by ML Spencer
“Aramon Raythe, sir.”
“And what can you do, lad?”
Aram scratched at a flea in his hair. “I tie knots.”
The bard spread his hands. “Well, what are you waiting for? Tie me a knot.”
With a smile, Aram opened up his hand and pulled from it a length of round, three-stranded cord. Within two seconds, he produced a small but neat slipknot, which he offered to the bard.
But Ebra of Starn didn’t take it, instead folding his arms. “What kind of knot is that?”
“It’s a figure-eight knot, sir.” Aram stood with his hand out, the knot dangling from his fingers.
Master Ebra looked like he was losing his patience. “What other knots can you tie?”
Aram retracted his hand uncertainly. “What kind of knot would you like?”
The bard’s eyes narrowed to sharpened spikes. “How about a slingstone hitch?”
With that, Aram’s smile fell away, and his jaw sagged. Shoulders and head wilted, he stepped back into line. Markus could only gape at him in disbelief. Out of the one thousand two hundred forty-three knots Aram had memorized, how had Ebra of Starn guessed the one he didn’t know?
With a grunt, the bard turned away and walked to the middle of the line. Backing away slowly so that he could address every boy at the same time, he raised his voice and said, “You’re all good lads, but I’m done here. There’s no reason to continue. For my apprentice, I pick Aramon Raythe.”
A collective gasp issued from the entire line of boys and the parents who stood behind them.
“And Markus Galliar!” shouted the bard over the outrage of the crowd.
Markus felt like he’d just been cut clean in half. Before he could process what was happening, a bellowing shout roared over the turmoil:
“Like hell you do!”
It was his father’s voice.
Markus’s stomach lurched, and his intestines froze to ice.
Baldur Galliar shoved his way to the front of the crowd, trudging forward with hard, drunken strides. Stopping at the end of the line of boys, he raised a finger and pointed it directly at Markus.
“That’s my son! And he’s not going anywhere with you!”
Ebra of Starn turned to look at him with a cool, professional gaze. “I’m sorry, sir. He’s been selected.”
With that, he turned his back on the wealthiest man on the North Coast. Taking Markus and Aram by the shoulders, the bard started leading them toward the inn’s back door.
“Stop!” Baldur’s voice thundered over the tense silence that had taken hold of the morning. “I forbid you from taking him!”
Ebra of Starn drew up and turned back to face him. “But you can’t.” He shrugged. “It’s my privilege.”
Markus could only gaze at the bard with his jaw slack and his heart resounding in his chest like a war drum. No one had ever stood up to his father. No one. He squeezed his eyes shut, for they were clouding with tears of panic. Any minute, his father was going to kill Ebra of Starn, and then he was going to take him home and beat him, perhaps, this time, to death.
It was then that Aram’s mother burst out of the crowd and, running forward, scooped up her son in her arms, holding him close against her. “Please! You don’t want my boy, sir! He’s simple! He can’t take care of himself!” Tears streamed from her eyes, her hair billowing from under her headscarf in a cloud of disarray.
But the bard just smiled sadly. “Your boy’s not simple, ma’am. Aram is very smart. He just sees the world a bit differently than the rest of us.”
Sobbing, Aram’s mother kissed her son on the forehead and hugged him harder before letting him go. As the bard walked them away, she sank to her knees in the grass, wailing and moaning piteously.
“Boy!” Markus’s father roared, his voice hoarse with wrath. “If you take another step, I swear you’ll get what’s coming to you!”
Markus whimpered, his legs trembling. Tears, cold with fright, coursed down his cheeks, blurring his vision. He looked up at the bard with pleading eyes, shaking with a greater terror than he had ever known in his life.
Ebra of Starn shook his head. “No, Mister Galliar, he won’t. Because you’ll never lay another hand on this boy again.”
Hollering profanities, Baldur Galliar lunged forward but was caught and held back by the other men in the crowd. As he raged and roared behind them, Ebra of Starn gently guided his new apprentices into the inn, closing the door mercifully behind them.
