by Anthony Ryan
He woke shuddering with cold a few hours later. The last vestiges of a dream fled from his mind as his eyes accustomed to the dark. He was grateful the dream had slipped away, the few images lingering in his mind told him it was best forgotten. The other boys were asleep, Barkus snoring, softly for once, the logs in the fireplace blackened and smouldering. He stumbled out of bed to relight the fire, the darkness of the room suddenly scared him more than the gloom of the forest.
“There’s no more logs, brother.”
He turned to find Caenis sitting on his bunk. He was still dressed, his clothes glistening with damp in the dim moonlight seeping through the shutters. His face was hidden in shadow.
“When did you get in?” Vaelin asked, rubbing feeling back into his hands. He never knew a body could get so cold.
“A while ago.” Caenis’s voice was a vacant drone, drained of emotion.
“You heard about Mikehl?” Vaelin began to pace about, hoping to walk some warmth back into his muscles.
“Yes,” Caenis replied. “Nortah said it was a wolf. Dentos said a bear.”
Vaelin frowned, detecting a note of humour in his brother's voice. He shrugged it off. They all reacted differently. Jennis, Mikehl’s closest friend, had actually laughed when they told him, a full hearty laugh that went on and on, in fact he laughed so much Barkus had to slap him before he stopped.
“A bear,” Vaelin said.
“Really?” Vaelin was sure Caenis hadn’t moved, but he fancied there was a quizzical incline to his head. “Dentos said you found him. That must have been bad.”
Mikehl’s blood was thick, clotting in the sack, seeping through the weave to stain his hands… “I thought you’d be here when I got in.” Vaelin wrapped his blanket more firmly around his shoulders. “I bet Barkus an afternoon in the garden you’d beat us all back.”
“Oh, I would have. But I was distracted. I happened across a mystery in the forest. Perhaps you could help me puzzle it out. Tell me, what do you make of a dead man with an arrow in his throat? An arrow with no fletching.”
Vaelin’s shudders became almost uncontrollable, his flesh trembling so much his blanket slipped to the floor. “The woods are thick with outlaws, I hear,” he stammered.
“Indeed. So thick I found two more. Not killed with arrows though, mayhap they were taken by a bear, like Mikehl. Perhaps even the same bear.”
“P-perhaps.” What is this? Vaelin held up his hand, staring at the twitching fingers. This is not cold. This is more…He had a sudden, almost irresistible impulse to tell Caenis everything, unburden himself, seek solace in confidence. Caenis was his friend after all. His best friend. Who better to tell? With assassins hunting him he would need a friend to watch his back. They would fight them together…
Confide in no one… This is a secret that could mean your death. Sollis’s words stilled his tongue, firming his resolve. Caenis was his friend it was true, but he couldn’t tell him the truth. It was too big, too important for a whispered secret between boys.
He found his shivers receding as his resolve grew. It really wasn’t that cold. The fear and horror of his night in the forest had left a mark on him, a mark that might never fade, but he would face it and overcome it. There was no other choice.
He retrieved his blanket from the floor and climbed back into his bunk. “Truly the Urlish is a dangerous place,” he said. “You better get those clothes off, brother. Master Sollis'll whip you raw if you’re too chilled to train tomorrow.”
Caenis sat in unmoving silence, a thin sigh escaping his lips in a slow hiss. After a second he rose to undress, laying out his garments with his habitual neatness, carefully stowing his weapons before slipping into bed.
Vaelin lay back and prayed for sleep to take him, dreams and all. He longed for this night to be over, to feel the warmth of the dawn’s light, searing away all the blood and fear that crowded his soul. Is this a warrior’s lot? he wondered. A life lived shivering in the shadows?
Caenis’s voice was barely a whisper but Vaelin heard him clearly, “I’m glad you’re alive, brother. I’m glad you made it through the forest.”
Comradeship, he realised. Also a warrior’s lot. You share your life with those who would die for you. It didn’t make the fear and the sick, hard feeling in his guts disappear, but it did take the edge off his sorrow. “I’m glad you made it too, Caenis,” he whispered back. “Sorry I couldn’t help with your mystery. You should talk to Master Sollis.”
