by ML Spencer
The old man leaned forward, staring gravely into Aram’s face. “So why is it that I balk at the life of one boy? I’ve been pondering that question for four days while you’ve lain here in this bed, and I’ve yet to find a satisfactory answer. I think that’s because the answer doesn’t lie within myself. It lies within you, Aramon.”
Aram blinked, wondering what the old man was talking about. His words made no sense. He didn’t know what kind of answer the old man was looking for, and he certainly didn’t have one to give him, especially if he didn’t know the question.
Still holding his hand, the old man said, “For some reason I can’t fathom, I have decided to go against my better judgement where you are concerned—at least for a little while. Time will tell if my current derangement will persist, or if I will return to my senses and regret my mistake.”
Aram just stared at him, thoroughly confused. The more the man talked, the less sense he was making.
“How old are you, boy?”
Aram managed to whisper, “Twelve, sir.”
For a moment, the old man’s eyes grew distant. “So young. Let’s pray it’s young enough.” He patted Aram’s hand. “For now, I will abstain from plucking your wings. But take my advice: live each day as though it were your last, for every day from now forward is a gift from me. Yet also understand that every gift in this world comes with a price. Someday, I will ask you to repay me for this mercy I have bestowed upon you.”
With that, he stood and turned to a man whom Aram hadn’t noticed, who had been standing behind him the whole while. “Enter Aramon Raythe’s name into the sacred Roster of our Order, under the rank of Novice.”
The man bowed slightly, then left. The old man lingered just a moment longer before rising to follow him. Aram let out a small, relieved sigh that the man was finally gone. He still had no idea what he’d been talking about, but he had a feeling that he’d narrowly avoided some dire fate, and for that, he was relieved. Feeling weary, he closed his eyes and settled back into his pillow. But before he could fall back to sleep, another voice addressed him.
“Aramon Raythe?”
Aram opened his eyes to see another man hovering over his bed, this one exceptionally large and muscular with dark skin. The man stood glowering down at him with his arms folded across his chest, scowling as though he had just eaten a piece of rotten fruit. Aram pushed himself upright despite the pain in his leg, wondering who this man was and what he wanted of him.
Without preamble, the man pushed Aram’s covers back and lifted him out of bed. Aram started to struggle, but it was no use, for the man’s muscular arms were thicker than both of Aram’s legs put together. So he relaxed, feeling helpless, and let the man carry him out of the infirmary the way a mother carries a small child.
The man bore him down a long hallway and down several flights of marble stairs. Aram looked around at the building they were in, which was larger and far grander than any he had ever imagined. The man carried him outside and across an enormous courtyard filled with flowers and fountains, where he got a good view of the exterior of the building, which was one of three palace-looking structures arrayed in a U-shape around the enormous central courtyard.
They walked down a gravel path that bisected the yard, surrounded by geometrical flower beds and manicured boxwoods. Aram marveled at the fact that the man’s arms didn’t tire. He carried him to another building on the far side of the courtyard, this one only two stories, with a wood shingle roof and enormous eaves that extended well beyond the sides of the building. The big man carried him inside, setting him down on the floor of a narrow corridor lined with many doors. Leaving Aram there, he walked away.
Aram sat alone in the narrow hallway, perplexed, his leg throbbing. He was wearing only a linen chemise, which left his legs bare. It seemed like an inappropriate garment for sitting in a hallway. To his relief, the big man returned in short order with clothes.
Halting over Aram, he stated rigidly, “I am Ando Nambe. I am the Chief Eunuch of Small House, and you are my charge whilst you remain beneath my roof. Remove your garment.”
Aram felt his cheeks flush. But he did as the man asked, pulling the chemise off over his head. He sat there, bare and cowering on the hallway floor, until the man held out the first article of clothing he carried, a pair of breeches. Aram tugged them on, biting his lip to get them on over the thick bandages that wrapped his leg. After that came a pair of trousers and a roughspun linen shirt.
Mercifully clothed again, Aram still felt naked under the harsh and unwavering gaze of Ando Nambe. The man loomed over him like a century-old oak and looked capable of wringing his neck with one hand. He wondered what a eunuch was, for he had never heard of one, and he figured it must be a very important position.
Ando Nambe informed him, “Whilst you remain at the College, you will live in Small House with the other students. There are normally three rules of Small House, but for you only, there are four. The first rule is: ‘Obey the Masters.’ The second rule is: ‘Do not speak unless you are addressed.’ The third rule is: ‘Do not leave unless you are told to.’ And, for you only, the fourth rule is: ‘Work no magic unless you are asked.’ You are expected to obey these rules at all times. Any failure to obey will result in punishment by flogging.”
Aram winced, for he had seen a sailor flogged once. The young man had been stripped naked to the waist, his arms stretched above his head and bound to the rigging of his ship. The boatswain’s mate had performed the lashing with a whip made from a wooden rod, to which many thick cords had been attached. The sailor’s shrieks had been dreadful. The poor man had fainted after the first dozen or so lashes, but had received another six dozen after that, until the flesh was hanging in strips from his back. It was the single most terrible sight that Aram had ever seen, so brutal that it had made him vomit.
