Notes: Bad stuff's been happening lately. Some good stuff. Mostly bad. Anyway, I'm getting around to updating at last…

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Neither would I, Triaxx2. Neither would I. As there were several 'looks' in this chapter, I have no dimply clue what you mean, but…hmm. Opinions are very appreciated in the land of my insanity. Thank you for reviewing! Nice attention to detail, by the way. Cool beans.

Ai, and since I know both Tessabe and Wizard116 from The Collegium, there's really no need for a review response, eh? See you two around!

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Disclaimer: Consult previous chapter.

Five times, Creigh tried to take the parchment out of his pocket and stuff in the drawer beside his bed. Five times, he ended up leaving the single, undecorated room with it folded innocently inside of his belt. He tried not to think about it as he followed his daily routine, pretending and sometimes forgetting it was there at all. But it was there, at the end of every day when he got undressed. And no one seemed to take notice until, out of desperation, Creigh had failed to undress and wore the same clothing he had the previous day.

A Healer was the first to confront him about it; the same woman that had cured him of his headaches. She was as crafty as she was observant, for she listened to his hesitant explanation of his dilemma and then silently ignored him for the remainder of the say. When he was just returning to his room at the Healer's salle after the confrontation, she wordlessly handed him something wrapped in a cloth. When he opened it, he discovered a soft velvet pouch in its folds. She then explained that keeping valuables in the pouch would prevent him from having to move them from one set of clothing to another. She also assured him that it would only open if he opened it, so nothing would be stolen from it when he went outside.

He would have preferred if someone had stolen the parchment. It would have been out of his life, and its poison would release its hold on him. But instead, he thanked her with a sincere smile and went up into his room. He knew better than to try and return the expensive gift – he didn't want to insult her, after all.

It wasn't until the next day that he realized how she'd 'kindly' deceived him. For the moment he put the pouch on his belt, he felt something had changed. Upon opening the pouch, he discovered with a great deal of alarm that it was empty. Only when he tore the pouch off again and hastily shook it upside down over his bed was he truly shocked, for the parchment that had been missing floated down onto his sheets. And so he drew the conclusion that while he wore the pouch, its contents were invisible to any that looked within, but when it was not worn, its contents became visible again.

He didn't ask her where she had received such a precious and mysterious thing. He had a feeling she would not tell him, anyhow. Nor would she bring the subject up about it once she had handed it over. It simply joined his tally of few possessions and nothing more was made of it.

He now wore a pale gray uniform – clothes he'd been told were worn by Trainees. Trainees were students who had been Chosen by a Companion, whilst other trainees were a mixture of Bardic, Healer and Guard students, including those of the Royal Guard. That was another thing about Valdemar that confused him; everything was colour-coded according to position. Chosen Trainee uniforms were no more elaborate than those of the Bardic trainees – simply a different colour.

When he thought back at the arrogant, aloof way Mical had assumed his choosing to stay, he felt angry. Yet he felt relieved at the same time. It spared him from a long speech, or an awkward explanation as to why he decided to "try out" his new life. Not all of his reasons involved an imminent death should he return to Karse.

He'd been (pleasantly) surprised to learn that he was not the only Karse boy from Leindal to make that decision. Three days ago, Haschel came to visit him in his new quarters, accompanied by a friendly-looking Healer woman whom he introduced as Rena. The story about how the Herald Garan had detected a glimpse of Haschel's Gift during the battle came out into the open. Haschel too, had been rescued from a similar fate as Creigh.

But today, Creigh was nervous. It was the first time he'd felt anything so severely since his abdication over the border. Today, his classes begun.

He was told he would be training his gift, honing skills with a sword and bow, learning basic Valdemaran history, and taking an advanced language-writing class offered to all foreign trainees. Mical informed him that despite his rustic Valdemaran, he was far too advanced for the beginner's class. Creigh believed him.

There was good reason for his discomfort, too. He'd encountered many other students his age during his exploration of the Collegium grounds, but they had merely regarded him with cold indulgence. Only once had he ever encountered another Trainee wearing a similar uniform to his own, but she had ignored him, intentionally or not.

