitzJohan's face—whose real name, I later learned, was Jelon. FitzJohan simply meant "son of Johan," so that was how I thought of him until I learned what to call him. Once I learned his name, I called him Jello. He had no idea what it meant, but that was half the fun.

"I should've known an ugly twerp like you wouldn't leave well enough alone," he sneered at me once he learned what I had done.

"Who're you calling ugly, sheka-face?" I asked sweetly. "My name means 'beautiful.' What does yours mean? Pudding?" My name also meant 'energy,' or 'goddess of death.' They all applied to me. Take your pick as to which one applied most.

"My name doesn't have to mean anything," he sneered. Which meant he had no more idea than I did what his name meant.

"Of course, you wouldn't have to know what your name meant," I said smoothly. "I don't suppose your parents thought to tell you. Perhaps they didn't think you'd understand."

Jelon just looked puzzled. Score one for me.

:You really shouldn't steal, dearheart: Lyrna chided me. :It's not very Heraldic of you. And it's not like you need the money. They give you an allowance. And you never spend it. You never go anywhere.:

I shrugged. "I'll donate it to some worthy cause. And the reason I never go anywhere is I'm too busy learning which end of the sword to use to poke people. I did go to market to get myself some new knives."

:Yes, the once. You should get out more. Go, make friends. Someone other than Jorjie and Stef.:

"What about Rachel, the artificer? Doesn't she count, too?" Together, Jorjie, Stef, Rachel, and I made quite a little gang.

I also had to train my Mage-Gift. The Vrondi and I became very good friends. It got to the point where, if I didn't feel their eyes on me, I started to worry. Hell, I always acted like I had an audience—here was my practice for being a celebrity. I spent long hours in the library, researching old spells and practicing them as best I could. I seriously debated trying to build a Gate, but dismissed the idea. Too risky. Maybe the Gate had gone wrong because I didn't have the proper instructions, but maybe it had just been me.

More months passed. I took on a few of the younger Trainees—and a few of the older Trainees—to tutor them in maths. Most of what they were learning was simple arithmetic, with some basic algebra. There was a calculus class—not multivariable, thank heavens—but it was mostly for the artificers. Some of them came to me for tutoring, too.

Just for fun, as if I didn't have enough on my plate, I decided to learn whatever foreign languages that were available. I may not have become fluent, but I gained a passing knowledge of Karsite, Shin'a'in, and Tayledras. And I'd always had a talent for accents. So the accents were perfect, and I could outcuss any sailor.

At night, I dreamt.

We were in port, the town of Vertin—Jorjie's hometown. The captain sat beside me in the tavern, drinking ale. I took one sip of it and almost gagged. "Rum," I said. "Bring me rum. I don't care where it's imported from, just as long as it's rum."

"Strange tastes," the captain commented.

"I grew up in the south, by the sea. Lots of rum there. Me first taste of alcohol was wine, me second gin an' tonic, an' me third a sip o' rum."

"Sometimes I wish I could 'ave lived by the ocean. Lake Evendim be a fine place, but I 'ave this feelin' the ocean would be so much more."

"Oh, it is. So much more. My main regret in coming to Valdemar is that there is no ocean nearby."

"Sing for me, songbird."

And so I sang. For him, for me, for the sheer joy of singing. The song was "Life's a Dance," the lyrics molded slightly because the original singer had been male.

The music played, and we danced. I didn't recognize the tune, but it was a waltz. The captain couldn't waltz, and neither could I, but I remembered one brief lesson. We danced in a dream, broken when I tripped over his foot.

I'd always been rather clumsy. Managed to trip over my own feet standing still. I'd also managed to trip over my chair while sitting in the blessed thing. I could walk a straight line and recite the alphabet backwards while drunk, or balance on a rolla-rolla board while singing and juggling (sober; I hadn't gotten a chance to do that drunk), but on a normal day I couldn't walk ten feet without tripping over something

We danced some of the jigs I'd learned from Jorjie, and a few that the captain knew but I didn't. The music was unfamiliar, and I longed for something I knew, something to which I could dance.

God help me, I wanted to hear rap.

I was unsurprised when the music changed. 'Twas a dream; I wished, and so it was. Only the captain did not know how to grind. So I wrapped his arms around my waist and showed him.

"This is a very improper dance," he whispered in my ear, his grin sounding in his voice.

"Aye, but 'tis how we dance in my homeland," I replied, the archaic words coming easily to my mouth. 'Twas the dreamland, working its magic upon me. "There are slow dances, too. The waltz may be scandalous here, but where I come from 'tis old-fashioned and very prim and proper."

Even in the dream, the alcohol was affecting my judgment. Or perhaps 'twas simply the fact that it was a dream, and my conscious mind had no control. The next song was slow, another one from back home; this one I recognized as "All My Life." I wrapped my arms around the captain's neck, showing him how to dance Earth-style. Our bodies pressed close together, my head tilted upwards for his kiss.

"I will never find another lover sweeter than you, sweeter than you. And I will never find another lover more precious than you, more precious than you. Girl, you are close to me, you're like my mother; close to me, you're like my father; close to me, you're like my sister; close to me, you're like my brother. And you are the only one; my everything, and for you that's all I see. And all my life I've prayed for someone like you, and I thank God that I, that I finally found you. Yes, all my life I've prayed for someone like you, and I hope that you feel the same way too."