by G. H. Duval
After what seemed an eternity to Dodge, his father addressed him.
“I’m taking Brill into town. He needs Tahnia. If you want to help, clean up this mess.” Harlan’s voice was flat and emotionless; he did not meet Dodge’s eyes. As he turned away to move through the fields towards their house, he said over his shoulder, “I’ll send your mother to see to this. You and I will speak when I return.”
As he watched his father go, Dodge was thankful that Brill kept his face forward. He did not want anyone to see him as he was now.
He was still standing thus, mute and lost, when his mother arrived minutes later. She fixed him with a hard stare that made it plain he was to keep his mouth shut. She surveyed the damage—the pounds upon pounds of broken and bruised produce—and her mouth formed into a flat line.
“You will salvage what you can and take the rest to the pigs,” she said. Unlike his father, his mother’s voice was full of what she felt. “At least someone will get to enjoy it.”
Dodge sought her eyes, but she refused to look at him. His jaw went slack and his lips trembled, but he fought the pull to simply dissolve into tears and beg his mother to comfort him. He was not a child anymore. He needed to start acting like it.
“And you will do so with naught but your hands and your back, Dodge,” his mother added, her voice sharp. “You’re not to channel your Aspect again until your father or I give you leave. Is that understood, young man?”
“Yes, mum.” He was proud that he managed not to hang his head as he said it.
With that, she left him and went to join Ryder, the other farmhand, who was making his way towards the commotion. Dodge trusted that she would find a way to smooth things over, and he hoped fervently that he had not just cost his family both of their helpers for the season.
Working without the use of his Aspect, the task of gathering what he’d dispersed was slow going indeed. Even righting the crates took most of the little physical strength he had. By the time he’d finished setting the crates back up and gathering all the mostly destroyed produce, he was covered in sweat and trembling with nothing but pure and simple fatigue.
He discovered a newfound respect for the work Brill and Ryder did. Ruefully, he admitted that he had not truly appreciated what their efforts meant to him and his family. Their methods had always seemed so slow. So…unrefined. He had just assumed that anyone could do what they did.
And just like that, the real reason for their cutting looks and snickering remarks occurred to him. Yes, their reactions to him were heightened by their understanding, or the lack thereof, of his Hirute-given abilities. But the heart of their issue with him was simply that he’d been an obnoxious, stuck-up buffoon. When he thought of the hours he had spent crafting his own jibes about Jayden and how nobles behaved, the irony of the situation nearly left him gagging.
He stretched and twisted, trying to lessen the ache in his legs and lower back from his exertions. After a few more moments, he finally decided to face his mother, who had gone back to the house to meet the customers who were sure to have arrived by this time of day.
When he reached their home, his found his mother out front, moving between the tables and crates he had filled and deposited there earlier that morning. Judging from the patterns in the gravel of the courtyard, as he’d suspected, several customers had already come and gone. As the day wore on, he expected many more of their regular customers to arrive. His mother was always exacting in her arrangements, and she was carefully cataloging the last of the summer harvest: apricots, plums, cherries, and tomatoes, all of it canned and stacked in neat rows on the tables. Whatever did not sell by the end of the week, they would take into town with them when they went to worship at the Accord. There were always those willing to buy but who would not make the trip to their farm.
When she noticed Dodge’s arrival, she set down the tablet she’d been using for her inventory and turned to him. After holding his eyes for a beat or two, she released a deep sigh and spread her arms wide. He rushed to her and let the tears come as her arms wrapped around him.
“I hurt him, mum,” he croaked through tears. “I hurt him! I am exactly what they were afraid of!”
She shushed him, stroking his hair, and allowed him to cry himself dry.
“Now then, do you feel better?” Her voice was mild, and she was gentle when she forced him to release her, but he knew the rest of his comeuppance was at hand.
“Yes, mum.” He withdrew from her and stood straight, looking her squarely in the eye.