His morning was consisted of both language and weapons training. His language instructor, Keratha, a quiet but stern old woman who had been a Royal Guard in her youth, was patient with him as he struggled over nouns and verbs he'd never once used before. Creigh allowed himself a small amount of relief, knowing he would not be ridiculed for his poor grasp of the language. But he did not feel truly relieved until the class was over, and he paused just outside the door to recall the direction of the Training Grounds.

Someone tapped his shoulder lightly. His reflexes were to be commended, for he spun around so quickly, the boy that had been standing behind him jumped back. It was another Trainee, a youth perhaps a year older than him, now bearing an odd mixture of a sarcastic and questioning expression.

"Sorry," said the Trainee, but with no hint of venom. "You forgot this."

Creigh looked down at the object in the boy's hand and recognized it immediately. It was the parchment from his pouch. Without even thinking, he snatched it from the other boy's possession and hastily tucked it where it belonged, fumbling with a word that formed on his lips.

"It's 'Thank you'," said the Trainee, grinning. "That's what you say when someone does you a favour. Are you...really the new Chosen from Karse? The one Donli plucked right out of the sentry lines?"

Creigh stared on for a moment, bewildered. Half of what the boy said made no sense to him. But he understood enough to try and put today's lesson to use.

"That is as they say I am," he said slowly. "Donli, yes, my Companion is."

"Right," came the reply. "So, you're Creigh. I'm Ooric, Chosen of Peleates. For whatever she's good for."

Creigh's eyes widened. "A female Dem- Companion, a boy they can choose?"

Ooric's grin only widened. "Yes, of course. Actually, Donli's Chosen before you was a young woman."

Cold flooded through Creigh's chest. Donli had another Chosen? When? What happened to her? How could his Companion keep such a secret from him?

:She was my Chosen. That is all: said a soft voice at the edge of his mind. :She no longer is. I care for you, my Chosen. That is all.:

"No one told you, did they?" Ooric was saying hesitantly. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I can be a true idiot when it comes to keeping my mouth shut. Anyway, we had better be going. Weaponsmaster Alberich will bring the sky down on us if we're late."

After an unsuccessful grappling for his Companion, who had retreated into his own corner, Creigh pushed the matter of the former Chosen off to one side. He nodded slightly, then paused, giving the other boy a curious look. "Alberich's class, you are in? As well as I?"

"Unfortunately," sighed Ooric, brushing his red-speckled hair from his face. "He's a monster when it comes to training. If you slack off even a bit, you'll get the flat of his sword. Multiple...um, many times."

Creigh was moderately confused. "Sword? Why his sword would I want? My own, I have."

He then got another shock, when Ooric burst into furious laughter. For at least a full minute, he stood and stared blankly at the other boy as he tried to compose himself, but continuously failed after a single glance at Creigh's face set him off again. Finally, Ooric stood up with his hands pressed against his eyes.

"Never mind. This lesson is better learned the hard way," he said, smothering another snort. "Let's hurry, then. You don't want to mess up on the first day!"

No, he most certainly didn't. Sure, Ooric seemed to be friendly enough. But then, Creigh had been told that Heralds and Trainees were twice as forgiving towards foreign students as other trainees were. Perhaps it had something to do with being Chosen. Or perhaps it was because Ooric was something of a foreigner himself. Why else would he be in a language class?

Whatever the reason, he now had someone from this country that didn't want to drown him in the river. That was some consolation.

:You have me: said Donli quietly.

:Besides you.: Creigh shook his head to himself. :I think I'm going to regret staying here.:

:You won't.:

:We'll see.:

Creigh followed Ooric to the training grounds, while occasionally engaging in a brief question or two with the impossibly good-natured boy. While his head was heavy with more than a million worries, his heart felt lighter than it had ever been since...well, long before he'd received that cursed piece of parchment.

It was a promising day.

-

There were two days Alberich looked forward to the most. They each came once every year and quite evenly spaced apart. While one brought him great relief and a small bit of satisfaction, the other made him pleasantly nervous. Not such in the way he was worried about consequence, but the selection of students he would be given.

One of those days was the first day of class. The other was the last day of class.

