The Bond of Blood

by Kody Boye

  No.

  He pushed the idea from his head. Such fantasies existed only in his mind and nowhere else. Should he allow such things to brew—fester, culminate, coagulate within his head—they would only morph into a knot, and from there he would drift across the endless sea, unable to tell just what lay before him and what existed just beneath the waters.

  When a knock came at the door, Odin settled back on the mattress and closed his eyes, not in the least wanting to deal with a guard bringing in breakfast. It was always cold and undercooked anyway—what use was there to give gratitude for someone who cared not for his condition?

  When the door opened and the figure stepped into the room, the door behind them hit the stone wall hard enough to create a loud echo that reverberated throughout the tower.

  Open your eyes, a voice said.

  Odin fought to keep them shut.

  What reason did he have to show anyone who entered any respect?

  When he heard from the opposite side of the room the sound of the door closing and locking, Odin opened his eyes to find a tray of food arranged on the single stool reserved for those from the outside world.

  A single note was attached to the platter.

  Odin reached forward, but stopped before he could touch it.

  Who, of all people, would leave him a note?

  Daughtry? he thought. The king?

  No. Despite his loyalty to the man he would one day serve, he knew his attentions were elsewhere—toward, he knew, the distant world, the lands beyond the border. This would not have been a message from the king. But with that in mind, who could have possibly sent it?

  Rather than dwell on the message, Odin reached forward and slapped it away from the platter of food.

  Tomorrow, the note said in indecent, obviously-rushed writing. Be ready.

  “For what?” he whispered.

  Odin looked up.

  The platter of food before him seemed all the more tempting.

  His stomach rumbled.

  A knot of pain began to claw within his chest.

  What could be happening tomorrow for there to be such notice?

  Whatever the reason, he couldn’t bother himself with it.

  He reached forward and began to eat.

  “Well,” Daughtry said, having arrived much earlier than usual for what he called an ‘unexpected visit.’ “I don’t really know if there’s a lot else I can teach you, Odin. You grasp the knowledge far better than some young mages do.”

  Odin guided the sphere of water he held in midair back above the wine glass poised between the two of them and allowed it to sweat its last beads of moisture before releasing his hold on it.

  “Daughtry?” Odin asked, turning his head up from the prone glass between them.

  “Yes?” the high mage asked.

  “Do you think someone will take me as their squire?”

  “I don’t see why they wouldn’t. Given who you are and what abilities you have, I’d be surprised if men weren’t scrambling to get their hands on you. By God, Odin—you’re exceptionally-fit for your age, which I believe we can both thank Master Jordan for, and you’re a mage.” The older man paused. A frown painted his face in a somber light. “Why are you asking? You’re not worried, are you?”

  “Not… really. I’m just having doubts is all.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t, because you’re very talented. Hell—if you want me to let you in on a little secret, it’s every knight’s dream to have a squire who can cast magic.”

  Though not reassured by the mage’s words, he nodded and crossed his arms over his chest as from the outside world he heard the locks and the metal bars sliding in and out of place.

  The door opened to reveal weapons master Jordan—dressed, from head to toe, in fine purples and reds.

  “Professor Daughtry?” Jordan asked, ducking into the enclosed space and taking his first few steps forward. “You wouldn’t happen to be finished with young Karussa, would you?”

  “Yes sir. I am.”

  “Would you like to come and meet some of the knights, Odin?”

  Did I, Odin began to think, but stopped before he could continue.

  “Are you… are you sure?” Odin asked, standing, bracing himself for whatever was to come as Daughtry began to gather his things before bidding the pair of them goodbye.

  “Of course I am.”

  “You have permission to let me out of the tower?”

  “Direct from the king himself,” Jordan said. As if to prove his point, he pulled from his belt a scrawl of parchment and unrolled it, revealing flush, ornate handwriting that had to have been trained for years by a practiced hand.

  “You mean… there’s no way I can be taken away and put back in this tower?”

  “You’ll have to return after I’m done with you, but with this signed order from the king, I’m allowed to escort you through the grounds and introduce you to the number of knights who’ve arrived from the kingdom. Why, there’s a few now whom I’ve specifically requested meet with you waiting right now.”

  “Ruh… Really?”

  He has to be joking, he thought, breathing, trying his best to maintain control of his sanity. This has to be a joke.

  If this were what he believed it was, then this joke, as sick as it happened to be, had to have been devised by a number of people—including the guards whom had given their share of blows to make sure his existence within the tower was as much a living hell as possible. While he didn’t necessarily believe that Jordan would ever do such a thing, it made Odin wonder whether or not that writing was true—that the piece of parchment, as official as it seemed, had been drafted by someone with naturally-neat handwriting and not the king himself.

  Before him, Jordan offered a smile to reveal white, it somewhat-disjointed teeth.

  “This is no joke?” Odin asked, settling his arms at his side.

  “This is no joke,” Jordan replied. He gestured Odin forward with a wave of his hand. “Come, Odin—we have people waiting for us.”