“I want you to listen and hear me clearly,” she instructed him, her voice firm and eyes serious.
“We all go through pains as we discover how to live with our Aspects. Some are easier than others to absorb, like mine and your father’s. Mine is the essence of fluidity, flexibility. Learning to shift when necessary and yet be content. Your father’s Aspect is patient and methodical. Neither of our Aspects rush us in learning to heed them. Your Aspect, however,” she paused, as if seeking the right words. “Your Aspect is temperamental. Impatient. Demanding. Second only to fire in how difficult it is to learn and manage.”
Dodge nodded but said nothing.
“While we, your fellow Shepherds, will often make light of the tendencies of au Cieles, we must not lose sight of how powerful your gifts can be. Nor how dangerous. We’ve been telling you this for the better part of a year, Dodge, and you’ve not wanted to hear it.”
“I know, but-”
His mother pinched him, hard, one eyebrow raised in shock that he would dare interrupt her.
“No buts! It is finally time that we,” she paused as her voice caught. She took a moment to clear her throat before continuing. “It is time that I finally stop coddling you. You’re no longer my little blue-eyed boy, seeing naught but wonder in the world…sweet and harmless. While I’ve resisted it, you’ve gone and turned into a Shepherd of Air, Dodge. Fully and completely, your Aspect has marked you, much as I had hoped that we could delay it. Selfishly, too, as we need you with the farm…and because what mother wants to see her son leave her?” Again, she paused, eyes full of what she felt but would not say.
“But it is time.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and Dodge’s self-control nearly gave way. He wanted to wrap his arms around her again, this time to give comfort rather than receive, for he could see that is was now his mother who grieved.
When she spoke again, her voice was full of conviction. “We can no longer wait for you to Declare. We’ll go into town tomorrow and seek Brother Jeyson’s counsel. He’ll know what’s best.”
Dodge went still, shivering with cold as if he’d been plunged into a winter river. “Jeyson?” he blurted, not remembering or caring that he was not supposed to speak. “Arbiter Jeyson?” he demanded, incredulous.
His mother grimaced. “You stop that this very instant, young man!” she snapped, pinching him again. This time even harder.
“OWW!” he protested. His pride had vanished along with his obedience.
“Brother Jeyson is a Spirit Shepherd, not some bogeyman from children’s tales. You, of all people, should know better than to fear a Shepherd for his God-given abilities.”
That brought him up short, and he shuffled from foot to foot, rubbing at his long, black hair and refusing to look at her for fear she would see the deep flush of his embarrassment.
“What is it we need him to decide, then,” he mumbled. “Exactly?”
“Well, whether or not you need a governing band for a start!” she said, exasperated. Again, Dodge was wracked with chills, but before he could protest, she fixed him with a meaningful look. He had caused real harm to someone today. Perhaps being forcibly restrained from communing with his Aspect was in order. Though the very thought of being separated from his affinity made him want to wretch.
“Please mum, no,” he whispered. It was closer to a whimper, truth be told. “Not that…”
“Obviously, that is the last thing we want, son,” she soothed him, taking one of
his hands. “But if it’s necessary, who better to know than a Seer? If Brother Jeyson says it is not necessary, then no one in Hayden’s will question it. Not even Brill’s family.”
And then Dodge understood what she was really saying. What he had done would have far-reaching ramifications. There would be talk. Perhaps even more than talk. Some might call for the Arbiter to do something about a Shepherd who used had his abilities thus. Dodge could be arrested! His mother was scrambling to find a way to not only protect their neighbors from him, she was trying to protect him from them!
“But without the governor, you don’t think I can remain in Hayden’s, do you?” He was proud that he kept his voice steady as spoke.
“No, son. I do not. I cannot see a way that allows you to continue as we have without some sort of…assurance…that you will cause no further harm. Myriam had already approached us about your wearing a governor before returning to niche at the end of harvest. She said there have been issues, with the other students, particularly when you get bored during lessons. Which she implied happens a fair bit. Nothing serious, she made that clear, but she was concerned enough to come see us.”