And so, today, Alberich was nervous. Nervous about a great many of things, most of those being the norm – the size of his classes, how well behaved the first years would be after spending most of their lives being pampered. It was the type of anxiety that was also investigative. He enjoyed pounding their luxurious lives out of them and watching them grudgingly transform into ready fighters. Knowledgeable ones, not the kind that had been spared too many throws into the mud.

Today, on the other hand, he had another thing to worry about. The Karsite boy. He had little doubt the youth knew nothing of handling a weapon, being the son of a farmer instead of a more free-lance occupation. A farm hand had very little time on their own – even less to spend on weapons training. There was plenty of strength in muscle, no doubt. The boy was in good shape. However...

The problem was inevitable. If Alberich was going to train this boy enough to be as ready as the other first years, he would either have to train him personally, or work him harder. Either way, he could not avoid the impression that he was giving the Karsite special treatment. It was one more thing he would have to abide. Such things were forgotten quickly, anyway.

The second-year trainees filed out of the room. Some were moaning about their fresh bruises – not all of them received by Alberich – but most were reflectively silent. It was an enormous change, one that always took place between the first and second year. Unfortunately, it was now the time of day to "meet" his new first year students. The part of the day he had been dreading – and looking forward to.

They came individually, of course. Being only the first of many days, there was no time to form cliques or clubs. The first of the arrivals was lost; Alberich waved the boy inside the salle silently. He instructed him to stand near the wooden staves, but not to touch them. That order was obeyed.

Within a few minutes, twenty-four youths stood before him, ranging in ages from thirteen to eighteen. Ooric, the son a passive Rethwallen merchant, was the oldest. Creigh was the next closest in age. The rest, on the either hand, were either thirteen or fourteen. There were, surprisingly, only two girls. Both Trainees.

It was a very strange group. It was not by far the strangest he'd ever seen, but it was close. What racked his nerves the most was the Karsite. While the others stared at him, Creigh's gaze was trained on the Weaponsmaster.

"You are aware, I know," said Alberich after several, long minutes of silence. "Trainee Creigh is not Valdemaran, but Karse. However here, foolish boyhood spite I do not entertain." Then, slowly, he turned a hard gaze on Ooric. "Some of you, experienced you may be, with these lessons I teach. Some not."

He was satisfied to see the eighteen-year-old flush at the comment. Ooric of the House of Tangrith was among the first years, yes, but this was not her "first year". In fact, Ooric had repeated his first year three times over now. This was currently his fourth year. The poor boy was simply a terrible fighter and couldn't put two sums together to save his life.

"Staves today your training will be," the Weaponsmaster stated. "Each one of you, a staff you will receive. Ooric, the one to present staves will be."

There was some mild confusion and some restless whispering, but it was not long before each trainee had a staff. They also bore equally distasteful expressions. Alberich had no doubt what those expressions were for.

Of course, as he had expected, one of the younger students grimaced at his staff as it were coated with poison. "Staves? My father doesn't train us with staves. I know how to handle a sword, old man."

More whispering. Ooric let out a soft groan and inched away from the highborn boy, as if he were coated with poison. But Alberich did not smile, or calmly state that the boy was incorrect, as he might have done with an older student. Instead, he rather casually took a few steps toward the group of boys, until he loomed over defiant student and his primitive staff.

"The perhaps these lessons you will forfeit?" he offered. "Or perhaps with the second-years you wish to train. If your father, a warrior in his son sees, might ask of me your special training. No. Today, with staves you will train."

The boy grudgingly nodded, but refused to look up or acknowledge the Weaponsmaster. Alberich did not care. If the rebel would follow instructions until he did consult his father, there would be no disruptions in his class. Nor would the other boys, undoubtedly with similar problems, feel inclined to speak out.

He did not, however, miss the slightly agape mouth on Creigh's face. The boy shut it immediately once Ooric elbowed him, but there was no mistaking the look as one of utter perplexment. The question reeked without being spoken. How dare he speak rudely to a highborn brat? It was unthinkable.

With time, of course, the Karsite would come to understand the rules of the salle. Hopefully – he found himself wishing with a tinge of regret – the boy wouldn't have to experience those rules first-hand in order to learn them.

