Echoes

by West, Michelle

  * * *

  “Kallatin,” the man who had come to instruct them said. “You will never learn to wield your weapon if you do not practice.”

  Kallandras nodded. “I am not your equal, Master.”

  “That is not my name.”

  Kallandras bowed his head. “I am not your equal. I cannot use this weapon without causing injury, either to myself or another.”

  “And would you train with false weapons, the way the clansmen do?”

  “I was born to a clan, a poor clan. I see no shame in it. Yes.”

  “Arkady?” The man turned to the boy that he had chosen to partner Kallandras.

  For a moment there was long, thin silence; Arkady did not look at Kallandras, did not look at the master. Instead, his gaze fell to the poorly lit shape of his feet, and lingered there in doubt for what seemed a long time. At last, he said, “Yes.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I—I think—I think he’s right.”

  The master’s pause was longer than Arkady’s. Kallandras did not realize that he was not breathing until breath returned.

  The master nodded. “If you do not feel comfortable with real weapons, you may have the practice ones. But we will keep the real until you require them.”

  * * *

  The old man came in the mornings.

  “You do not speak of your gift.”

  Kallandras did not speak at all. The moment stretched and thinned until the old man broke it by chuckling. It was not the sound he expected to hear.

  “Let me speak of mine, then, boy.” Kallandras said nothing.

  “I can speak in a way that forces men to listen.” He paused. “I almost never do. But of all aspects of my gift, it is the one most feared, and with cause.

  “Let me speak of the others. Do you sing, boy?”

  “No. Singing is for girls,” he added bitterly. His father’s words. But bitter or no, angry or no, he missed that man; that man had died with the knowledge of his only son’s location clenched between closed teeth.

  “It is for brothers, not for girls. And no voice is as strong, no voice is a powerful, in either sweetness or sorrow, as the voice of one born with the gift.” The old man paused. “I sing more frequently than I command. But I do not sing overmuch.

  “But there is one thing that I always do; it is as natural as breathing or sleeping.”

  Kallandras did not want to hear the old man speak. He was tired. The need for sleep thinned his nerve, robbing him of the composure that he clung to in the face of the Labyrinth and its masters.

  “I listen. I cannot help but listen. Every sentence, every word, every syllable, become lines of a map, and between those lines fall cities, if the speaker is careless. I hear a lie almost before it is finished; I hear truth in just the same way. I hear fear, anger, worry; I hear envy, desire, pain.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I am your mirror, Kallatin. I want you to learn.”

  He rose, then, and bowed. He did not speak again with the old man that day.

  * * *

  Four of the young men had chosen practice weapons; two pairs. The blades were unsharpened, the guards blunted; the weight however was almost the same. They were mocked for it; the other boys, fourteen in total, had chosen to brave the more deadly blades. After all, they were of an age, among their own, where they would have been expected to use blades that were far more deadly than these, and they had trained with swords, or the child’s equivalent, when they had had the opportunity.

  Unless, of course, they had come from slave stock. The sneer in the words was enough to keep silent any who might have been plucked from that life. It had seemed so important in that small world to appease, or at least slide beneath the notice of, the stronger boys.

  During the first week, four of the students—if that’s what they were—were taken away from the training grounds. All of them were bleeding profusely from the wounds they had received in training.

  None of them returned.

  The survivors of each team were paired together. Two of them chose to forsake their weapons, two did not.

  During the second week, another four fell. Again, they were taken from the training rooms, and again, they failed to return. There were other injuries during this time, but the boys bore them in wary—or terrified—silence. If they could walk from the session, they walked; they struggled to avoid acknowledging damage done them because they knew that an injury severe enough to bring them to their knees was death.

  But no one asked where the injured boys had gone.

  * * *

  In the end, of the ten boys who remained, only two chose to cling to their weapons. They were, in Kallandras’ opinion, the best; they were confident, and at times savage, but they were dancing on the knife’s edge, and they paid attention to every word their masters said. To watch them fight, to watch them move, was a bitter joy. The masters watched. They took notes.

  What had they said? Only three. Eight had already been winnowed by poor luck or poor skill.

  * * *

  During that time, the old man would come to Kallandras. He watched as Arkady and Kallandras progressed, but he did not speak or comment on their style, except to point out gross lapses in their technique. If the practice blades were not sharp, they were dangerous nonetheless; they left bruises that were wide across as the span of two hands in a trail from shin to shoulder.

  After the training masters had called the sessions to a halt for the day—or night—and the boys filed out to the three rooms in which their meals were prepared, the old man would speak.

  “Do you regret your choice?”

  “My choice? You mean, coming here?”

  The older smile was wry. “The weapon.”

  “No.”

  “But you watch Mikal and Torval as if they possessed some magic, some secret, that you yourself would attain if you could.”

  Kallandras shrugged. “Envy is not the same as regret.”

  “No indeed, but you are a strange one, to know that so well at your age.”

  Kallandras looked at the old man for a long, long time. Then he said, “The others are not as careful as you are.”