  With nothing to do but follow, Odin took his first few steps forward.

  He couldn’t help but smile.

  Outside, an alien world assaulted him. The colors, so warm and vibrant; the air, so fresh and clean; the stone beneath him, so hard and sturdy; the air, rich, filled with heat and slicking the back of his throat—to say that stepping out of the tower for the first time in years was exciting would have been to diminish the act. Joyous, ecstatic, his heart in knots and his mind threatening to overwhelm him—he paced behind weapons master Jordan with his hands at his sides and his eyes set toward the distant training field: where, beyond the eastern towers, boys sparred and trained while being instructed by another weapons master.

  “I’m sorry,” Jordan sighed, bowing his head.

  “For what, sir?” Odin frowned.

  “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. Don’t, really.”

  Of course I don’t, Odin thought, clamping his jaw to keep from speaking. I didn’t do anything wrong.

  Odin turned his attention to the group of pages after they passed the T-shaped entryway that led up to the fifth tower, eyes scanning the battlefield as first they arranged themselves into groups of two, then barreled toward one another, swords and staves at the ready. This vision spoke of times past—when, seemingly no more than yesterday, he had dueled a boy with a sword one of those very pages held.

  To honor his kingdom, to defend his pride, to display with blood and sweat the glory of his passion—at that moment, everything returned to him: from the pain, to the suffering, to the humility and then the downright horror of what his life had become.

  “Question,” Jordan said, drawing up beside Odin before pressing a hand against his upper back.

  “Yes, sir?” Odin asked, blinking to clear his eyes of torment.

  “Do you still know how to use a sword?”

  “Probably,” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you mo
re over the past few years. I hope you haven’t lost your touch.”

  How desperately he wanted to say that one could not lose their art with the sword—that, like writing, such an act was never forgotten, merely unpracticed—but remained silent. Instead, he narrowed his eyes, watched as a page’s sword went flying into the air, then as the boy was pushed to the ground, symbolic of military life and the death that would often follow.

  “We should go,” Jordan said, patting Odin’s back one last time. “There’s men to be seen today. We don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  No, Odin thought. We don’t.

  The courtyard was bursting with activity. Squires rushing back and forth to carry supplies for knights; pages skirting through the crowds hoping to be noticed by the men they so believed were heroes; royal women, children and men making their way along the sides of the streets, some with heads bowed and others giving the knights their full recognition—to look upon such a sight was enough to give Odin a headache, but his troubles were soon gone as Jordan beckoned him into the slowly-growing crowd.

  “Don’t lose me,” the weapons master said. “I don’t want us to get separated.”

  “They’d throw me back in the tower,” Odin said, “wouldn’t they?”

  “There would be no stopping them without this official proclamation from the king.”

  As if testing his response, Jordan reached down and tapped the scroll of parchment at his side.

  This may be your only chance, Odin thought. You can’t blow it now.

  Were he to lose this opportunity, he may never be conscripted into a knight’s service. Only the tower would remain.

  Brushing the thoughts from his head, Odin continued to follow Jordan through the crowd, navigating the long streets lined with vendors and shopkeepers until they began to make their way toward the stables.

  “Sir,” Odin said. “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve instructed a few of the men to wait by the stables so they could meet you.”

  “You… personally recommended me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You’re about as sharp as they come, and besides—you are a mage, after all.”

  But does that really give me special treatment?

  Without knowing how the men would respond to a boy of only sixteen who’d been locked in a tower and deprived of most, if not all of his weapons training, he couldn’t be sure how the men would react.

  Calm down, the voice in his head said. Everything will be just fine.

  The world, which had since blurred into a variety of gray and moody colors, returned to full focus.

  Directly before the two of them stood a series of men garbed in royal colors—including, but not limited to: men of different skin colors, but particularly Kadarians.

  At the sight of them, Odin froze in place.

  His hand instinctively fell to his side.

  “Odin,” Jordan said.

  “Sir,” he managed, swallowing a lump in his throat. “They’re… they’re Kadarians!”

  “They are as much members of our country as any of the other knights are.”

  “I don’t… I thought—”

  The situation in Germa had grown increasingly tense. Through the grapevine, and beyond the door where guards discussed daily happenings, he’d heard rumors that the Germanian population was gathering near one of the other desert towns for what seemed like a grand meeting. It could not be determined from a vast distance whether or not this meeting was actually war, as Ornalan scouts in the area could not actually force their way into the meeting halls. War, it seemed, lingered close, and for that alone a rumor had begun that the draft would soon take place. They would obviously strike Bohren first, they said, for it was the closest to their bordering country, before spreading out and taking Sylina and eventually the farming down of Lianasa and military outpost Ke’Tarka. However, in staring at the black men in front of him, and in taking in each of their features, Odin found himself trembling not in fear, but excitement.

  These are men who joined our country to liberate themselves from Germa, he thought, biting down upon, then slicking his lips.