He never knew if it was a laugh or a sigh that came from Caenis then. Many years later he would think how much pain he would have saved himself and so many others if only he had heard it clearly, if he had known one way or the other. At the time he took it for a sigh and the words that followed a simple statement of obvious fact, “Oh, I think they’ll be mysteries aplenty in our future.”
They built the pyre on the practice ground, cutting logs from the forest and piling them up under Master Sollis’s direction. They had been excused training for the day but the work was hard enough, Vaelin found his muscles aching after hours of heaving freshly cut timber onto the wagon for transport back to the House, but resisted the temptation to voice a complaint. Mikehl deserved a day’s work at least. Master Hutril returned early in the afternoon, leading a pony laden with a tightly bound burden. They paused in their labour as he passed by on his way to the gate, staring at the cloth-wrapped body.
This will happen again, Vaelin realised. Mikehl is just the first. Who’ll be next? Dentos? Caenis? Me?
“We should’ve asked him,” Nortah said, after Master Hutril disappeared through the gate.
“Asked him what?” said Dentos.
“If it was a wolf or a be-” He ducked, narrowly avoiding the log Barkus threw at him.
The masters laid the body on the pyre as the boys paraded onto the practice ground in the early evening, over four hundred in all, standing silently in their companies. After Sollis and Hutril stepped down the Aspect came forward, a flaming torch held aloft in his bony, scarred hand. He stood next to the pyre and scanned the assembled students, his face was as lacking in expression as ever. “We come to witness the end of the vessel that carried our fallen brother through his life,” he said, again displaying the uncanny ability to project his somnolent tones for the whole crowd to hear.
“We come to give thanks for his deeds of kindness and courage and forgiveness for his moments of weakness. He was our brother and fell in service to the Order, an honour that comes to us all in the end. He is with the Departed now, his spirit will join with them to guide us in our service to the Faith. Think of him now, offer your own thanks and forgiveness, remember him, now and always.”
He lowered the torch to the pyre, touching the flames to the apple wood kindling they had worked into the gaps between the logs. Soon the fire began to build, flames and smoke rising, the sweet apple scent lost amidst the stench of burning flesh.
Watching the flames Vaelin tried to remember Mikehl’s deeds of kindness and courage, hoping for a memory of nobility or compassion he could carry through his life, but instead found himself stuck on the time Mikehl had conspired with Barkus to put pepper into one of the feed bags in the stable. Master Rensial had fitted it over the muzzle of a newly acquired stallion and narrowly escaped being kicked to death amidst a shower of horse snot. Was that courage? Certainly the punishment had been severe, although both Mikehl and Barkus swore the beatings were worth it and Master Rensial’s confused mind had soon let the incident slip into the cloudy morass of his memory.
He watched the flames rise and consume the mutilated flesh and bone that had once been his friend and thought: I’m sorry Mikehl. I’m sorry you died because of me. I’m sorry I wasn’t their to save you. If I can, one day I will find who sent those men into the forest and they will pay for your life. My thanks go with you.
He looked around to see most of the other boys had drifted away, gone to the evening meal, but his group was still there, even Nortah, although he looked more bored t
han sorrowful. Jennis was crying softly, hugging himself, tears streaming down his face.
Caenis layed a hand on Vaelin’s shoulder. “We should eat. Our brother is gone.”
Vaelin nodded. “I was thinking about the time in the stables. Remember? The feed bag.”
Caenis grinned a little. “I remember. I was jealous I hadn’t thought of it.” They walked back to the dining hall, Jennis being dragged along by Barkus, still crying, the others exchanging memories about Mikehl as the fire burned on behind them, taking his body away. In the morning they found the remnants had been cleared, leaving only a circle of black ash to scar the grass. In the months and years that followed even that would fade.
