by Rachel Dunne
There was something eerie about the way the boy stared. He didn’t blink nearly as often as he should. Some of the more superstitious convicts told tales of wolves in men’s skin, big Northern brutes who could change into animals and tear you to shreds, beasts with no souls. It was cold out, but not quite cold enough for the sudden, violent shudder that took hold of Kerrus.
The priest looked away from those wide blue eyes, and became very aware of the other eyes staring. Prisoners and their families were crowded into doors and windows, braving the cold to gawp at their dirty visitor. Frowning, Kerrus held his hand out to the boy. “Come then, little lad. Let’s get you cleaned and fed.” The boy looked at the proffered hand, at Kerrus’s face, back to the hand, and then stuck his own hands in his armpits. Kerrus snorted. “As you wish.” He turned back toward his hut, and the boy slunk along behind him.
It took three scrubbings with the roughest sponges Mora could find, but the boy cleaned up well enough. Bundled in borrowed furs, skin shined raw, hair plaited at the back of his head—he could have passed for some young Northern lordling, if they’d had lords in the North. He had a healthy appetite, shoveling porridge into his mouth as fast as he could swallow the muck. Hard to tell if he hadn’t eaten in a while, or if he just had a boy’s voracious appetite. It amounted to the same thing.
Kerrus sat at his small table, waiting patiently until the boy had finished, then folded his hands and, with his most fatherly look, said, “Well, I imagine you’d best tell me what brings you to our neck of the woods.”
The boy stared.
Kerrus tried it again in the Northern tongue, which he’d learned the rudiments of a few boring winters ago, and got the same response. That exhausted Kerrus’s knowledge of languages. “Not much of a talker, eh? I can respect that. Man needs to know when to keep his mouth shut. You’ll have to learn to trust me, though, little lad.” He fished around in his pockets until he found one of the sweets he kept scattered about his hut and person. He set the sweet on the table in front of the boy. “I daresay I’m the best friend you’ve got now.”
The boy picked up the sweet, sniffed at it, gave Kerrus a strange look, and popped it into his mouth. He sucked at the sweet, and stared, and kept quiet.
Kerrus was awoken for the second time that night, this time by a soft but persistent noise. His groggy mind thought at first it must be one of the camp dogs scratching at his door, but he remembered Fat Betho had put the last of the dogs into a stew two nights ago. No recent supplies, poor hunting, and all that. Patharro made the beasts to serve the men, and they served best here by filling hungry bellies.
And there was the scratching again.
Kerrus sat up and squinted around the dim interior of his home. The boy lay in front of a guttering fire, huddled in the nest of blankets Kerrus had made before the fireplace, sleeping soundly.
Scritch. Scriiiiiiiitch.
Not sleeping after all.
“Boy?” the priest called softly. The little shoulders stiffened under a blanket, but the scratching didn’t stop. Kerrus kicked off his own blankets and padded over to the boy. Propped up on his side, with one of Kerrus’s small knives clutched in his hand and chips of wood scattered all about, he’d clearly been at it for a while.
It must have been a stride across, both ways, and cut deep into the floorboards. They never did do anything halfway, these Northmen. It was a huge design of gentle curves and sharp angles, intertwining lines, all made up of the same shape, repeating and overlapping. One of their runes, the world’s oldest writing. Scal, in their ancient tongue. Fire.
“Aye, little lad,” he murmured. “You’ve unraveled the mysteries of the world. This is, beyond a doubt, a fire.”
The knife stuck quivering in the floor, so sudden Kerrus hadn’t even seen the boy move. But there it was, at the center of the design, in the deepest-carved scal. The boy looked up at Kerrus with those eerie, unblinking eyes, and slowly raised his hand, pressing it to the center of his chest.
“That’s you, then, is it?” Kerrus asked. He pointed from the rune to the boy, who gave a solemn nod. Kerrus sat back and chewed the inside of his cheek. “Well, Scal, I’ll admit I’ve had some better conversations in my days, but I can’t say I object to your way of speaking either. We keep talking like this, and I’ll soon have the prettiest floor in all the North.”
The boy was Parro Kerrus’s shadow, and much like a shadow, he didn’t do a lot more than follow.