  “Careful?”

  “You know that I know when you lie.”

  He turned away; his slender profile was lit from beneath by the soft glow of a lamp that seemed to radiate no heat. “We are granted our gifts and our curses,” the old man said at last. “But yes. I know it.”

  “How?”

  “Does it matter? I know that you can hear me; I know that you can hear the things I have found no words for. If you pass the test, Kallatin, you will be without peer in the Lady’s service.”

  “You say that?”

  “Yes. Because I know what your curse is. It is seldom that a voice is so strong that it manifests useful power without appropriate training. But power alone is not what the Brotherhood desires. When you watch Mikal and Torval, remember this—lithe, graceful and beautiful as they are, I do not believe they will survive even this first stage of our testing.”

  * * *

  Arkady. Arkady.

  Old man.

  The bard’s voice was all that remained of his life in the Labyrinth. He did not use it tonight. Instead, he let Salla speak; hers was the only other voice he wanted. The night sky was clear and bright. The stars were cold.

  What is Mercy?

  * * *

  “What is mercy? Why are we hesitant to shun what remains of it within ourselves?”

  Old man.

  Kallandras did not think of him as one of the masters until the day he had come to lead them not to one of the three training rooms, but rather, to a large, round room with a domed roof across which, glittering and cold, the night sky seemed to crawl.

  Most of the boys didn’t understand the question. Kallandras didn’t.

  The old man looked, momentarily, like any other harried teacher. The man who had been primarily responsible for their weapon traini
ng—a man who had never introduced himself, but who did not like to be called master—smiled and turned his face to the wall. Kallandras had the suspicion that he was stifling a laugh—and of all things he had seen in the Labyrinth, it was both most the welcome and the most surprising.

  “Let me attempt this again. You,” the old man said, pointing at a boy who stood in the back of the group. “Did you spend your childhood dreaming of the day when you would become an assassin? Did you daydream about taking the life of a stranger who has never done you any harm—and worse, by stealth, not by challenge?”

  Silence was an effective answer.

  The old man did not press. “Let me answer the question for you. For all of you. No. Not a single one of you would have been chosen if that had been your desire.” There were one or two nods. A whisper. Another. But stillness resumed its grip again when the old man started to speak.

  “If the Kovaschaii were mountains, you would be standing in the foothills. You will, if you survive, become what we are. We kill. We accept the money of people who desire death, and if it is deemed a suitable death, or a suitable offering, one of our brothers will perform the assassination.

  “Do we appear monstrous?”

  Silence again, but that was wise.

  “You will be killers. You will destroy lives. You know the cost of that firsthand, or you would not be among us. If you cannot find a way to accomplish this task with pride—with honor—you will never leave.”

  Kallandras listened carefully to each word. The pause between sentences was like a gap between walls that are close enough that a climber might scale them. The old man was worried.

  Because he was telling the truth.

  * * *

  “What do you hear when you listen to your comrades speak?”

  Kallandras tilted his head to one side for a moment and then said, “Exactly what you hear.”

  The old man’s smile was slight. He was always less frazzled when they met one to one. “Diplomatic. I do not ask to gain information, or rather, information about the other students; I do not expect you to spy. I ask because I wish to confirm the level of your abilities.”

  Kallandras nodded, but he still did not answer the question; let these putative companions give themselves away as they must; he would not do it for them. But he was concerned; they were afraid.

  As if he could hear the thought, the fluid lines of the old man’s expression changed direction; the smile was transformed into a dour stillness. “They’re afraid. Fear will drive them in one of two directions

  “Which two?”

  “It is not my test to pass,” the old man said. He looked as if he would like to speak more, but as he hesitated, another of the masters came by, and the spell of isolation was broken.

  But fifteen minutes after the two masters had left him alone, he heard a familiar voice. “Watch yourself, Kallatin. Fear seeks a target if it has a weapon.” Kallandras jumped up and ran to the mouth of the great room, but it was empty, and the jagged walls of equally empty, winding hall offered no answers.

  * * *

  The eating rooms had never been so quiet. There were usually minor squabbles about seating, food, the quality of food, water, water again, and who would be responsible for cleaning the dishes that were left.

  “Hey, Kallatin?”

  Kallandras chewed quickly, swallowed quickly, and then spoke. Across the remove of years, he remembered this. On that night, that significant night, he had clung to manners as if they mattered. They had all chosen to cling to their pasts.

  “Yes?”

  “Which three, do you think?”

  “Three?”

  “Which three will it be?”

  “I think more than three will go on. Or less.”

  “But they said—”

  Kallandras closed his eyes. In the darkness and the silence, it was easy to recall the exact words. “Only a handful of your number—three perhaps—will survive.”

  Arkady was clearly impressed. “You even sound like him.”

  “I sound like a tired old man? Thanks, Arkady. Tomorrow, you’ll be the one with new bruises, I promise.” That had taught him something, although he failed to appreciate the lesson until he was a decade older. Never promise something that cannot be delivered. But at that time, Arkady’s snort, Arkady’s laugh, was all that he required. They rose from the mats, their knees unfolding almost precisely at the same instant.