Thus the lesson struggled on. The rebellious student proved to be at least partially honest about his claims, as he effortlessly performed the basic footwork and proper handling of the staff without so much as a hint of interest. Ooric's movements were similar, having used them too many times in his life to have easily memorized them. Alberich found himself correcting the young man repeatedly for moving ahead of the other trainees. Eventually, he ordered him to leave the group and practice by the mirrors. He could not fault the boy for rushing – Alberich was purposely slowing the movements down for the sake of the ignorant students.

Creigh did as well as the other new students. He fumbled once or twice – that was to be expected – but no one chided or jeered at him for being clumsy whilst under the eyes of the Weaponsmaster. Alberich suspected that even with his back turned, they ignored him. Good. There would be, at least, no bruised muscles or broken bones for the Karsite as his younger counterpart had received.

It had not occurred to him until now the communication between Ooric and the Karsite boy. Ooric was not ignoring Creigh as they others were, but instead interacting with him with short, well-placed wisecracks and even a few suggestions on his technique when Alberich allowed a short five-minute break.

Things were progressing far better than he had expected. There was only time, and there was plenty of time left before this boy from Karse was safe.

-

When the moon's end finally came around, most of the first year students were complaining of sore, stiff arms. Creigh felt the strain in his muscles, too, though he kept quiet about it. This work was very different from the hard, manual labour he endured on his father's farm. It was also more enjoyable. He did not have to wake before sunrise to feed the hungry livestock, or throw around heavy bales of straw that made his back ache at every day's end.

He was both relieved and disappointed to find the Armsmaster's treatment of him very unlike treatment at all. Herald Alberich had done all but ignored him, which he was inwardly glad for. But then he was angry at the same time. Why he felt that way, however, he didn't understand.

"Everything all right?" Ooric wanted to know, coming up beside him as he was crossing the training ground. The older boy was attempting to dry his sweat-soaked brow with a towel.

"Fine, I guess," came Creigh's hesitant response. Even after a full moon, he still had to carefully choose his words in order to make sense of them. "Confused, I believe I am. Something unright is."

"Wrong," Ooric corrected automatically. He had already adjusted to remedying Creigh whenever he needed correction. "Something is wrong. Why?"

Creigh stopped walking, pausing just between the rows of straw dummies. His face was affixed with calculation. "Ooric, this I wish to know. Karse and Valdemar, for a long time, enemies have been?"

Ooric slowly lowered the towel from his face; he raised an eyebrow. "Right," he said slowly.

"Then these other students, why keep-on they to myself ignore?"

His newfound friend's jaw hung open slightly for a moment, before the young man closed it. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Continue, Creigh. Not 'keep-on'. And I'm not sure why. Your friend, that Haschel lad, it's different for him. I mean, the first time it happened, it was bad luck. But trainees usually ignore foreigners who aren't Chosen. You, on the other hand, you're a special case."

There was a momentary lapse of silence. Then Creigh straightened. "Why?"

Ooric sighed. "Well-"

"There he is! Darte, we found him!"

Creigh's entire body froze at the sound of the familiar shout. The voice he recognized belonged to one of the younger first-years, a boy named Nivel. And wherever Nivel lurked, lurked another student and his cronies - Darte Graxon. Until now, they had left him alone. Perhaps they had decided to change their minds?

He turned around, forcing himself to smooth his face of anything that may betray his worried resentment. Where Nivel stood, another three boys from his class also waited. It was not another second or so before Darte joined them, along with two other students who were, to Creigh's surprise, third-years. Both of the older boys were his age, roughly his weight and build, and visually boasting their jobs as Darte's personal bodyguards.

"Why, joy. What swamp did you crawl out of this time, Graxon?" said Ooric smoothly.

"Geld yourself, Ooric. We want to talk to the Karsite, not you," came the venomous reply. "We just want to say something, that's all."

"Oh, really," Ooric said just as coolly. "Half the things out of your mouth are worth less than the dirt you're standing on. Are we supposed to be impressed?"