It was a touch disturbing at first, being constantly and silently followed by the little lad. No matter where he went, there was Scal, a step behind Kerrus’s right elbow. Boy got himself a bloody nose for it more than a few times, for Kerrus was, in his defense, not particularly used to having to watch for elbow-high followers. Scal was persistent, though. What exactly he was persisting in, Kerrus hadn’t the faintest clue, but the Almighty Father loved determination, so Kerrus couldn’t fault the lad for it. The boy learned to stand farther back, and the priest learned to tuck his elbows in.
The exiles were a different matter. Aardanel was, on the best of days, inhospitable. Most days the environment tended more toward hostile, and that was when it came to other Fiaterans. Even with such a small Northman, Kerrus could see murder in some of their eyes, and was grateful once again for the chains binding the most dangerous prisoners. These, the scum of the earth, sent to its farthest reaches, were not a trusting folk.
“It’s a strange new home you’ve found for yourself, Scal,” Kerrus said to the boy as he picked through his dwindling root cellar. As usual, the boy stood silent, but that had ceased to bother Kerrus. Most of the people he talked to said a good deal less by opening their mouths than the boy did by keeping his shut, and the priest was used to talking at unreceptive vessels. It came with the cassock.
“Sometimes I wonder if you Northmen don’t have a better concept of justice than we civilized folk. Fight to the death, and the one who comes out alive is the one who’s in the right. You’ve no prison camps, and I certainly can’t say as that’s a bad thing. But it’s not a cheery life here, little lad.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the boy. Food was still scarce, but Scal was already filling out some. “Can’t imagine it’s too cheery a life out in the snows either, though, is it? Ah, well, few of us are given the choice when it comes to hells, and for myself, I’d say living in this little hell is a good sight better than dying out in a wide-open hell, eh?”
Kerrus hoisted himself to his feet and pressed the vegetable basket into Scal’s hands. The boy never offered up any help, but neither did he refuse whenever Kerrus asked him to do something. He still wasn’t sure how much the boy understood; he got the same blank look even when he spoke the Northern tongue. He seemed an agreeable enough lad overall, Kerrus had decided.
The kitchen was as bustling as ever, with Mora and Fat Betho screeching at each other while a handful of children scrambled around underfoot, trying to do as told while attracting as little notice as possible. Parents help you if you caught Betho’s attention when he was in one of his moods.
“Sodding whoreson,” Betho growled in Kerrus’s direction. There was a bloody carcass lying on one of the long tables. Looked like it might have been an elk. Fresh meat always put Betho in a good mood.
“Messenger come in earlier,” Mora explained as she sorted through Kerrus’s small offering of vegetables. “Eddin tol’ him he ain’t got supplies for us, he can walk back.” Ah. Horsemeat, then.
“What’d the messenger have to say?” Kerrus asked.
Mora just shrugged. “More prisoners comin’ in soon, but no supplies comin’ in with ’em. Same old ‘feck you’ it always is.”
Kerrus nodded glumly. A chunk of horsemeat apiece was as good as they would eat for a long while, until all the snow melted or until the sun fell from the sky, which was just as likely to happen. Kerrus hadn’t seen grass nor good meat in the nearly two decades he’d lived in Aardanel, and he’d learned never to expect either.
Fat Betho glared, and
hawked a slimy pile of spit onto the floor, narrowly missing one of the scampering boys. “Northman prick can feed his fecking self. Ain’t wasting good meat on a craven little arsespittle—” He came to an abrupt stop as he tumbled off his stool, and then the kitchen was full of shouting. Betho hollering, the boys cheering, Mora screeching like a harpy. It took Kerrus a moment to realize why, and then he became very occupied with trying to drag Scal and his flailing fists off the much larger prisoner. Scal was growling and snarling, mindless animal noises that made the hairs on Kerrus’s neck stand up. He was only a boy, but a strong boy at that, and seemed pretty damn determined to keep smashing his fists into Betho’s face. It was all Kerrus could do to keep his arms wrapped around the squirming lad and stumble slowly back toward the door.