Chapter Five
The bard guided them through the inn’s dim and smoky interior to the stairs in the back by the kitchen, then led them up to the second floor, which was little more than a loft with a sloping ceiling. Flanters’ only guestroom contained little by way of furniture: just a single bed with a straw-stuffed mattress, a rough-hewn table with a candlestick, a three-legged stool, and a strongbox. An unemptied waste bucket sat in the corner, its fragrance perfuming the room. The bard’s rucksack was shoved up against the far wall, and his instrument case laid across the bed.
He hung his cloak from a peg on the wall then sat upon the stool and motioned for the boys to sit before him on the rough planks of the floor. Aram took a seat beside Markus, but Master Ebra motioned to him, so he scooted forward to sit on his knees in front of him.
“Let me see you,” the bard said in a deep, baritone voice that had been trained to woo entire crowds.
Aram leaned forward, allowing Master Ebra to take his face in his big hands and examine his bruises closely. “Does this happen to you often?”
Scared and shaken by the events of the morning, Aram couldn’t work up a voice, so he nodded in answer, then moved back to his seat as the bard motioned Markus forward. “Turn around and remove your shirt.”
Markus froze with an expression that Aram had no trouble interpreting.
The bard nodded. “Go ahead.”
Looking ashamed, Markus pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it down on the floor.
“Turn around.”
Red-faced, Markus did as instructed, revealing a back covered with deep purple bruising and swollen welts.
Master Ebra stared at him for a long moment without speaking. At length, he asked, “Did your father do this to you?”
Markus nodded.
The bard sat back on his stool, folding his arms. “You have my word, it won’t happen again. That’s going to take more than some ointment. Aram, go in my rucksack and retrieve the leather bag that’s in there.”
Aram did as he was bid, rummaging through the bard’s large pack until he found a leather purse held closed by a drawstring. He returned to sit beside Markus on the floor and handed over the bag. From within, the bard produced a mortar and pestle, along with two small vials filled with amber liquid. He put a few leaves into the mortar then used the pestle to mash them, speaking as he worked.
“My name, as you are no doubt aware, is Ebra of Starn.” His voice was calm and deliberate. “You may call me Master Ebra, or just Master, whichever you prefer. You are both now my apprentices, which means that your ties to this village and its people are now severed. From this day forth, you belong only to me.”
Aram swallowed, not knowing how to feel about that. He knew he was supposed to be happy. But he wasn’t happy. He was frightened, for he didn’t know Master Ebra, and he didn’t want to leave his mother, the one person in the world who understood him and defended him. All his life, he’d depended on her exclusively for his every need, and he didn’t know how he would get on without her.
Adding fluid from the vials, Master Ebra continued mashing the leaves into a paste. “I will be performing tonight in the longhouse. It will be my last performance at this village. We will be leaving immediately on the morrow. I advise you both to say your goodbyes today to those that you love and who love you.” He looked at Markus. “In my opinion, you shouldn’t leave this inn, but if you decide to, I won’t stop you. Now, turn around.”
Markus did, wincing as the bard began applying salve a
nd poultices to the weals on his back. When he was done, Markus replaced his shirt, looking pale but grateful.
Master Ebra cleaned the pestle and mortar with a cloth then tucked everything back in his sack. “Now. Do either of you have questions?”
“Why did you pick us?” Markus asked in a timid voice.
The bard drew in a deep breath. “I think you know why I picked Aram, since he is the reason why your rock floated in the air.”
Markus nodded, looking humbled.
Master Ebra went on, “I picked you, Markus, for the opposite reason. Because, even though he tried, Aram was not able to make the rock float while it was still in your hand. It was only after you tossed it that he was able to arrest its flight.”
Markus glanced at him in confusion. “What does that mean, Master Ebra?”
“It means that magic doesn’t work on you, which is a rare talent, indeed.”
Aram caught his breath. “That’s why he doesn’t have a color!”