  “Why are you two laughing?” Mikal rose as well. He carried his weapon with him at all times, and often allowed his hand to stray to its hilt. It did, then. Kallandras shrugged. “Laughter is better than strained silence.”

  “If you have something to laugh about.”

  “And if I do?”

  Torval rose as well. They were not friends, these two, but they were allies. “Share it with the rest of us.”

  Kallandras’ shrug was less graceful. He had not learned to dissemble; had not learned to flatter or lie; that came later, when death was more important than pride or privacy.

  Arkady touched his shoulder.

  Kallandras shook his friend’s hand away. His own came to rest on the hilt of his practice weapon. Torval snorted in open derision. “Is that supposed to impress us?”

  “No. Merely to show you how pretentious the strut looks when you do it yourself.”

  In the grey of rooms that were never touched by sunlight, color was suspect—but if the flush that stained Torval’s cheeks was not glaringly obvious, it was there if one knew how to look.

  “What are you planning, you pale-haired—”

  Mikal caught Torval’s elbow, silencing him. “We know that you talk to the master in private. He speaks to almost no one else. He isn’t a armsmaster. What does he tell you, Kallatin? What has he offered you?”

  “Nothing. Nothing except this life.”

  “Liar.”

  Kallandras’ turn to flush. “I am not used to being called a liar.”

  “Get used to it if you are one.”

  “Kallatin—” Arkady’s hand again.

  He ignored it. “Or?”

  “Or maybe we’ll try different partners in the arena tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  “Kallatin.”

  Mikal laughed. “Looks like your partner doesn’t think so.” He sauntered toward the dormitory that housed them all in space that seemed increasingly…small.

  * * *

  “Life ends. Whether it ends by your hand, or no, it ends. The only ties that matter are those of loyalty and those of blood.”

  Kallandras looked at the old man. He was tired. It had been a restless night.

  “We will accept any mission that…that we are ordered to accept. But the Kovaschaii are not interested in pain or pleasure; we are interested in death. You are not a child. You know the difference between a long death and a short one.”

  Kallandras did not reply. He did know the difference. If he was not careful, he would dwell on it, and the loss of his family would filter into his voice, where it would be easily snatched up by the old man.

  “You have made progress with one weapon, Kallandras. I would have you learn another.”

  “And that?”

  “Use what you were born to. Your brothers will not envy you the gift; they will bless you for it because it will be used in our service.”

  The young man was stony in silence. Stiff. To speak of the philosophy of death was one thing. To speak of its actuality, quite another. He said, after a long pause, “My family is dead because of my curse.”

  “No. Your family is dead because of the fear of a talentless, ambitious man. In a different land, you would have been valued for what the Lady chose to give you.” There was bitterness in his words. Bitterness laced with humour. “And you are in a very different land.”

  Kallandras bowed as he had been taught to in his father’s home. “Teach me, then. Teach me what you can teach me, and I will do what I can to live up to your expectations.”

  “Do I h
ave expectations?”

  “Everyone does.”

  The old man smiled. Listen then. What I say, only you can hear. Understand the texture of voice that makes this impossible. Understand that it is impossible. Learn.

  * * *

  Do they bless me now, old man? Do you?

  * * *

  The master in charge of the first room was waiting for him. Although he was completely expressionless, and his words were smooth as Northern glass, his voice was shaded with disapproval and annoyance. Kallandras bowed as formally as he dared.

  “Did Constanso detain you?”

  “Who?” For a moment, Kallandras thought he referred to a student; they were the only people in his twilight life who had names he could use. But when the master fell completely silent and his lips compressed into a dagger’s edge, Kallandras knew who he meant. He nodded, but he did not speak the name again; it was not wise to remind a man who had the power to grant life or death on a whim that he had made a mistake. “Mikal and Torval have a proposition that intrigues me. They have suggested that you wish to test your skills against opponents that you are not so familiar with. I see merit in this.”

  Kallandras said nothing.

  “Your time here—in these rooms—is almost at an end. The basics, you now have. Anything else you will gain once you complete your passage. It is time.” He walked toward the tall table upon which he had set the weapons the boys had originally been given. “Will you take these back?”

  He shook his head.

  The master nodded as if he was not overly surprised. “Arkady?”

  Arkady was paralyzed.

  The master took his silence as refusal. “I commend you both,” he said softly. “Kallatin, please, join Mikal. Arkady, join Torval, but wait my word.” He turned to Kallandras. “I would see the two of you spar.”

  When Kallandras joined Mikal, he felt as if he had stepped into a different room, onto a different floor. He had spent months training with Arkady. He had received bruises, had left skin on the rough walls and ground of each of the training rooms, had won and lost time and again. He thought he understood the rhythm of the fight.

  He was wrong. He understood the peculiar combination of Kallandras and Arkady. Kallandras and Mikal were entirely different.