Ando Nambe pointed at the nearest door. “That is your cell. It is where you will live for the next few years until you graduate from Small House. Exactly how many years will depend on you, for it will be determined by how quickly you and your brother progress through the training regimen.”
“My brother?” Aram asked.
Instead of replying, Ando Nambe moved around him and, removing a ring of iron keys from his belt, unlocked the door and opened it, motioning Aram forward. He stood gingerly, putting all of his weight on his good leg and propping himself against the wall. With hobbling steps that made him grimace, he moved to peer through the doorway.
He winced, the powerful stench of an unemptied waste pail hitting him in the face. Within, a youth rose to his feet from one of the two cots, his face frozen in shock. Recognizing Markus, Aram could only stare back at him with a dizzying thrill of joy and relief. A crooked grin spread across Markus’s face that he would have laughed at if it hadn’t been for the pain. Seeing his predicament, Markus came forward and supported him, helping Aram to one of the narrow cots.
Standing in the doorway, Ando Nambe said, “It is my understanding that the two of you know each other, so I will skip the introductions. Every initiate is paired with another, and the two are raised as siblings. You will live together, eat together, and train together. Whenever one of you makes a mistake, the other will be punished for it. As brothers, you will succeed together or fail together. Is this understood?”
“Yes,” both boys mumbled, exchanging a glance.
“Yes, Ando Nambe,” the eunuch corrected.
“Yes, Ando Nambe,” they said in unison.
The man nodded, looking somewhat satisfied. “Very well. This is your cell. For now, you will be locked within it every night. Every privilege in Small House must be earned, and you must earn the privilege of having your door unlocked at night so that you may socialize and use the public toilet. Is this understood?”
Aram glanced at the waste pail in the corner then looked at Markus. They said together, “Yes, Ando Nambe.”
The eunuch pointed to Aram. “Until his leg is healed enough for him to walk on it, you
,” he pointed at Markus, “will bear his weight. You will wake each day before sunrise for combat training. After training, you will adjourn to the dining hall for breakfast. After breakfast, you will attend classes. After classes, you will eat lunch. After lunch, you will either return to the practice yard or return to class, and only afterword will you be served supper in the dining hall. This is understood?”
“Yes, Ando Nambe.”
“You will remain here until morning, when I will come to prepare you for your initiation.”
With that, he closed the door. The sound of the key turning in the lock made Aram flinch. He looked at Markus, suddenly uncertain. Markus didn’t look mad at him, even though he had every right to be. It was his fault they were there, after all. But an enormous smile broke across the boy’s face, putting Aram’s fears to rest.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” Markus exclaimed, his eyes glistening with tears of joy. “I thought they took you to the cellars!”
“Why would they take me to the cellars?” Cellars were dark places where people stored food and dusty odds and ends, not other people.
Markus didn’t answer immediately. The smile disappeared from his face and, to Aram, he suddenly looked sad.
“It’s where they put people like you. You know. People with magic.” Then the smile sprang back to his face, though there was something odd about it, almost like it didn’t fit. “But don’t worry about it!” He gave Aram a quick hug. “You’re here! And that’s all that matters.”
Aram smiled, for he was glad he was here with his friend and not in someone’s cellar.
“How’s your leg?” asked Markus.
“It hurts.” Aram reached down and touched the stiff bandages bound tightly around his leg. “But it’s better than it was.” He would never forget the terrible pain of the journey. That, and the dragon. And Master Ebra’s dead face.
“The sorcerer saved you,” said Markus. “I really thought you were going to die.”
“I thought I was too,” Aram admitted. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
“Of course!” Markus smiled back. “That’s what friends are for.”
No one had ever said that to him before, though he’d heard other boys say it to each other. Overcome by emotion, Aram looked away. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, for he couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t good at describing how he felt, and sometimes what he was trying to say came out backwards. He didn’t want to offend Markus.
“What’s wrong?” Markus asked, peering at him with concern in his eyes.
“I just … I’ve never had a friend before,” Aram admitted, squeezing his eyes closed, for it was too difficult to look at him. “Thank you for being my friend.”
Markus moved to sit next to him on the cot. “You don’t have to thank me for that. You saved my life.”
Closing his eyes, Aram whispered, “You saved mine.”
“Then we’re even.”
“No.” Aram shook his head. “It’s my fault this happened. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be here. Your father would still be alive, and so would Master Ebra and all the people in the village.”
“You can’t think that way,” said Markus gently. “You didn’t choose this. None of this was your fault.”
Aram thought of Master Ebra’s pale, bloodied face. The bard had just tried to help him and had paid for that mistake with his life.
“It’s not your fault,” Markus insisted firmly. “It’s their fault. Sergan Parsigal and the Exilari. They’re all evil. But you’re good. You’re good, you understand?”
Aram wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “They pluck butterfly wings,” he whispered, thinking of the strange old man. He scrunched his eyebrows. “Is that what they do in the cellars?”
Markus swallowed, then nodded slightly. “Something like that.”
“They’re going to train us to be like them.” Aram frowned. “Does that mean we’ll be evil too?”
“Only if we let ourselves be,” Markus assured him.
“I don’t want to be evil.”