The bard nodded. “That’s right.”
Markus’s eyes widened in surprise. “You see in color too?”
Master Ebra cocked his head, scrunching his lips. “A little bit. Not as well as Aram. Aram is what we call a Savant. He sees things people like you and I can only imagine.”
Aram felt a warm flush of humility. He had always known that his eyesight was different, though he had never understood why or what it meant. He had always kept it a secret, one of the many he was profoundly ashamed of, because it set him apart.
Markus looked skeptical. “How do you know he’s a Savant?”
“Because of the color of his eyes. Only Auld Savants have that eye color.”
Markus glanced sharply at Aram. “But he’s not Auld!”
Aram exclaimed, “I thought all the Auld were gone!”
The bard leaned back on his stool. “When the Auld disappeared, they left something very important behind.” He spread his arms. “Us. Every Vard has Aulden blood running through their veins. It’s who we are.”
“The Old Blood!” Aram gasped, remembering what Mistress Dayslin had told them.
“Old Blood, Auld Blood.” Master Ebra shrugged. “It means the same. For most of us, the blood of our ancestors is so diluted that it’s indistinguishable from the blood of any other man. But for a few of us—a very few of us—well, sometimes when a river branches, those branches merge back together downstream. That’s how we get boys like Markus. And boys like you. You’re what some would call a ‘throwback.’”
Before Aram could respond, the bard slapped his knees with his hands. “That’s all I’ll say about the subject till you’re older. Do not ask me again.” He rose from his stool and moved to collect his cloak from the peg, pulling it over his shoulders. “Now. I’m going to go teach the children of this village who they are. Later tonight in the longhouse, I’ll remind the elders of this village who they were. I’ll be back late.” He pulled on a pair of lambskin gloves and fetched his instrument from its case. “Go say goodbye to your mother, Aram. If you ever see her again, it won’t be for a very long time.”
“She already lost my father,” Aram whispered. “How can she bear to lose me too?”
The bard looked at him sadly. “Do you know what happened to your father?”
“He left. People say he didn’t want me.”
The bard frowned, staring deeply into Aram’s eyes. “Never think that, Aram. Not for one moment.” He turned to Markus. “What about you? Is there anything you wish to say to your father?”
Markus lowered his gaze to the floor. “No. Nothing.”
“Very well. Then get some rest. We’ll leave before dawn.”
With that, Master Ebra made his way toward the stairs. When he was gone, Aram shot up from the floor, quivering with a torrential mixture of excitement, sorrow, and fear. He looked down at Markus, who remained on the floor, staring at nothing, as though in shock. He didn’t understand why Markus wasn’t jumping up and down with excitement, for, against all odds, he’d gotten what he’d wanted all along.
As for himself, Aram was deeply conflicted. His dreams of being a sailor were extinguished. But at the same time, he felt a weak but wakening hope for the future, a future where he might be valued because he was different. It was probably too much to dare hope for, but he couldn’t help hoping anyway.
“I’m going to go say goodbye,” he said to Markus.
His friend moved from the floor to the bed and sat upon it, nodding. Aram felt bad for him because he thought he knew why Markus was so sad. Markus wasn’t sad because he’d miss his father. He was sad because he wouldn’t miss him. Aram wondered which was worse: a father who mistreated his son but cared enough to stay? Or a father who’d never cared enough to be there at all?
He walked down the stairs to the common room. As he passed the kitchen, he glimpsed Mistress Flanter stirring something in a heavy iron kettle that hung suspended over the fire. Her dark eyes met his, and they looked sad. He wondered why.
Outside, Aram found that the crowd had dispersed, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want to chance running into Markus’s father. As he walked through the streets of Anai, he noticed people staring at him. At first, he wasn’t certain if it was all in his mind, but the longer he walked, the more it became obvious that people really were staring. The looks made him uncomfortable, so he walked with his gaze lowered, avoiding all chance of eye contact. It wasn’t until he found himself at his mother’s home that he finally dared look up.
