by Anthony Ryan
“Some say he asked a boon of the King to return his son from the Order,” Dentos put in. “But since the Battle Lord don’t have a son, how could he be returned?”
They knew, Vaelin realised. They knew ever since I arrived. That’s why they’ve been so quiet. They were wondering when I was going to leave. Master Sollis must have told them I was staying today. He wondered if it was truly possible to keep a secret in the Order.
“Perhaps,” Nortah was saying. “The Battle Lord’s son, if he had one, would be grateful for an opportunity to escape this place and return to the comfort of his family. It’s not a chance any of the rest of us will ever get.”
Silence reigned. Dentos and Nortah glaring at each other fiercely and Caenis fidgeting in uncomfortable embarrassment. Finally Vaelin said, “It must have been a fine piece of bow work, brother. Putting an arrow in a bear’s eye. Was it charging?”
Nortah gritted his teeth, controlling his anger. “Yes.”
“Then it’s to your credit that you held your nerve.”
“Thank you, brother. Do you have any stories to share?”
“I met a pair of fugitive heretics, one with the power to twist men’s minds, killed two Volarian slave-hounds and kept another. Oh, and I met Brother Tendris and Brother Makril, they hunt Deniers.”
Nortah threw his shirt onto his bed, standing with his muscular arms on his hips, face set in a neutral frown. His self-control was admirable, the disappointment he felt barely showing but Vaelin saw it. This was to be his moment of triumph, he had killed a bear and Vaelin was leaving. It should have been one of the sweetest moments of his young life. Instead Vaelin had refused the chance of escape, a chance Nortah hungered for, and his adventures made Nortah’s look paltry in comparison. Watching him, Vaelin was struck by Nortah’s physique. Although still only thirteen, the shape of the man he would become was clear; sculpted muscle and lean, handsome features. A son to make his King’s Minister father proud. If he had lived his life outside the Order, it would have been a tale of romance and adventure played out under the admiring gaze of the court. Instead he was doomed to a life of war, squalor and hardship in service to the Faith. A life he hadn’t chosen.
“Did you take its pelt?” Vaelin asked.
Nortah frowned in irritated puzzlement. “What?
“The bear, did you skin it?”
“No. The storm was brewing, and I couldn’t drag it back to my shelter so I hacked its paw off to take the claws.”
“A wise move, brother. And an impressive achievement.”
“I dunno,” Dentos said. “I thought Caenis’s eagle-owl thing was pretty good too.”
“An owl?” Vaelin said. “I brought back a slave-hound.”
They bickered good-naturedly for a while, even Nortah joined in with caustic observations of Dentos’s thinness, they were family once more, but still incomplete. They went to bed later than usual, nervous of not greeting the next arrival, but tiredness overtook them. Vaelin’s sleep was dreamless for once and when he woke it was with a startled shout, hands instinctively scrabbling for his hunting knife. He stopped when his eyes fixed on the bulky shape on the next bunk.
“Barkus?” he asked groggily.
There was a soft grunt, the shape immobile in the gloom.
“When did you get in?”
No answer. Barkus sat still, his silence disconcerting. Vaelin sat up, fighting the deep-seated desire to snuggle back into his blankets. “Are you all right?” he asked.
More silence, stretching until Vaelin wondered if he should fetch Master Sollis, but Barkus said, “Jennis is dead.” His voice was chilling in its complete lack of emotion. Barkus was the sort of boy who always felt something, joy or anger or surprise, it was always there, writ large in his face and his voice. But now there was nothing, just cold fact. “I found him frozen to a tree. He didn’t have his cloak on. I think he wanted it to happen. He hadn’t been the same since Mikehl died.”
Mikehl, Jennis…How many more? Would any of them be left by the end? I should be angry, he thought. We are just boys and these tests kill us. But there was no anger, just fatigue and sorrow. Why can’t I hate them? Why don’t I hate the Order?
“Go to bed, Barkus,” he told his friend. “In the morning we’ll offer thanks for our brother’s life.”
Barkus shivered, hugging himself closely. “I’m scared of what I’ll see when I sleep.”
