How could this be happening? He didn’t want to be a Herald! Oh, even Bazie had spoken about them with admiration, but no Heralds were ever plucked out of a gutter, not even in a tale!

:Of course I do,: she replied calmly. :You’re a thief. A rather good one for your age, too—:

“Well, then I can’t be a Herald, can I?” He groped for words to try and convince her how mad, how impossible this was. Even though, deep inside, something cried out that he didn’t want it to be impossible. “Heralds are—well, they’re all noble an’ highborn—”

She snorted with amusement at his ignorance. :No they aren’t. Not more than a quarter of them at most, anyway. Heralds are just ordinary people; farmers, craftsmen, fisherfolk—ordinary people.:

“Well, they’re heroes—”

:And none of them started out that way,: she countered. :Most of them started out as ordinary younglings, being Chosen by a Companion. There wasn’t anything special about them until then—not visibly, anyway.:

“They’re good!”

She considered that for a moment, head to one side. :That rather depends on your definition of “good,” actually. Granted, they are supposed to uphold the law,: she continued thoughtfully, :But in the course of their duties, plenty of them break the law as much as they uphold it, if you want to be technical about it.:

“But—but—” he spluttered, as the last light pierced through the tree trunks and turned everything a rosy red, including Cymry. “But—Heralds are—they do—”

:Heralds are what they have to be. They do what the Queen and the country need,: Cymry said, supremely calm and confident. :We Choose those who are best suited to do those things and supply those needs. And what makes you think that the Queen and country might not need the skills of a thief?:

Well, there was just no possible answer to that, and even though his mouth opened and closed several times, he couldn’t make any sounds come out of it.

She paced close to him, and once again he was caught—though not nearly so deeply—in those sparkling sapphire eyes. :Now look—I’m tired and hungry and sweaty. So are you.:

“But—” They were in the middle of nowhere! Where was he—? How was he—?

:This is a Way Station, and as a Herald Trainee—don’t argue!—you’re entitled to anything in it.: She whickered softly. :I promise, there’s food and bedding and just about anything you might need in there. There’s also a bucket of water inside to prime the pump with. I suggest that before it gets too horribly dark, you pump up some water, clean both of us up, and get us both some of the food that’s waiting. You are hungry, aren’t you? You can eat and rest here for the night, and we can talk about all of this.: