The randon, an Ardeth, smiled back with more teeth than humor. “Like it or not, young Lordan, you’ll learn your lesson. Everyone, coats off and take your places for the fire-leaping kantirs.”
“Losing your charm, Timmon?” Jame asked.
“I don’t understand. Usually the only one who denies me is you. What’s gotten into the randon of my house lately?”
Still grumbling, he and Jame dutifully squared up as their ten-commands followed suit. Fire-leaping Senethar consisted of a series of kicks and blows. Its kantirs could be practiced alone but when in class two opponents mirrored each other, starting slow, getting faster, not seeking to connect. Jame’s fist brushed past Timmon’s ear, and his past hers. Simultaneous kicks pivoted them away from each other, then back. So far, properly speaking, they were engaged in the Senetha, the Senethar’s dance form. The pace quickened. Each focused on a point just short of the other. Timmon’s booted foot stopped close enough for her to smell its fine leather and to see, cross-eyed, the dirt engrained in its sole. Hers brushed the tip of his nose.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
You broke my nose, Pereden had said to Torisen. When and why?
. . . two figures in the Heart of the Wood at the Cataracts, fighting. The one in black drove the other’s nasal guard back into his face with the hilt of his sword. The one in dusty blue dropped. Then the changers came . . .
Turn, back kick. A thud as two other opponents misjudged and fouled each other. The randon’s measured rebuke. Closer now, one arm scooping around the other’s neck. An extended foot sweep that would have brought both of them down if it had connected.
Tori broke Pereden’s neck.
“Why did you do it, Peri?”
Do what? If that had been Pereden in blue armor, why had he and Torisen been fighting at all while the greater battle with the Waster Horde raged around them?
Someone came to the door and spoke to the instructor.
“Your lucky day,” he said, turning to Timmon. “There’s a lady to see you. I think it’s your mother.”
“You call that luck? Now can I leave?”
“Go. But you still owe me three kantirs. The rest of you, mind your manners: Ran Aden is with her.”
“Who?” Jame asked the cadet next to her.
“Lord Ardeth’s war-leader, also his younger brother, also a former commandant of Tentir . . .”
“And therefore a member of the Randon Council,” Jame concluded.
So that was the name of the Ardeth who had watched her with such cold disapproval during the last cull and then voted against her. Around him she would certainly watch her step.
The lesson continued, with Drie as Jame’s new partner. At their first move, he slid past her in water-flowing, nearly causing her to fall as she anticipated a different maneuver.
“Drie, that’s the wrong kantir,” she hissed at him. “Wake up!”
Timmon’s servant smiled at her dreamily and continued to drift through the forms. Water-flowing was often used to counter fire-leaping as it channeled aside any attack. They were moving fast now, Jame on the offense, Drie on the defense, and others were making room for them. The instructor watched without comment. Drie moved beautifully, fully poised as little as he seemed to be paying attention, tempting Jame to step up her assault. Spin, kick, strike—except for the whisper of contact she might have faced wind-blowing, that most difficult of forms. He slid backward, water over stones, tempting her into an unwisely extended move. In the moment that she wavered, off balance, the Kendar calmly tapped her on the forehead and landed her flat on her back on a rush mat in a billow of dust. Rue looked startled; Brier raised an eyebrow: Jame rarely lost at the Senethar. The class, both Ardeth and Knorth, applauded. So did Jame after a moment of surprise, slapping the floor with an appreciative hand.
“There you see a perfect example of fire-leaping’s weakness,” said the instructor. “What should you have done, cadet?”
Besides disobeying instructions to respond?
“Not over-extended to begin with, Ran, then countered with earth-moving,” said Jame, rising and dusting herself off.
Who but Drie, she thought, could do things his own way and get away with it? Come to think of it, whatever the lesson, she had never seen him do anything except water flowing, and no one had ever called him on it. After his own fashion, he was as much a charmer as his master Timmon.
III
The morning’s second class was for those Shanir with special links to animals, conducted in the Falconer’s second-story mews.