“When?” Dodge was incensed that his parents, his own parents, had been discussing banding him like some wild animal. And he’d had no idea!
“That does not matter, Dodge. It would seem she was right to be concerned, was she not?”
He remained silent. Still fuming. Terrified of the shimmering amethyst band, the cuff crafted by the First Seer and the Formynder to separate a Shepherd’s mind from his Aspect tether.
To normal folk, governing bands seemed just a bit of shiny jewelry. Beautiful even. But to Shepherds, they were the stuff of nightmares. He’d rather be seared with a cattle brand than wear a governor.
“More than likely,” his mother continued, her voice calm and steady now, as if discussing the yields of their next cabbage crop. “He will simply confirm what we’ve suspected. That it’s time for you to request early admission to the Steading. You may Declare in Coer, when the time comes.”
And just like that, the most important decision in Dodge’s life was made. Without his input or consent, he had been branded like one of their dairy cows. First by Hirute, then by his Aspect, and, on the morrow, an Arbiter of the First Stewards of Coerdom would name him for the Firsts.
The Firsts of Coer would soon own him. They would teach him, to be sure. But more, they would mold him. Shape him. As a smithy hones the shapeless potential of iron into a sword. They would make him a servant. Oh yes. He would serve the Firsts, and by extension, all Coerdom and the humanity She was sworn to protect. But to serve, they would first make him into a weapon: a weapon of Air.
Though he kept it at bay, his Aspect thrilled within him. And for the first time since he’d heard Brill’s cry, Dodge smiled.
Six
“Do not fear the unexpected. For what is meant for you, I shall always deliver!”
–Helig Ra’d, Teachings of the Great Shepherd
“Are you certain?” Preon asked, emphasizing the last word. He grimaced as the wind kicked up suddenly, tossing the hem of his crimson-lined cloak over his head. He yanked at it and shifted in his saddle. His natural propensity for impatience was worse than usual, stoked by an irritation that had been building over the better part of the last week. Myrra watched him from the corner of her eye, wondered how much longer it would take for his building temper to boil over into its full, Preon-like glory, and tried not to smile at his apparent agony.
The man would not accept that the Headmistress’ next charge could hail from so humble a place as Hayden’s Corner. She remembered with increasing mirth how he had grumbled as they left Hale, convinced they had missed a sign despite their best efforts. He had complained again that the rest of their Complement had been assigned to separate missions, leaving him without the array of skills to which he was accustomed. Though his rank was sufficient to pull from other Complements, Preon was not keen to suggest weakness in any way, so he had decided that he and Myrra could handle this smaller, more targeted Seek alone.
But that was not shaping up to be the case and he was most definitely not pleased. To make matters worse, even the Arbiter in Hale had agreed that the psychic tug the Headmistress had described was, indeed, to be found elsewhere.
Normally, Myrra would seek to soothe her Captain, bringing logic and poise to his wealth of energy and decisiveness. Especially now, with the intimate turn their relationship had recently taken. After more than a decade of pursuit, she had finally relented and given in to what she felt for her long-time friend—the man who was now her Captain. Even before they’d been joined thus, she had always been the one to soften Preon’s harsh edges, been the calm to his storm.
But she was too distracted, herself, to ease Preon. Her Aspect had issued a tug of its own. While already on a hunt for the Headmistress, her Aspect was now demanding she search for another, and she could not fathom why. All she could gather was that this person was a fellow au Ciele servant. It was not customary for their Aspects to work through them in such a fashion, so whoever this Shepherd was, he or she must either be important, in peril, or dangerous. She hoped she was overreacting, and her Aspect was simply taking advantage of the convenience of having a powerful servant at its disposal.