“As am I. But we are of the Order and therefore of the Faith. The Departed do not want us to suffer. They send us dreams to guide us, not to hurt us.”
“I was hungry, Vaelin.” Tears glittered in Barkus’s eyes. “I was hungry and I didn’t think about poor Jennis being dead or how we’d miss him or anything. I just looked through his clothes for food. He didn’t have any so I cursed him, I cursed my dead brother.”
At a loss Vaelin sat and watched Barkus crying in the darkness. The Test of the Wild, he thought. More a test of the heart and the soul. Hunger tests us in so many ways. “You didn’t kill Jennis,” he said eventually. “You can’t curse a soul that’s joined the Departed. Even if our brother heard you, he would understand the weight of the test.”
It took a lot of persuading but Barkus went to bed about an hour later, his tiredness now too acute to be denied. Vaelin settled back into his own bed, knowing sleep would evade him now and the next day would be spent in a fug of clumsiness and confusion. Master Sollis will start caning us again tomorrow, he realised. He lay awake and thought about his test and his dead friend and Sella and Erlin and Makril crying like Barkus had cried. Was there a place for such thoughts in the Order? A sudden, unbidden thought, loud and bright in his mind, shocking him: Go back to your father and you could think what you like.
He squirmed in his bed. Where had that come from? Go back to my father? “I have no father.” He didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until Barkus groaned, turning over restlessly. On the other side of the room Caenis too had been disturbed, sighing heavily and pulling his blankets over his head.
Vaelin sank deeper into his bed, seeking comfort, willing himself to sleep, clinging to the thought: I have no father.
CHAPTER FOUR
S pring saw the snow-covered practice field darken into deep green as they laboured under Master Sollis’s tutelage, their skills growing with every day, as did their bruises. A new element was introduced late in the month of Onasur; studies for the Test of Knowledge under the guidance of Master Grealin.
Every day they were trooped down into the cavernous cellars and made to sit and listen to his tales of the history of the Order. He spoke well, a natural storyteller conjuring images of great deeds, heroism and justice that had most of them rapt in attentive silence. Vaelin liked the stories too but his interest was dampened by the fact that they all related to daring exploits or great battles and never featured Deniers being hunted through the countryside or imprisoned in the Blackhold. At the end of every lesson Grealin would ask them questions on what they had heard. Boys who answered correctly were given sweets, those who couldn’t answer were favoured with a sad shake of the head and a sorrowful comment or two. Master Grealin was the least harsh of all the masters, he never caned them, his punishments were words or gestures, and he never cursed or swore, something all the other masters did, even mute Master Smentil, whose hands could shape profanity with remarkable accuracy.
“Vaelin,” Grealin said after relating the tale of the siege of Baslen Castle during the first War of Unification. “Who held the bridge so his brothers could close the gate behind him?”
“Brother Nolnen, Master.”
“Very good Vaelin, have a barley sugar.”
Vaelin also noticed that every time Master Grealin gave them sweets he rewarded himself too. “Now then,” he said, his considerable jowls quivering as he worked the barley sugar around his teeth. “What was the name of the commander of the Cumbraelin forces?” He scanned them for a moment, seeking a victim. “Dentos?”
“Erm, Verlig, Master.”
&nbs
p; “Oh dear.” Master Grealin held up a toffee and shook his large head sadly. “No reward for Dentos. In fact, remind me, little brother, how many rewards have you received this week?”
“None,” Dentos muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Dentos, what was that?”
“None, Master,” Dentos said loudly, his voice echoing in the caverns.
“None. Yes. None. I seemed to recall you received no rewards last week either. Isn’t that right?”
Dentos looked as if he’d rather be suffering under Master Sollis’s cane. “Yes, Master.”
“Mmmm.” Grealin popped the toffee into his mouth, chins bobbing as he chewed with gusto. “Pity. These toffees are quite superlative. Caenis, perhaps you can enlighten us.”
“Verulin commanded the Cumbraelin forces at the siege of Baslen Castle, Master.” Caenis’s replies were always prompt and correct. Vaelin suspected sometimes his knowledge of the Order’s history was equal if not superior to Master Grealin’s.
“Quite so. Have a sugared walnut.”
“Bastard!” Dentos fumed later in the main hall as they ate their evening meal. “Fat, smart-arsed bastard. Who cares if we know what some bugger did two hundred years ago? What’s it gotta do with anythin’?”
“The lessons of the past guide us in the present,” Caenis quoted. “Our Faith is strengthened by the knowledge of those who have gone before us.”
Dentos glowered at him over the table. “Oh piss off. Just because the big mound of blubber loves you so much. ‘Yes, Master Grealin’”—he dropped into a surprisingly accurate impression of Caenis’s soft tones—“‘the battle of shithouse bend lasted two days and thousands of poor sods like us died in it. Let me have a sugar cane and I’ll wipe your arse too.’”
Next to Dentos, Nortah chuckled nastily.
“Watch your mouth, Dentos,” Caenis warned.
“Or what? You’ll bore me to death with another bloody story about the King and his brats…”
Caenis was a blur, leaping across the table in a perfectly executed display of gymnastics, his boots connecting with Dentos’s face, blood erupting as his head snapped back and they tumbled to the floor. The fight was short but bloody, their hard-won skills made fights dangerous affairs they usually tried to avoid even during the most fractious arguments, and Caenis was sporting a broken tooth and dislocated finger by the time they pulled them apart. Dentos wasn’t much better, his nose broken and ribs severely bruised.
They took them both to Master Henthal, the Order’s healer, who patched them up as they stared sullenly at each other from opposite bunks.
“What happened?” Master Sollis demanded of Vaelin as they waited outside.
“A disagreement between brothers, Master,” Nortah told him, it was the standard response in situations like this.
“I wasn’t asking you, Sendahl,” Sollis snapped. “Get back to the hall. You as well, Jeshua.”
Barkus and Nortah left quickly after giving Vaelin a puzzled glance. It was unusual for the masters to take a close interest in disagreements between the boys. Boys were boys after all, and boys would fight.
“Well?” Sollis said when they had gone.
Vaelin had a momentary impulse to lie but the hard fury in Master Sollis’s gaze told him it would be a very bad idea. “It’s the test, Master. Caenis is sure to pass, Dentos isn’t.”
“So, what are you going to do about it?”
“Me, Master?”
“We all have different roles to play in the Order. Most of us fight, some track heretics across the kingdom, others slip into the shadows to do their work in secret, a few will teach, and a few, a very few, lead.”
“You…want me to lead?”
“The Aspect seems to think it’s your role, and he is rarely mistaken.” He glanced over his shoulder at Master Henthal’s room. “Leadership is not learned by watching your brothers beat each other bloody. Nor is it learned by letting them fail their tests. Fix this.”
He turned and left without another word. Vaelin rested his head against the stone wall and sighed heavily. Leadership. Don’t I have burdens enough?
“You lot are getting meaner by the year,” Master Henthal told him brightly as Vaelin entered. “Time was boys in their third year could only manage to bruise each other. Clearly we’re teaching you too well.”
“We are grateful for your wisdom, Master,” Vaelin assured him. “May I speak with my brothers?”
“As you wish.” He pressed a ball of cotton to Dentos’s nose. “Hold that until the bleeding stops. Don’t swallow the blood, keep spitting it out. And use a bowl. Get any on my floor, and you’ll wish your brother had killed you.” He left them alone in strained silence.
“How is it?” Vaelin asked Dentos.
Dentos could speak only in a wet rasp. “Id bokken.”
Vaelin turned to Caenis, cradling his bandaged hand. “And you?”
Caenis glanced down at his bandaged fingers. “Master Henthal popped it back into place. Said it’ll be sore for a while. Won’t be able to hold a sword for about a week.” He paused, hawking and spitting a thick wad of blood into a bowl next to his bunk. “Had to pull what was left of my tooth. Packed it with cotton and gave me redflower for the pain.”
“Does it work?”
Caenis winced a little. “Not really.”
“Good. You deserve it.”
Caenis’s face flashed with anger. “You heard what he said…”
“I heard what he said. I heard what you said before that. You know he’s having trouble with this but you decide to give him a lecture.” He turned to Dentos. “And you should know better than to provoke him. We get enough chances to hurt each other on the practice field. Do it there if you have to.”