A gust of welcome warm air greeted Jame and her blind hunting ounce Jorin as they entered. With the onset of winter, the windows had been sealed with oiled linen and fires burned at both ends of the long room, more for the comfort of its avian inhabitants than for the cadets.
The Danior Tarn was already there with his Molocar pup Torvi; the Edirr Mouse with her twin albino mice perched one behind each ear; the Caineron Dure with his secret in his pocket; the Coman Gari, thankfully without any insect horde; the Randir Shade with her gilded swamp adder Addy; and the Ardeth Drie, whom no one could explain.
Jame stripped off her coat and joined Shade by the back wall, away from the others. In general, she wished that all of Tentir could act as much in fellowship as the Falconer’s class, regardless of their house affiliations, but she had a special reason for seeking out the Randir.
Shade looked even more attenuated than she had during the Winter War, as if her very bones had lengthened or perhaps multiplied. Long, white fingers played restlessly with Addy’s gleaming coils.
“How are you?” Jame asked in a whisper as the Falconer turned his attention to another cadet.
Shade gave her a hooded look. “How do you think?”
Jame remembered that strange scene in the Caineron barracks when Shade had held off Fash with Addy twined around her arm—and vice versa. No normal limb bent in such a sinuous fashion. The Randir master-ten Reef had also been there. Jame wondered if Reef or anyone else had been at the right angle to witness the phenomenon.
“I’d be shaken,” Jame admitted. “It’s not something one would expect. I always thought that changers were made in the depths of Perimal Darkling”—like Keral, she thought—“not born free here on Rathillien.”
“Is that what I’m becoming, a darkling changer?”
“I think so, although again how and why baffle me.”
“Born, not made. Is that any better?”
“It is if it makes you an unfallen darkling”—she glanced around; no one was listening—“like me. I grew up under shadows’ eaves, in the Master’s House itself. A lot of it I don’t remember clearly, but I do know that I never submitted to his will. We can’t help what we are.”
“You, a Knorth, tell me this?”
“Not as a Randir. As a member of the Falconer’s class. As a fellow randon cadet. Honor is hard for us, but not impossible.”
“Blood will tell,” said the Randir morosely. She tugged an earlobe and grimaced as it stretched.
Jame was suddenly reminded of Prince Odalian of Karkinaroth pulling his fingers like taffy and laughing hysterically. Another innocent victim, forced into a changer’s role. She put a quick hand over Shade’s.
“Don’t. Not until you’re sure you can return to normal.”
The other gave a crack of laughter that turned curious heads. “Normal. Will I ever be that again? Was I ever, to begin with?”
Jame’s answering grin was lopsided. “First, define ‘normal.’ We are more than blood, Shade, more than our heredity or our past.” One has to believe that, she thought. Oh, but sometimes it was hard. “You haven’t fallen.”
“Sometimes I think that my entire house has, except for the Randir Heir.”
That was harder to answer. Given the pernicious influence of the Witch of Wilden, Shade’s grandmother, how many remained untainted? Jame thought of the silent Randir Kendar standing by the pyre of their young, of Randiroc and of Sargent Corvine who had carved the name o
f her dead son into her flesh, lest she forget. Then too, there was Quill’s guess that not all Randir were bound to the same lord, or lady. Rawneth had her share of followers, but not all embraced her power. Some clearly looked elsewhere, and not necessarily to her son. It was a confusing situation, especially hard on the innocent.
“There’s honor in your house yet,” she insisted, “however endangered.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. Listen, Shade, what you are becoming is complicated, but no disgrace unless you make it one.”
Shade grunted. Jame didn’t think that the Randir believed her, not that it was an easy thing to accept. The only changers she had previously known, except for Odalian, were the Master’s servants, corrupted by their own will—yes, even Tirandys, however much he had regretted his action and tried to rebel against it. But how had Shade gotten the darkling taint into her blood, and how strong was it?
“Whatever you do,” she told the Randir, “don’t let the rest of your house know.”
“Why?”
“I think your granddam Rawneth has been spying on you through Addy, perhaps to see if you begin to change. You may have broken that bond when Addy bit you, if you’re a blood-binder too, but I don’t know for sure. Does your bond to her feel any different now?”