At the very least, she conceded with a frustrated sigh, the weather was holding. Though it was a crisp day, it was bright and dry. The road they followed was, admittedly, not as grand as the one in Coer, but it was well maintained and kept clear of brush. Far better than many they had encountered in their travels. The locals even took the extra effort of keeping fifty feet on either side of the road clear of the forest surrounding the town, so she knew these were proud, hardworking, and sensible folk. Without another word, Preon and Myrra made their way across the short bridge and through the open gates of Hayden’s Corner.
A lone sentry sat just inside the gates, seemingly bored and distracted with his less-than-exciting duties already, despite the early hour. Myrra assumed there must be little traffic from outsiders to and from, and that his days were usually spent keeping away beggars and drunks. The sight of their Steading-bred warhorses, however, snapped him to attention. She watched with deepening amusement as he first took note of the horses’ giant hooves, then their mail—studded with the colors and sigils of the Firsts—and finally the Shepherds who sat upon them.
The sentry—barely more than a boy, to Myrra’s eyes—stumbled as he jumped to his feet, his rickety chair knocked over in his haste. He fumbled with his spear as he fought for a proper, respectful stance and awkwardly saluted them.
“Shepherds!” he called, his voice full of conviction, as his right hand formed a fist and banged against his breast.
Myrra and Preon repeated the gesture automatically from long habit, tapping their fists lightly against the design embroidered into their cloaks, where the symbol of the Firsts shone in the morning sun. Rings of gold, silver, emerald, and sapphire were interlocked, spread in a circle around the amethyst ring to which they were all connected. A ring for every element, natural and spiritual. The symbol of Law and Order.
“Soldier,” Preon replied, and Myrra bristled at the dismissive tone he draped over the word, making it clear he thought the guard was anything but. He was a relentless snob, her Captain. It was one of the many vices she was committed to working out of his character—with force if needed.
Myrra deliberately moved her mount so that Preon would have to slow, then angled before the boy soldier before coming to a stop. She most certainly did not smile at the frustrated sigh that escaped her Captain.
“Morning, soldier,” Myrra greeted the sentry politely. She fixed him with a steady look that implied, ‘you and I are serious folk about our serious duties.’ The boy squared his shoulders and finally got proper control of his spear, standing it at his side as was customary.
“Mistress of Air,” he intoned, recognizing the silver lining of her cloak, “may I be of service?”
“Aye, Mistress!” the boy exclaimed, clearly thrilled he could be of service, and his voice thrummed with nervous excitement. His eyes were wide as he absorbed the notion of a mystery happening in his small town in which Spirit Shepherds were involved.
“I can take you to him! The Accord is at the far end of town, it’s a ways from here. I’ll take you,” he repeated, nearly quivering with excitement.
“That won’t be necessary,” Preon cut him off. Then, at a pointed look and affected cough from Myrra, softened his words. “We can’t pull you from your post, now can we?”
The boy’s face flushed, but he nodded seriously, “No. I mean yes. Yes sir.”
“If you’ll just give us directions, then,” Preon added, his voice finally devoid of judgment.
“Just follow the road you’re on, Sir,” he explained, pointing at the path they had followed through the gates. “It will take you past the market and up the hill. Loring Hill, that is. Once you’ve passed the market, you’ll see the Accord—can’t miss it. It’s just inside Loring Hill, along the Avenue. Can’t miss it,” he repeated, on the verge of lapsing into a full-on babble.
“Thank you, Goodman,” Preon replied, and again, tapped his fist to his breast. The boy banged out another salute as she and Preon moved on.
The town quickly grew more crowded as they left the gates and moved into what Myrra gathered was the heart of the town: the area where it was no doubt cheapest to live and with the least personal space. The structures here were crude, constructed from wood and thatch, but they were soundly built and kept in good repair. The folk were dressed in similarly simple clothes, but they were mostly clean, and she saw no adults going about barefoot. This was certainly no peasant’s village, no matter how Preon bristled at its remote location and size.