Chapter 3
The days came and went, they trained, they fought, they learned. Summer became autumn and then winter descended with driving rain and biting winds that soon gave way to the blizzards common to Asrael in the month of Ollanasur. After the pyre Mikehl’s name was rarely mentioned, they never forgot him but they didn’t talk about him, he was gone. Watching a new batch of recruits march through the gates in early winter they had the odd sensation of no longer being the youngest, suddenly the worst chores would be someone else’s burden. Looking at the newcomers Vaelin wondered if he had ever looked so young and alone. He wasn’t a child any more, he knew this, none of them were. They were different, changed. They were not like other boys. And his difference ran deeper than the others, he was a killer.
Ever since the forest his sleep had been troubled and he was often left sweating and shivering in the dark by dreams in which Mikehl’s slack lifeless face came to ask why he hadn’t saved him. Sometimes it was the wolf that came, silent, staring, licking blood from its muzzle, its eyes holding a question Vaelin couldn’t fathom. Even the faces of the assassins, bloodied and torn, would come to spit hate-filled accusations that would rend him from sleep shouting unrepentant defiance: “Murderers! Scum! I hope you rot!”
“Vaelin?” It was usually Caenis he woke, some of the others too, but usually Caenis.
Vaelin would lie, say it was a dream of his mother, fighting the guilt of using her memory to hide the truth. They would talk for a while until Vaelin felt the tug of fatigue pulling him to sleep. Caenis proved a mine of many stories, he knew all the tales of the Faithful by heart and many others besides, especially the tale of the King.
“King Janus is a great man,” he said continually. “He built our Kingdom with the sword and the Faith.” He never tired of hearing how Vaelin had once met King Janus, how the tall, red haired man had layed a hand on his head to ruffle his hair and say, “Hope you have your father’s arm, boy,” with a deep chuckle. In fact, Vaelin barely remembered the King, he had only eight years when his father nudged him forward at the palace reception. But he did recall the opulence of the palace and the rich clothing of the assembled nobles. King Janus had a son and a daughter, a serious looking boy of about seventeen and a girl of Vaelin’s own age who scowled at him from behind her father’s long, ermine rimmed cloak. The King had no queen by then, she had died the previous summer, they said his heart was broken and he would never take another bride. Vaelin recalled that the girl, his mother called her a princess, had lingered when the King moved on to greet another guest. She looked him up and down coldly. “I’m not marrying you,” she sneered. “You’re dirty.” With that she scampered after her father without looking back. Vaelin’s father had voiced one of his rare laughs, saying, “Don’t worry, boy. I’d not curse you with her.”
“What did he look like?” Caenis asked eagerly. “Was he six feet tall like they say.”
Vaelin shrugged. “He was tall. Couldn’t say how tall. And he had funny red marks on his neck, like he’d been burnt.”
“When he was seven he was struck down by the Red Hand,” Caenis told him, dropping into his storyteller voice. “For ten days he suffered the agonies and blood sweats that would have killed a grown man before his fever broke and he grew strong again. Even the Red Hand, which had brought death to every family in the land, couldn’t take Janus. Even as a child his spirit was too strong to break.”
Vaelin surmised that Caenis would know many stories about his father, his time in the Order having taught him the true extent of the Battle Lord’s fame, but never asked to hear any. To Caenis Vaelin’s father was a legend, a hero that stood at the King’s side throughout the Wars of Unification. To Vaelin he was a rider disappearing into the fog two years ago.
“What are his children called?” Vaelin asked. For some reason his parents had never told him much about the court.
“The King’s son and heir to the throne is Prince Malcius, said to be a studious and dutiful young man. His daughter is Princess Lyrna who many think will grow to outshine even her mother’s beauty.”
Sometimes Vaelin was disturbed by the light that shone in Caenis’s eyes when he talked about the King and his family. It was the only time his thoughtful frown disappeared, as if he wasn’t thinking at all. He had seen similar expressions on people’s faces when they offered thanks to the Departed, as if their normal self had stepped out for a moment leaving only the Faith behind.
