If I Were a Herald

Chapter 9

Don't Laugh at Me

More lemonishy goodness. Bear with me for a while as I explore the wonders of the "M" rating.

This chapter is also slightly more serious than the others. Just slightly. I was listening to my music, and this song came on, and I had to include it in my story. It's really quite touching. One of the reasons I like country music is that every once in a while I hear a song with a message that speaks directly to my heart. I know exactly what he's saying in the song. I've been there. The geek, the nerd. The outcast. The ugly one—people called me that so much that it took me a long while to accept that most people actually found me pretty. So, if you do see someone who's different, someone with no fashion sense, who wears sweatpants and t-shirts three sizes too big because it's comfortable, don't laugh. Don't point. Don't name-call. Think how you would feel if you were in their shoes.

DBZ Addict: Taileffer can be pronounced however you want to pronounce it. I pronounce it how it looks—Tail-e-fur. But I'm not sure exactly, because it was found in a written document about the Battle of Hastings, which happened in 1066. Taileffer was, in fact, Duke William's minstrel, and he did begin the battle, juggling spear and sword. About your questions—filk is a type of music. I'm not sure what it is, exactly, but most of it seems to be fanfiction in music, or music about the author's own stories. Mercedes Lackey does in fact have recorded music, though I'm not sure how much is actually sung by her and how much is sung by other singers, but the songs were written by dear Misty. Roger Zelazny is indeed a real author. He writes fantasy and science fiction. I know him best for his Amber novels, beginning with Nine Princes in Amber. Very good books. All ten of them can be found in a single book known as The Great Book of Amber. Lyrna is a very unusual Companion, beginning with the fact that she Chose a pirate. I'm writing it how I think it would really happen, not how idiotic Mary-Sue writers always write it. I would like to point out that while this may be a self-insert, it's not a Mary-Sue. I have too much respect for the written word to write something so debasing. And my Companion isn't Groveborn. As for the knowledge of the future, it's a far-removed future that I know of, which makes it easier to keep my mouth shut. It's not like I can save any of the people I've met by saying what's going to happen a year from now, because I don't know. Plus I'm something of a sci-fi fan, so I've read plenty of stories about time-travel. So I know to keep my mouth shut.

Fireblade K'Chona: I think I may have to do the baking soda and vinegar. Yes! I'll put it in the party chapter. But first I have to ask my chem teacher what exactly baking soda is made of, so I can know how to find it in the story… I'm sure MacGyver would know, but unfortunately he's not very accessible. As for the music, well, I don't play an instrument, not really, although I'm learning at Bardic in the story, and I also don't know how to play Beethoven.

Nawyn: Continue wondering about my pirate captain. Is he real? Is he not? Will I meet him? To borrow a cliché, it's for me to know and you to find out.

From the Private Journal of Captain Jacoby of the Bloodred Falcon. (Discovered during his trial.)

It happened again last night. I dreamt of her. The songbird with the voice like an angel. I cannot see her face, but in the dreams that does not matter. If only she were real.

"Forget 'er," says Hilso, the first mate. "There be plenty o' wenches o' flesh an' blood for ye to swive. Or lads. That one o'er there 'as the look o' shaych about 'im." They all know me preferences. I've not made any secret of it.

I shake my head. "I canna just forget 'er. 'Tis a strange business indeed." They do not understand. I may seem to spend my nights alone, but I am far from lonely, for she is with me. Yet I canna predict which nights she will come.

I have written a song about her, and 'tis worse drivel than "My Lady's Eyes." I wrote it to her eyes, which are not the blue of the heavens but the golden-brown of ale, though how I know this I cannot say.

Why can I not see her face?

The dreams were becoming more frequent, more demanding. There was one nervous-making incident where I woke up in the middle of the dream and remembered that I hadn't been planning to screw anyone until I was married—quite a shock to my senses, as well as no minor scare, until I realized that it had been just a dream. I'd never been so relieved in my life.

That is, until I thought back to the dream, and how handsome the captain was, and how kind he was to me—even if his only thought, it seemed, was the fastest way to get me out of whatever clothes I happened to be wearing. I tended to return the favor to him, so we were square.

I was getting just a little bit desperate to "get me some"—kisses, at least. I finally discovered drunken parties some time in February, usually thrown by the Bardic Trainees. Kiss-fest orgies. Bring it on.

Then Jorjie discovered what I was doing.

"How can you stand that?" she asked me. "They stick their tongues in your mouth, and it's just gross!"

"Not that bad," I assured her. "And alcohol helps."

"I'm never going to kiss any guy," she said. "Never. Ever. Or do the other thing."