Blood poured out of Betho’s nose as he scrambled to his feet with a bellow. There were chains between his wrists, but if anyone could figure out how to land a punch while chained up, it would be Betho. He hit Scal in the stomach with enough force to knock the air out of Kerrus as well, and priest and boy went tumbling to the floor. Through misty eyes Kerrus saw Betho pull his boot back for a kick, and then a dozen other boots filled the cramped kitchen as wardens rushed in to pin Betho down. Wheezing, Kerrus grabbed Scal by the back of his coat and started crawling for fresh cold air.
When Eddin found him, he was sitting against the outer wall of the kitchen, on top of a squirming little Northman. The two men watched as the other wardens dragged Fat Betho struggling and roaring away, likely to be thrown down in the Dark Box. Lucky for him they’d been on low rations lately; he hadn’t fit last time they’d had to stick him down there, so they’d just chained him up outside the walls for a few nights. That had put the terror in him right enough, and he hadn’t caused any trouble for a good long while.
Chief Warden Eddin watched Scal thrashing about underneath the priest for a while, then sighed. “I can’t have him causing no trouble, Parro. I’m in enough shit with the men as it is, and I can’t blame ’em. If there’s a devil of a Northman tearing around the place . . .”
“He’s no devil,” Kerrus said firmly, and smacked the boy on the side of the head to get him to stop squirming so much. “Betho deserved a good punching. Hells, Betho deserves a good killing. He’s a right bastard, and I likely would’ve punched him myself if he kept flapping his lips much longer.”
“No, you wouldn’t’ve.”
“Aye, you’re right, but I would’ve thought about it real hard.” Kerrus shrugged, and now that Scal had settled down some, he pushed himself off the boy. He sat up, leaning back against the wall next to Kerrus. A calm shadow once again. Kerrus rested his hand on the boy’s head. “He’s a good lad, Eddin. I know he is. Every man in the world has the Father’s fire within him, and I can’t blame the lad for letting some of his out. But we’ve all the Mother’s heart, too. The boy just needs time to settle in.”
Eddin studied the boy for a good long while, and then sighed again. “Keep your eye on him hard, Parro. Anything else like this, and it’s the snows for ’im.”
The new prisoners arrived a few days later, and as always Kerrus took it upon himself to help them adjust to life in Aardanel. The families of the condemned were his especial concern, those wives and husbands who’d chosen to stay by their loved ones in exile. A perfect example of Metherra’s gift of love, Kerrus’s old master would have said, and Patharro’s steadfastness. Idiocy, Kerrus called it, especially when the loyal fools brought their children with them. The camp was crawling with children, innocent children who’d likely know no other life because both their parents had bollocks for brains. They’d each be given the choice, when they reached their majority: stay in the camp and continue the life of labor their parents had chosen, or walk empty-handed out the gates, into the snows, and find whatever life or death awaited them beyond. It was a week’s walk to the nearest Fiateran village, with nothing but snow in between. Most chose to work, to live the life they’d known longest, to die a death they could at least see coming.
Aardanel was no place for a child.
Kerrus watched them march in, a dozen or so skinny, bedraggled-looking folk at the center of a company of guards. Six in chains with their heads shaved and a big bloody X carved into their left cheeks, convicted criminals who chose a slow death in hell rather than the speedy neck-jerking drop straight down. Four children, wide-eyed and crying, like as not to die before the week was out, all thanks to their parents’ crimes.
The wardens separated prisoners from families, marching the convicts into the main hall so Eddin could tell them what was what. A few other wardens herded the sobbing families toward Kerrus, standing in the doorway of the chapel. He spread his arms wide to them, welcoming the two wives, the husband, the four children into the Parents’ loving embrace. “Be welcome, child,” he murmured to each in turn as they shuffled past him, into the meager warmth the chapel had to offer. After a week’s cruel march through the snows, Kerrus didn’t doubt they were grateful for any warmth at all. They all went to huddle round the everflame, pressing shaking hands as close as they dared. One of the wives began to pray, holding three black-haired children close. The fourth child, who stood at his father’s side, edging nearer for warmth, was elbowed away.
Aardanel was no place for love.