“’E pisshes me od,” Dentos sputtered. “Bein’ shmart alla time.”
“Then maybe you should learn from him. He has knowledge, you need it, who better to ask?” He sat down next to Dentos. “You know if you don’t pass this test, you’ll have to leave. Is that what you want? Go back to Nilsael and help your uncle fight his dogs and tell all the drunkards in the tavern how you nearly got to be in the Sixth Order? I bet they’ll be impressed.”
“Shod off, Vaelin.” Dentos leaned over to let a large glob of blood fall from his nose into the bowl at his feet.
“You both know I didn’t have to stay here,” Vaelin said. “Do you know why I did?”
“You hate your father,” Caenis said, forgetting the usual convention.
Vaelin, unaware his feelings were so obvious, bit back a retort. “I couldn’t just leave. I couldn’t go and live outside the Order always waiting to hear one day about what happened to the rest of you, wondering maybe if I’d been there, it wouldn’t have happened. We lost Mikehl, we lost Jennis. We can’t lose anyone else.” He got up and moved to the door. “We’re not boys any more. I can’t make you do anything. It’s up to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Caenis said, stopping him. “What I said about your father.”
“I don’t have a father,” Vaelin reminded him.
Caenis laughed, blood seeping thick and fast from his lip. “No, neither do I.” He turned and threw his bloodied cloth at Dentos. “How about you, brother? Got a father?”
Dentos laughed, long and hard, his face streaked with crimson. “Wouldn’t know the bugger if he gave me a pound of gold!”
They laughed together, for a long time. Pain receded and was forgotten. They laughed and never spoke about how much it hurt.
They took it on themselves to teach Dentos. He continued to learn next to nothing from Master Grealin so every night after practice they would relate a story of the Order’s past and make him repeat it back, over and over again until he knew it by heart. It was tedious and exhausting work, undertaken following hours of exercise when all they wanted to do was sleep, but they stuck to their task with grim determination. As the most knowledgeable, much of the burden fell on Caenis, who proved a diligent if impatient mentor. His normally placid nature w
as tested to extremes by the stubborn refusal of Dentos’s memory to store more than a few facts at a time. Barkus, who had a sound but not exhaustive knowledge of Order lore, tended to stick to the most humorous tales, like the legend of Brother Yelna who, bereft of weapons, had caused an enemy to faint with the remarkably noxious nature of his flatulence.
“They’re not going to ask him about the farting brother,” Caenis said in disgust.
“They might,” Barkus replied. “It’s still history, isn’t it?”
Surprisingly Nortah proved the most able teacher, his storytelling technique straightforward but effective. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to make Dentos remember more. Instead of simply telling the tale and expecting Dentos to repeat it word for word, he would pause to ask questions, encouraging Dentos to think about the meaning of the story. His usual taste for ridicule was also put aside and he ignored numerous opportunities to laugh at the ignorance of his pupil. Vaelin normally found much to criticise in Nortah but he had to admit he was as determined as the rest of them to ensure the continuance of their group; life in the Order was hard enough, without his friends he might find it unbearable. Although his methods bore fruit, Nortah’s choice of tale was fairly narrow; whilst Barkus favoured humour and Caenis liked parables illustrating the virtues of the Faith, Nortah had a taste for tragedy. He related the Order’s defeats with relish, the fall of the citadel of Ulnar, the death of great Lesander, considered by many the finest warrior ever to serve in the Order, fatally flawed by his forbidden love for a woman who betrayed him to his enemies. Nortah’s tales of woe seemed endless, some of them were new to Vaelin and he occasionally wondered if the blond brother wasn’t just making them up.
Vaelin, with his added duties of seeing to Scratch in the kennels every evening, took on the task of testing Dentos’s acquired knowledge at the end of each week, firing questions at him with increasing rapidity. It was often frustrating. Dentos’s knowledge was growing, but he was fighting years of happy ignorance with a few weeks’ effort. Nevertheless he did manage to earn some rewards from Master Grealin, who confined his surprise to a raised eyebrow.