"We happen to think the Karsite did pretty well today," Graxon sniffed. "You know we could be allies, you and I, Creigh. Consider it as an offering of friendship between two fighters, one Valdemaran, the other Karsite. It would be the first step towards peace between our countries."

"That first step was taken a long time ago," growled Ooric. "When Weaponsmaster Alberich was Chosen as a Herald."

"Weaponsmaster Alberich is a crooked grouch," sneered Graxon. "He deserves to be hanged. He doesn't even know his place, the old bastard. But I think you're different, Karsite. You look strong, like Arram and Grayfeld here. I'm sure you're full of ideas no one ever bothered to ask you about."

"I do not understand," said Creigh flatly. "Ideas, I have, of many things. None in particular, there are, that useful to anyone might be."

"Oh, you have them," Graxon insisted, which invoked grins on the faces of his peers. "You see, we don't like that crotchety old man Alberich any more than you do. We want to remind him to treat us students with some respect."

"Nothing against Alberich I have," said Creigh defensively.

"Nothing?" echoed Nivel. "Haven't you ever pulled a prank before? You don't need to have anything against him, Karsite. It's more of a…friendly gesture. But…if you don't have any ideas that could help us, then I guess you're just not as bright as we thought you were."

Ooric lay a hand on Creigh's shoulder and gripped it tightly. "I wouldn't listen to them. They're trying to trick you into whatever scheme they've got planned."

But the tips of Creigh's ears were burning now. He could not help it – his hands were semi-consciously curling into fists as the insult stung him. "Pranks I have done. Those merely games are. Once a blacksmith, taking a hot sword from coals, as punishment for being late, a boy he branded. At night, his drink we changed, while he slept his head we shaved as his punishment-"

"Creigh, calm down-" Ooric whispered fiercely.

He had no interest in such things. Creigh closed in on Graxon as his heavily accented words grew sharper. "-for the innkeeper, who women he abused, painted warning signs from spirits on his walls we did. An old farmer, who from my father did steal chickens, on his horses we put red ink and his chicken coop we set fire-"

"That's enough!" snapped Ooric, shoving himself between the Karsite boy and Graxon. "Don't you see you're just playing his game? You don't have to prove anything! They're not worth it."

"The only thing around here that's worthless is you, Rethwallen," spat Graxon. "Let's go, gentlemen. I don't think the Karsite and his slime-gutted friend appreciate our hospitality. What a shame."

"It's a shame you're still breathing, but you don't see us complaining," Ooric muttered.

Graxon sniffed, waved to his third-year bodyguards and stormed off between the rows of practice dummies. The remaining boys were quick to take of their rear, which left Creigh and Ooric alone in the midst of the training field. The Rethwallen youth yelled something vulgar after their retreating backs, but received only cold silence in return. He spat on the ground.

"Why do that?" said Creigh temperedly. "Graxon should learn. A leader, a fighter, clever he is not. Knows nothing about survival or honour, does he."

"And clearly, neither do you," sighed Ooric. "Don't you realize yet? If he and his clique somehow manage to pull a prank on the Weaponsmaster, they can tell whoever is in charge that you gave them the idea. What's worse, you just made it true."

Creigh felt his stomach turn to ice. It was true. It was all very, very true. Without even thinking, he'd supplied every reason for anyone to believe he was associated with Graxon and his gang. If they did something terrible and blamed it on him, there was no way he could escape the punishment.

"So blind!" he growled, covering his eyes with a hand. "The trap they set for me I did not expect. Truly blind, I must be!"

Ooric sighed deeply. "Well, it's over. There's nothing we can do about it. The best we can do now is hurry and get something to eat before luncheon is over. We can worry about this later."

Creigh stared at the ground for a moment before nodding solemnly. "Then let us go. I apologize."

"Nah, don't." Ooric slapped him on the shoulder. "It could have happened to anyone. Graxon is a dirtball, end of story. Let's just call it another lesson you've learned the hard way."

But as well-meant Ooric's words were, Creigh was sullen to wonder if anything could be learned the easy way. It seemed as if everything he had learned up to this point he worked for, and it was hard.

And now…now what had he got himself involved in?