Underneath her words, with his protections down, Mags was getting a running match of her thoughts to her words, and he felt more and more at sympathy with her with every passing moment, for all that they seemed so dissimilar. For the past several weeks since her arrival, she had been too shy to open her mouth except to sing—and in any event, all of the Bardic Trainees at or near her own age already had established groups of friends. She shrank from the mere thought of trying to penetrate those apparently-closed ranks. And as for her teachers . . . she was intimidated, not by them, but by how much they expected of her. She was laboring under the burden of her father’s reputation, and that terrified her.

In fact, the memory of that first interview was always lurking in the back of her mind.

“So you are young Lena Marchand.”

“Yes, sir.” The face of the Dean of Bardic Collegium looked down gravely at her. She bobbed her head awkwardly. Lita Darvalis had a formidable reputation; she had Skill, Creativity, and the Gift, all three. Even her father looked up to her with respect, which didn’t happen often.

“We expect great things of you, Lena.” She smiled, but her words practically paralyzed Lena. “You have a formidable legacy behind you.”

Oh, yes. And how could she ever, ever begin to measure up to that legacy? She wanted to fall to the ground and moan in despair. Instead, she shook Lita’s hand, and went to collect her things and be conducted to a room.

The memories and the desperation behind them flooded over him. Here was someone who was feeling just as out of place as he was, and just as unworthy. Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so alone.

Poor kiddie. She scarcely knew her father any more than Mags knew his, and they were expecting her to be some kind of younger copy of him. Mags sensed Dallen all but spluttering with indignation; Mags ignored him. “If ye need a frien’, Lena . . .” he said, slowly, the unfamiliar word leaving a strange, but pleasant, sensation behind it, “I c’ud be yer frien’. If ye want.”

He expected her to look away and politely decline. After all, it wasn’t as if he had anything worth offering to someone like her. So her reaction surprised him.

“You would? You could?” Two bright pink spots appeared on her tear-blotched cheeks. “You’d really be my friend?”

“I guess everyone’d be if they knew ye,” he half-mumbled, staring down at his hands. “Uh . . . I guess poor ol’ Bumper there—”

“I wanted to bury him,” she replied, choking down a sob. “But the ground is so hard—”