I half-grinned at her, the lopsided grin for which my character Sam Stormwind was known. "It's called sex, Jorjie. Or screwing, or fucking. If you want to be really proper, call it making love."

"Is it as awkward as one would imagine?" Jorjie asked, sidestepping the issue of terminology.

I shrugged. "I wouldn't know."

"Oh, come on. I caught you and Karl in here playing half-dressed mouth-to-mouth."

"Ah, yes. Karl. Ye gods, can he kiss. But he can't hold his liquor. He's even worse than me when it comes to that. A minute after you left, he passed out on the bed. I had to carry him back to his room. Lucky for me he did pass out. That situation could've gotten really awkward really fast." Explaining my vow of chastity to Karl while the two of us were drunk could have been a wee bit difficult.

"Well, I'm never having sex. Too awkward. And I've heard it's painful."

"Just the first time—at least, that's the only time it's supposed to hurt. I thought you grew up on a fishing boat. You should know this stuff."

"Yeah, well, I have no way of knowing what's true and what's not. I was eleven when I was Chosen. My mom hadn't yet given me the talk."

That meant she'd spent seven years already as a Trainee. "So are you getting your Whites soon? Seems an awful long time to be a Trainee."

"Oh, they don't know when I'm going to get my Whites. Mostly I've finished my classes—I've just got a few that I need to work on, and weapons training, of course, never ends—but they refuse to give me my Whites until I grow up. Which I will never do."

Someday, she was going to eat her words. I just knew it. You say you won't, but yes, you will.

Another day, another party. By this time I'd spent over a year at the Collegium. It was already December again. I'd learned harp, fiddle, and lute; I couldn't play them as well as most of the true Bardic students, but that didn't really matter when my cover was a poor minstrel. I'd also spent hours writing down the music to all the songs on my cds. My extra stores of batteries were half-gone. Maybe I could get together with the artificers and come up with some way to recharge the batteries using magic.

The Bardic Trainees wanted me to play for them, something they hadn't heard before. "Come on, you're so good at singing, and you know so many new songs."

Sing us a song, you're the pianoman. Sing us a song tonight. Well we're all in the mood for a melody, and you've got us feeling alright.

So I sang for them. I sang "Deeper Than the Holler," a countrified love song that I rather enjoyed, and "Forever and Ever Amen." Then I bowed my way off the makeshift stage and found the keg of ale. Singing was thirst work—thirsty enough that I ignored the pissy taste as the ale slid down my throat.

A voice to my left caught my ear. It was Jello FitzJohan, and from the sounds of things he was up to his usual mischief. I heard sniffling that indicated tears threatening to fall, and Jello's voice saying, "You'll never amount to anything, lowborn scum. You'll never fit in here. You don't have the manners of the lowest page, and that accent of yours will give you away anywhere."

I whirled on him. I hated it when people made fun of others for being different. So what if his victim was piss-poor? So what if he or she—he, I saw, noting the small boy who was blinking back tears—couldn't speak without an accent? That didn't give Jelon the right to walk all over him. "Shut your trap, scumface," I snarled.

He just sneered at me. "Oh? Is this trash a friend of yours? Or perhaps you fancy him. You'll never get anything better, not even when you're a Herald. If you're ever good enough to get your Whites. You'll probably be just a Trainee your whole life."

Something came over me then. It was hot anger, yes, but also cool, calculated rage. And I began to sing. I sang "Don't Laugh at Me" with so much force that Jelon stumbled back several steps. Energy flowed into the music, showing him what it was like. What I had gone through as a child because I was different, what this child was going through now, and what he would go through if his friends ever left him as he deserved.

The music stopped, and the dancers stilled. They all watched, their eyes like the Vrondi, watching me exercise my Gift. For a Gift it was, though I wasn't sure exactly what I was doing. The main holdback in my Gift training was that no one had yet figured out how my Wild Talent worked. They knew it was there, but not how to access it, nor precisely what it would do.

I finished the song, still glaring daggers at Jelon. His eyes were very round. Overall, he looked quite polaxed. And rather like he wished he could disappear into the woodwork.

One of the Bardic Trainees broke the ensuing silence. "Did anyone else feel what I felt?"

The next one spoke directly to me. "You used a Gift. The Bardic Gift."

This first one disagreed. "No, it wasn't Bardic. But it was close. It came out through the music."

I'd been right. There was magic in the music. And now I knew how to use my Wild Talent. "You hear that, Vrondi? I may not be able to control audiences with the Gift, but at least I can communicate!"

Please review. Remember, the Vrondi are watching.