As winter deepened and snow covered the land preparation began for the Test of the Wild. Their treks with Master Hutril became longer, his lessons more detailed and urgent, he made them run through the snow until they ached and handed out severe punishments for laxness and inattention. But they knew the importance of learning all they could. By now they had been in the Order long enough for the older boys to favour them with the occasional word of advice, normally consisting of a lurid warning of future dangers, the Test of the Wild featuring large among them: They thought he had disappeared for good but they found his body the next year, frozen to a tree… He tried to eat fire berries and spewed his liver up… Wandered into a wild cat's den and came out carrying his guts in his arms… The stories were no doubt exaggerated but concealed an essential truth: boys died in every Test of the Wild.
When the time came they were taken out in small groups over the course of a month to lessen the chance they might meet up and help each other through the ordeal. This was a trial each boy had to face alone. There was a short barge trip upriver then a long cart journey over a featureless, snow covered road winding into the lightly forested hill country beyond the Urlish. At intervals of five miles Master Hutril would stop the cart and take one of the boys into the trees, returning some time later to take up the reins again. When Vaelin’s turn came he was led along a small stream running into a sheltered gully.
“You have your flint?” Master Hutril asked.
“Yes master.”
“Twine, fresh bowstring, extra blanket?”
“Yes master.”
Hutril nodded, pausing, his breath steaming in the chilled air. “The Aspect has given me a message for you,” he said after a moment. Vaelin found it odd that Hutril was avoiding his gaze. “He says, as you are likely to be hunted whenever you leave the shelter of the House, you may return with me and be given a pass on this test.”
Vaelin was speechless. The shock of the Aspect’s offer coupled with the fact that this was the first time any of the Masters had referred to his ordeal in the forest left him dumfounded. The Tests were not just arbitrary torments dreamt up over the years by sadistic Masters. They were part of the Order, set down by its founder four hundred years ago and never changed since. They were more than a legacy, they were an article of the Faith. He couldn’t help feeling that to avoid a test and still continue in the Order would be more than just dishonest, not to say disrespectful to his friends, it would be blasphemy. Pondering further, another thought came to him: What if this is another test? What if the Aspect wants to see if I will avoid an ordeal my brothers cannot? But as he looked into Master Hutril’s guarded gaze he saw something that told him the offer was genuine: shame. Hutril thought the offer an insult.
“I fear to contradict the opinion of the Aspect, master,” he said. “But I think it unlikely an assassin would brave these hills
in winter.”
Hutril nodded again, a soft sigh of relief escaping him, a rare, very slight smile on his lips. “Do not range far, listen to the voice of the hills, follow only the freshest tracks.” With that he shouldered his bow and began his long trek back to the cart.
Vaelin watched him go, feeling very hungry despite the hearty breakfast they had all eaten that morning. He was glad he had taken the opportunity to steal some bread from the kitchen before they left.
In accordance with Hutril’s lessons Vaelin began building a shelter immediately, finding a useful nook between two large rocks to serve as walls, he set about gathering wood for a roof. There were some fallen branches about that he could use but soon had to resort to cutting extra covering from the surrounding trees. He walled off one side by piling up snow, rolling it into thick blocks as he had been taught. His work complete he rewarded himself with a bread roll, forcing himself not to bolt it, despite his hunger, taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before swallowing.
Next he had to light a fire, arranging some small rocks in a circle next to the shelter’s entrance, clearing the snow from the centre and filling it with twigs and small branches he had prepared by stripping away the snow damp bark to reveal the dry timber beneath. A few sparks from his flint and soon he was warming his hands above a respectably lively fire. Food, shelter and heat, Master Hutril always told them. That’s what keeps a man alive. Everything else is luxury.
His first night in the shelter was restless, beset by howling winds and biting cold against which the blanket he had draped over the entrance was scant protection. He resolved to fashion a more sturdy covering the next day and passed the hours trying to hear voices in the winds. It was said that the winds would carry into the Beyond and the Departed used them to send messages back to the Faithful, some of whom would stand for hours on hillsides straining for words of wisdom or comfort from lost loved ones. Vaelin had never heard a voice on the wind and wondered who it would be if he did. His mother perhaps, although she hadn’t come to him again since his first night in the Order. Mikehl maybe, or the assassins, spitting their hatred into the wind. But tonight there were no voices to hear and he drifted into a fitful, chilled slumber.