During this rather remarkable speech, Skif had felt his jaw sagging slowly. It was not what he had expected to hear. His shock must have been written clearly on his face, because the Dean smiled a little again. “This is Herald Teren,” he continued, gesturing to the other man, who although friendlier, was looking distinctly worried. “He is, technically, in charge of you, since he is in charge of all of the newly Chosen. You’ll be getting your first lessons from him, and he will show you to your new quarters and help get you set up. Under normal circumstances, he would have picked out a mentor for you among the older students—but these are not normal circumstances. So although one of the older students will be assigned as a mentor, in actuality you will have a very different, though altogether unofficial mentor.”

“That,” said a grating voice that put chills up Skif’s back, “myself would be.”

He knew that voice, and that accent—though when he’d heard it before, it hadn’t been nearly so thick.

And when the third figure stepped out of the shadows, arms folded over his chest, scar-seamed face smiling sardonically, he stepped back a pace without thinking about it. Skif had never seen the hair before—stark black with thick streaks of white running through it—because it had been hidden under a hood or a hat. But there was no mistaking that saturnine face or those cold, agate-gray eyes. This was the sell-sword who’d spoken with (and spied on?) Jass, who had threatened Skif in the cemetery.

“You!” he blurted.

“This is Herald Alberich, the Collegium Weaponsmaster,” said the Dean, “And I will leave you with him and Teren.”

“But you can’t b-b-be a Herald—” Skif stammered. “Where’s yer, yer white—”

“Herald Alberich has special dispensation from Her Majesty herself not to wear the uniform of Heraldic Whites,” Herald Teren interrupted, as Alberich’s expression changed only in that he raised his right eyebrow slightly.

And now, suddenly, an explanation for Skif’s own rather extraordinary behavior in the cemetery hit him, and he stared at the Herald in the dark gray leather tunic and tight trews with something like accusation. “You Truth Spelled me!”

Now that he knew Alberich was a Herald, there was no doubt in his mind why he had found himself telling the man what he knew that night in the cemetery. Everyone knew about Heralds and their Truth Spell, though Skif was the first person in his own circle of acquaintances who’d actually undergone it, much less seen it.

The two Heralds exchanged a glance. “Elcarth’s right,” said Teren. “He’s very quick.”