“Well, priest?” the man asked, glaring at Kerrus. “What words of comfort have you got for us? What’ve you got to say t’ convince us this situation’s less of a feck-all than it looks?”
Kerrus shrugged. “Nothing. It is a feck-all of a situation you’re in, and there’s nothing I can say to make it any different. You chose to come here, knowing what this place is, and I won’t tell you lies to warm your hearts. It’s been called hell, and I can’t imagine any of the real hells being too much different.” The women were crying again, and the one had stopped her praying. There was little enough kindness left in Parro Kerrus’s heart, little room for sympathy, for comfort. He’d been here too long, seen too much.
Aardanel was no place for hope.
“You’ll each be assigned a duty—everyone does their part here. The wardens will give you yours, and show you to your huts. My hut is right next door here, if you need to talk, need advice, need anything. I hold prayer every eightday, but the chapel is always open. The best advice I can give you now is to keep your heads down, keep the Parents in your heart, and make the best of the choices you’ve made. It’s scant comfort, but it’s the most you’re like to find here.” Yes, Kerrus always took it upon himself to help the newcomers adjust to life in Aardanel. To teach them as quick as possible that it was a heartless and unforgiving life they’d put themselves in. “Now, if I may, I would like to speak to the children. You may wait for them outside, or the wardens can show you to your huts, and I will return them to you.”
“Why?” the mother of the three demanded, holding them all closer. The father walked to the door without a backward glance, leaving his son huddled by the everflame.
“Children have an especially hard time adjusting to life in Aardanel. I would speak to them, put them somewhat at ease.”
The childless wife snorted. “Aye, you’ve a real talent for that,” and she followed the father out the door.
“I ask only a moment,” Kerrus assured the mother, who clung still to the last familiar things in her quickly changing life. But finally she released them, handing the smallest to the oldest and heading out the door with a last, suspicious glance at the parro.
With popping joints Kerrus lowered himself onto the ground, sitting near the everflame. “My children,” he said softly, looking at them each in turn, “I wish I were not speaking to you right now, for it would mean you were not here.” He reached into a pocket and produced a handful of sweets. The children grabbed for them eagerly, eyes bright, as though they hadn’t seen food in days. As though they hadn’t seen kindness in years. He sighed. “What I said to your parents is true. This is not a pleasant home, and it will not be an easy life. You are innocents, brought he
re by the choices of others, and for that I am sorry. But know that Metherra still holds you close in her heart, that Patharro still shields your back. I will watch over you, do all that I may to see you each safe and comfortable. If you have need of anything, I beg you, ask me and I will do what I can. Aardanel is no place for children, but I would see that your lives are made as good as they can be.” He handed out another sweet to each, murmured a brief prayer. “Be on your way now, children. Keep the Parents’ kindness in your hearts.”
The three black-haired children fled, their cheeks bulging with the sweets. The youngest was sniffling, her nose running, death a shadow on her pale cheeks. She would go to the flames, and soon, too, Kerrus thought sadly, and her delicate siblings not long after. They weren’t made for the North, and Aardanel was no place for compassion.
The single boy lingered, staring at the ground, shuffling his feet, holding tight to something strung on a cord about his neck. He was young, but his face was hard, sharp, grim, a face that had seen too much bad and not near enough good. His eyes, when he lifted them to Parro Kerrus, showed the only softness, a plea that burned through him. There was a fire in his heart, one that would not be extinguished as easily as in those softer children. His hand dropped to his side, revealing the painted flamedisk around his neck, the symbol of the Parents’ endless compassion.
“They say the Mother’s turned her back on this place,” the boy said quietly, a quavering note winding through the words. “That Patharro’s closed his eyes on us. Is it true?”
That was a question Kerrus had not been asked in a long while. Most of those who came to Aardanel had given up or turned away from the Parents long since, and any seeking spiritual guidance were few and far between. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Brennon.”
“Well, Brennon. They say, too, that the Parents only turn away from silence. I’ve spoken to them every day these past forty years, lad. They’ll not turn away from this place so long as I have breath left in me.” He gave the boy an assessing look, and a pointed glance to the flamedisk. “Will you pray with me, child? Help me keep the Parents’ attention on this sad corner of the world?”