The Falconer’s merlin had been staring hard at them. Now it gave a jeering cry. Its master’s sealed eyes followed the raptor’s gaze.
“You,” he said, jabbing his sharp chin at Jame. “Repeat the purpose of this class.”
Jame started like the guilty schoolgirl that she was. “T-to learn how to enhance the bond with our bound-creatures, Ran.”
“And are you satisfied with your progress?”
Jame sighed and rubbed the creamy fur of Jorin’s belly as the ounce stretched out beside her, purring. “No.” When upset or frightened, the ounce still tended to withdraw into himself, not that he ever seemed to lose the use of her senses.
“Then pay attention. All of you, focus on your partners.”
Jame closed her eyes and tried. What she felt mostly was hunger, having had little appetite for breakfast, but was that her, or Jorin, or both of them? Smell: the sharp scent of raptor droppings, leather from their tack, a dead mouse in the wall. Touch: the hard floor, warmth to one side where the fire burned, the sudden butt of Jorin’s head demanding more attention. Hearing: the others’ breaths, the dry rustle of Addy’s scales, the Molocar Torvi’s gaping yawn.
“Oh, wake up,” snapped the Falconer. “What’s wrong with all of you today? You, Dure, show us what you keep in your pocket.”
Reluctantly, the Caineron drew out his right hand, holding what appeared to be a gray rock. When he tickled its underside, however, it extruded tiny bright eyes and clawed feet. Those who hadn’t seen it before leaned forward to look.
“Why,” said Mouse, “it’s a trock. A scavenger. We had an infestation of them once in the outhouse. Father couldn’t sit down for a week.”
Dure glowered. “Well, this one is my trock. I’ve had it since it was a pebble. Generally, it isn’t very useful unless I want it to gnaw through something. Eating is what it does, and it can digest anything.”
Gari nudged Mouse. “Can you send your mind after it into the gutter?” he asked innocently.
“Now, children.” That was Tarn, speaking from the lofty, highly functional link that he shared with the huge Molocar pup sprawling at his side. “Not every bond is equal. For that matter, to whom or what is Drie bound?”
They all looked at the Ardeth cadet, who as usual was staring dreamily into space.
“Wake up!” the Falconer shouted at him.
Drie blinked but didn’t answer.
The randon snarled and launched his bird. The merlin dived straight for the delinquent cadet’s face, shearing off at the last moment with a near squawk. Drie scrambled to his feet, suddenly wide awake, and fled, closely pursued. Behind him he left a trail of wet footprints.
“Damn,” said Tarn. “Now we’ll probably never find out.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Jame said. “Now I’m curious.”
“Huh-oh.” Gari shivered. “Why do I smell disaster?”
In exiting the door, Drie nearly collided with Gorbel as he entered, pook under his arm.
“You said I should ask,” he growled at Jame. “Falconer, am I bound to this thing?”
The “thing” wriggled and produced a pair of button eyes amidst all of its shaggy fur. “Woof,” it said, and produced a red, panting tongue.
Pooks were odd, native creatures. Technically canine, despite diminished smell and sight, they could track prey across the folds in the land, which made them invaluable to those Kencyr who admitted that said folds actually existed. Gorbel had sent to Restormir, his father’s keep, for this particular specimen when he had set out to hunt the cave bear that was preying on Tentir’s herd. Arguably, the pook had saved his life by guiding Jame to him.
Master and dog scratched their ears simultaneously. The infestation of fleas that Gari had set loose during the Winter War in the Caineron barracks still seemed to be rampant. Gorbel glared at Gari.
“Sorry about that. I’ll clear them out if you like,” Gari offered.
“You do that.”
Torvi the Molocar rose and ambled over to inspect the new dog. His paws on Gorbel’s shoulders, he presented the lordan with jaws capable of removing the front of his head, skull and all. Gorbel held the squirming pook out of reach. “Down,” he said with the authority of a hunt master. Torvi licked his face apologetically and retreated.
“There’s definitely some link there,” said the Falconer, “but undeveloped. You’d better start attending my classes.”