  Could they possibly be the men who would take him from his petty existence and whisk him off on a grand adventure?

  No longer able to contain his excitement, Odin nodded, took a deep breath, then advanced with Jordan at his side.

  Almost immediately, the men turned their heads up.

  “Hello gentlemen,” Jordan said, lacing his hands behind his back and assuming the straightest posture he could. “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedules to meet with me. This is the young man I’ve personally written to you about.”

  Personally? Odin frowned, then said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” hoping at the same time that his tone hadn’t sounded too condescending.

  The men said nothing. They glanced him up and down, from head to toe, before giving him indecisive looks of either appreciation or disdain. One of the Kadarians—a tall, somewhere-near six-and-a-half-foot man with an impressive physique and a pair of dark, nearly-black eyes—stepped forward and lifted Odin’s arm, flexing the muscle and poking it with a forefinger. “He’s very well structured,” this man said, turning his eyes up at Jordan. “Did you train him yourself?”

  “I oversaw his training while he was being kept in the fifth tower,” Jordan replied.

  “The fifth tower?” one of the lighter, olive-skinned men asked. “Why was he there?”

  “It’s a long story that isn’t necessary to go into.”

  “You,” the dark-skinned Kadarian said, instantly drawing Odin’s attention.

  “Yes?” Odin asked.

  “You’re a mage.”

  “Yes sir. I am.”

  “Are you practiced?”

  “Yes. I mean I’m—”

  “He’s very well-read,” Jordan added, cutting Odin off before he could finish. “He can also write quite well from what I understand.”

  “My only concern is that you might not be able to help me on my journeys to the deserts,” the Kadarian said.

  The deserts? Odin thought, casting a look in Jordan’s directions. But I—

  “Odin’s very strong,” Jordan added.

  “I can tell,” the black man said, pressing his hands atop Odin’s shoulders. “He’s very well-built, but I’m concerned for his size.”

  “That shouldn’t be—”

  “I will be handling giant horses, Sir Jordan. It doesn’t matter how strong a boy is if he can’t handle the reins.”

  When the black man stepped back and into the crowd of knights, Odin gave the man a slight nod to signify his thanks before falling back at Jordan’s side.

  In the moments that followed, Odin couldn’t help but feel as though the entire world was watching him.

  It’s okay. They’re just watching you.

  Watching him or not, every one of those eyes that lay upon him felt like sticks—harsh, jagged, meant only to harm instead of help.

  “Does anyone else here want to ask the young man any questions?” Jordan asked, setting an arm across Odin’s shoulders. “We’re in no rush.”

  As if struck by a cloud of silence, none of the men responded.

  “Odin,” Jordan said. “Could you please excuse us for a moment?”

  “Yes sir,” he said. “Thank you.”

  After giving the other men a nod of thanks, Odin turned, shoved his hands into his pockets, then made his way to the end of the road—where, at the corner, he settled down and crossed his legs before settling his arms over his chest.

  Immediately, the emotions began to flood in.

  Jordan brings me out of the tower and all I get are cold shoulders.

  Could he blame them though? They had, naturally, questioned the reasoning beyond him being in the fifth tower, and had received no answer, so it was any wonder why they chose to disregard him.

  It’s okay, he thought. It’s only the first day.

  So what? Some of the knights had alr
eady picked their squires, were already moving into the castle in preparation to begin their charges’ trainings. Did it, in the end, really come down to how small you were or how you looked? How could they know if he could or couldn’t do something just by looking at him?

  They can’t, he decided, because they don’t know what I can do.

  Odin bowed his head.

  With nothing to do but to wait for Jordan, he began to whisper under his breath that things would be just fine.

  What seemed like hours later, Jordan returned bearing what appeared to be bad news. Face somber, lips painted in half a scowl and half a frown, he let a sigh pass from his lips, crouched down beside Odin, then set a hand on his shoulder before he leaned forward and said the few telling words. “None of them were interested.”

  Why, Odin couldn’t be sure, for he knew himself to be a young man talented beyond most of his peers. His swordsmanship, his intuition, his intelligence gained from a perfect memory, and his magic—for what reason did the men not want him? Did they feel as though he was dangerous and unruly, and for that had been imprisoned within the forbidden tower, or did they only his size as an issue when looking upon him?

  Does it matter? he thought.

  It seemed not, considering that no man would be enlisting him today.

  “Lift your chin up,” Jordan said, then tapped Odin’s jawline for emphasis. “It’s only the first day.”

  “But other pages have already found their squires.”

  “Like I said: it was only the first day. There’ll be more.”

  “You recommended me to each of them.”

  “Just because they didn’t want you doesn’t mean that somebody else won’t.”

  So you say.

  “I don’t want to go back to the tower,” Odin sighed.

  “You have to, Odin.”

  “I’ll go outside the castle grounds. Someone will let me stay with them until more knights come.”

  “And how do you expect to be found outside these walls, or be treated as a squire if you’re not within them?”