“I won’t let you be. Promise.”
Aram smiled, feeling relieved. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. But then it occurred to him that that was a horrible thing to say to a friend. “I-I mean, I’m not glad you’re here. It’s terrible that you’re here. I mean…”
He shook his head in frustration, biting his lip. He didn’t know how to say what he meant, and everything he said was wrong. His eyes searched the floor of the small room for a comforting length of string.
“I know what you mean,” Markus said gently. “And I’m sad and glad that you’re here too.”
Chapter Twenty
The cell they had been given was small, barely as wide as Aram was tall, with only two small cots made of straw pallets rolled out upon rigid wood frames, and they had each been supplied one wool blanket. Aram had a hard time sleeping because his leg ached, and it kept waking him up. Also, he hated wool. He wasn’t sure which bothered him more. The blanket itched and scratched at his skin until he wanted to whimper, but when he threw it off, he shivered too hard to sleep.
Morning came too soon. He had just fallen into a peaceful slumber when the sound of the key turning in the lock awoke him. The door squeaked open and Ando Nambe stood in the doorway, an intense glower on his stony, round face. He wore a wide-sleeved robe over a long tunic, looking entirely different than he had the prior day, as though he had spent the evening preparing for a feast. Both boys jumped to their feet, trading nervous glances.
“Today you are to be brought before the Synod for your Reception,” Ando Nambe announced in a terse, impatient voice. “There, you will join your hands and kneel before he who holds it. You will address this man as ‘Great Lord.’ He will have questions for you. You will respond in this manner: ‘Yes, Lord,’ or ‘No, Lord.’
Thinking of the old man he had met, Aram hoped it wouldn’t be him asking the questions. He felt quite certain the old man was just as evil as he claimed, and he had no wish to ever look at him again.
“You must request admittance into the Order,” Ando Nambe went on. “Speak the form exactly as I say it: ‘Great Masters, we have come before you to request that you welcome us into your company as ones who wish to be bound to this mighty Order.’”
He glared back and forth between the two boys. “Will you remember the words exactly, or do you need me to repeat them?”
“No, Ando Nambe,” said Markus quickly.
Aram shook his head. “No … no, Ando Nambe… But…”
“But?” The eunuch raised a menacing eyebrow.
Aram felt his brow tingle with perspiration. He licked his lips and squeezed his eyes closed, searching for the right words. Behind his back, his fingers fiddled with a lace he had pulled off one of his boots.
“What if we don’t want to join the Order?” he asked.
Beside him, Markus gasped. Ando Nambe planted his hands on his hips and glared down at Aram with an incredulous expression. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he threw back his head and issued a peal of bellowing laughter.
“To my knowledge, Aramon Raythe, no one has ever had the gall to say such to the Revered Master. If you wish my advice, I advise you to stick to the formula.”
Aram nodded, disappointed. He glanced at Markus to find his friend staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Aram understood. Markus apparently didn’t want to join the Order either. He didn’t blame him.
Ando Nambe gave a nod. “Very good. Now, come. Eyes to the ground. Markus, you be Aram’s leg. And remember you are but wretched worms groveling before eagles!”
Gritting his teeth, Aram leaned heavily on Markus’s shoulder and limped out of the cell, putting as little weight on his leg as he possibly could. He still had to put some weight on it, which brought him pain, but not agony. He hoped they didn’t have far to walk. Ando Nambe led them out into the courtyard and set out toward the main buildings of the College. Aram was daunted by
the distance but, leaning on Markus, attempted it gamely.
The courtyard of the College should have made for a pleasant walk. The hedges were in bloom, and the flowerbeds were full of blossoms. Dogwoods and cherries bloomed along the shore of a long reflecting pool, and in the center, a large, tiered fountain made splattering noises. Despite the beauty of the courtyard, Aram wasn’t enjoying the walk. It was exhausting and painful, and since he had to lean so heavily on Markus for every step, he was sure his friend was tiring too.
At length, they finally gained the entrance of the tallest of the three buildings and entered a large, tiled room with a ceiling many stories overhead. To Aram’s relief, Ando Nambe didn’t lead them toward the towering staircase, instead motioning them toward a set of wide double doors.
“Do you remember the words exactly, or do you need me to repeat them?” Ando Nambe asked.
Both boys shook their heads. The eunuch looked at Aram. “Remember my advice. Now is not the time for candor.”
Aram frowned, for he had never heard anyone say such a thing. Peace of mind can’t be purchased with a lie, his father had always said, and he believed him. His father would have disapproved of Ando Nambe’s advice.
One of the doors opened, and a man garbed in long robes appeared in the doorway. Ando Nambe moved forward and grasped his hand. The man inclined his head then motioned the boys forward while Ando Nambe stepped aside.
Markus and Aram walked together through the door, eyes lowered, just as the eunuch had directed them. Within, the room was dark, save for a dim light supplied by two candles that burned on some type of altar. To one side of the room, many people had gathered and were standing in straight lines. Aram could tell they were all garbed in the blue mantles of the Exilari, though it was too dark to make out their faces. On the other side of the room, before the altar, stood another man. Aram was relieved to see that it was not the old man he had feared.