The Caineron sat down with a grunt next to Jame and wiped the dog slather off his face with a sleeve. “Is this going to help?”
“I’m not sure. The skill seems to be something that can be learned, but not necessarily taught.” She scratched what she thought was the pook’s head, only to have a short tail wave in her face.
Soon after, the class ended.
“Who was that cadet who nearly ran me over?” Gorbel asked as they left the mews together.
“Drie, one of Timmon’s ten-command. No one has figured out yet what creature he’s bound to.”
“Humph. Well, it may mean nothing, but last fall, hearing that he didn’t like to swim, Fash and Higbert threw him into the Silver. Don’t look at me like that; it wasn’t my idea. Most people don’t come out alive. He did, with a smile.”
“So Drie may be bound to something aquatic. Well, that’s no surprise, if definitely weird.”
On the boardwalk that ran around the training square they encountered Fash, one of Gorbel’s ten-command but never noticeably subservient to him. To Fash, everything seemed to be a private, not very pleasant joke. Jorin growled at his scent. During the Winter War, the Caineron had only been stopped from skinning the ounce alive by Shade’s intervention. He grinned at the furry bundle under Gorbel’s arm.
“Good old One Eye. No, wait. I think you’re carrying him backward.”
Gorbel hoisted the pook and examined him, one end, then the other. “You’re right. I swear this pup can turn around inside his own skin.”
He trudged off, bright eyes peering back at them from under his arm.
Fash transferred his toothy grin to Jame. “Good old Gorbelly. Don’t they make a sweet couple? Of course, the question is ‘A couple of what?’ ”
“Half of it is the lordan of your house.”
“For a while. Until his father gets tired of his failures.”
“Which are?”
His smile broadened. “Well, you’re still here, aren’t you? At least until this afternoon.”
“And then?”
“You’ll see, beastie girl. You’ll see.”
With that he turned on his heel and strolled off, laughing softly.
IV
Brier Iron-thorn spent the lesson period after lunch in the barracks, overseei
ng the ongoing renovations to her lady’s chambers and setting the garrison’s affairs in order for the coming week.
She preferred to do the latter in the privacy of the empty dining hall, having only learned how to read and write since she had come to Tentir and feeling that her efforts still halted badly.
There. The wretched quill had sputtered and blotched again as she leaned too heavily on it. Incompetence fretted Brier almost as much as cowardice; certainly, one saw the first more often than the second in the Kencyrath, where neither should exist at all. Grumbling, she started afresh, a swath of hair like fresh-cut mahogany swinging into her jade-green eyes.
Like most traditional Kendar, Brier trusted her memory more than words on paper. Paper could be destroyed. Well, then, so could people. That had been an added tragedy to the Fall: so much knowledge had been left behind that now fact and the singers’ cherished Lawful Lie were often hard to tell apart. There was something to be said, however, for a notice that could be nailed to the wall rather than repeated nine times to the other house commanders. Certainly, the posted, official lesson schedule made planning easier, even when subject to last-minute alterations.
It still struck her as odd that, following Vant’s demotion and subsequent death, she had become the barracks’ acting master-ten while remaining the Knorth Lordan’s five-commander, a backward situation if ever there was one. The former never would have worked in her early days at the college when most Knorth had seen her only as a Caineron turn-collar inexplicably accepted by the Highlord into his service. She supposed that she had won their trust, although how remained a mystery to her when she still didn’t trust herself. Maybe being competent was its own reward, assuming that she was.
Her own feelings about her change of allegiance remained confused. Yes, she would serve her new lord with body, soul, and honor, yet behind her stood generations of Caineron yondri-gon. Did one ever successfully change houses or lords?
Scullery, stable, laundry, latrine, trock duty . . .
With their lord’s newfound wealth from selling Aerulan’s death banner in perpetuity to the Brandan, he could have afforded to assign some of his Kendar to act as servants for his cadets as was done in other houses such as the Caineron and Ardeth. However, Jameth hadn’t asked for them. Brier approved. They had done well enough so far without such help, sharing the least favorite duties. Being a randon wasn’t all glory—far from it. Lessons in discipline and endurance learned at the college would be invaluable later.
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