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were eliminated.
    That meant hours closeted in Herald Kyril’s office, sitting until her behind went numb on one of the hard wooden chairs he favored, memorizing plate after plate from the state book of devices until her eyes were watering. She fell asleep at night with the wildly colored and imaginative beasts, birds, and plants spinning in mad dances behind her eyes. She woke in the morning with Kyril’s voice echoing out of her dreams, inescapably drilling her.
    She spent at least another hour of every day in the stuffy Council chamber, with the Councilors engaged in pointless debate about this or that item of protocol for the coming ceremony until she wanted to scream with frustration.
    Elspeth, at least, was spared this nonsense; she had quite enough on her plate with her new round of Collegium classes and duties. For the next five years or so, once the ceremony was complete, she would be neither more nor less important nor cosseted than any other trainee—within certain limitations. She would still be attending Council sessions once she’d settled in, and certain High Court functions. But these were far more in the nature of duties rather than treats—and were, in fact, things Talia reckoned that Elspeth would really rather have foregone if she’d had any choice in the matter.
    When Talia had taken the opportunity to check on her, the girl seemed well-content. She was surely enjoying the new-found bond with her Companion Gwena. Keren had told Talia that every free moment saw the two of them out in the Field together, which was exactly as it should be.
    But there was one unsettling oddity about the Council sessions that kept them from sending Talia to sleep—an oddity that, in fact, was contributing to an uneasiness ill-suited to the general festive atmosphere that hovered over Court and Collegium.
    Talia was catching Councilors and courtiers alike giving her bewildered, almost fearful glances when they thought she wasn’t watching. If it had not happened so frequently, she might have thought she was imagining it, but scarcely a day passed without someone watching her with the same attention they might have given to some outre creature that might prove to be dangerous. It troubled her—and she wished more than once for Skif and his talents at spying and subterfuge. But Skif was furlongs away at very best, so she knew she’d have to muddle along beneath the suspicious glances, and hope that whatever rumors were being passed about her (and she had no doubt that they were about her) would either be put to rest or come to light where she coufd confront them.
    Another goodly portion of each day she spent helping to train a young Healer, Rynee, who was to substitute for her while she was gone on her internship circuit. Rynee, like Talia, was a mindHealer; she could never replace Talia, not without being a Herald herself, but she could (and would) try to keep her senses alert for Heralds in stress and distress, and get them somewhat sorted out.
    And last, but by no means least, there were exhausting bouts with Alberich, all with the express purpose of getting both Talia and Elspeth prepared for any kind of assassination attempts that might occur.
    “I really don’t understand why you’re doing this,” Elspeth said one day, about a week from the date of the ceremony. “After all, I’m the one who’s the better fighter.” She had been watching from a vantage point well out of the way, sitting cross-legged on one of the benches in the salle, against the wall. Talia was absolutely sodden with sweat, and bruised in more places than she cared to think about—and for a wonder, Alberich wasn’t in any better condition than she.
    Alberich motioned to Talia that she could rest, and she sagged to the floor where she stood. “Appearances,” he said, “partially. I do not wish that any save the Heralds should know how skilled you truly are. That could be the saving of your life, one day. Also it is tradition that