He stood for a moment just staring at the old, cracked door of his cottage. As he did, a terrible sadness broke over him like a wave. At first, he couldn’t bring himself to open the door, for he knew it would feel more like he was closing it. But from somewhere deep inside, he worked up enough courage to open it and step in.
His mother looked up at him from the table. With a cry, she surged out of the chair and dove toward him, scooping him up in her arms. Hugging him tight against her chest, she cried hard into his shoulder. He could feel her wet tears on his skin, and for some reason, she felt thinner and frailer than he remembered. It was minutes before she at last pulled back, kissing his cheek.
Her face was wet, her eyes red and glistening. Her dark brown hair fell in disarray, and there were black smudges on her cheeks from the ashes of the hearth. Her mouth tightened into a grimace and she shook her head slowly, her shoulders quaked by tears.
“Why Aram? Why?”
He didn’t know what to say. He wanted desperately for her to stop crying, wanted to tell her he would stay and make it all better again, but he knew that he couldn’t. Somehow, he knew that Anai didn’t fit him anymore, if it truly ever had.
“I didn’t mean to, Ma,” he whimpered, wiping his nose with his sleeve. “I’m sorry, Ma. So sorry.”
She hugged him again then sat him down at the table, taking the chair on the opposite side. She sank down into it and, struggling to compose herself, lifted her apron and used it to dab the tears from her eyes.
“When are you leaving?” she asked.
Aram hung his head. “Tomorrow morning.”
“All right… All right. Let’s get you packed.”
Aram sat at the table while his mother rounded up the few possessions he owned in this life and stuffed them into a burlap sack: his soft felt blanket, the rough piece of linen he used to scrub his teeth in the mornings, and his wooden bowl, spoon, cup, and, last of all, his eating knife.
When she was done and he was all packed, she sat the sack down by the door and went to fetch him food, putting before him a plate of cheese and pickled herring. Aram ate in uncomfortable silence while his mother sat staring at him from the other side of the table, visibly holding back tears with a forced smile on her face. It was hard to eat with a lump in his throat and a boulder in his stomach. He had to work hard to swallow his food, each bite worming its way reluctantly down his throat. After a while, the silence started to bother him. He hated silence because it normally meant something had gone very
wrong with a conversation. It was especially rare when his mother had nothing to say, and usually it was because she was angry with him.
These were, he realized, the last moments he would spend with his mother for a very long time, and they were just sitting there without speaking. That was wrong. It also might be the last chance he had to ask his ma about where his father had gone, and why he’d gone there. He didn’t want to make her any sadder than she was, but he couldn’t resist asking.
“Ma,” he said in a creaky voice, “what color blood did Da have?”
She frowned slightly. “Brown. Just like yours.”
“Can you tell me about the day he left us?”
His mother blinked once, the life and color fading from her face. It took her a moment to recover. She glanced down at her hands on the table, flexing her fingers slightly, making the wrinkles in them crease even deeper.
“There’s not much to tell,” she said carefully, still gazing at her hands. “He used to go into the city often. He was always gone for a week or so at a time, but then he’d return. Well, he’d just gotten back from a trip. He wasn’t himself, but he wouldn’t say why. He said he couldn’t stay, that he had to go away again. He said he’d be back in another week.” She bowed her head, shaking it sadly. “But he never came back.”
Aram had stopped trying to eat. His throat had constricted to the point that even breathing was difficult.
“Did something happen to him?” he asked. “Maybe an accident?”
“No. Whatever happened to him was no accident.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he left something behind.”
Saying that, his mother reached inside her shirt and pulled out the necklace made of twine she always wore, the one his father had given her. On it a large knot was tied that took the shape of an intricate and perfect heart. Aram had seen it before many times, for his mother had worn it as long as he could remember. Not once had he ever seen her take it off. He had never stopped to wonder if it had some special significance, other than the gift of a husband to his wife.