“What do you want done with him?” the soldier asked. The boy received no special allowance, that was common knowledge. He did the same weapons drills, ran the same conditioning distances, performed the same chores. Sometimes the men thought Torg was too hard on him, but they didn’t know the truth.
Torg tightened his fist, crumpling the letter he held. “I think,” he said, forcing his voice steady, “we will see he does not sleep on his next watch. Tonight he’ll have the northwest walk. And to be sure he doesn’t fail, we’ll chain him to his post.”
Two pairs of eyes blinked back at him. The soldier spoke first. “Sir, tonight that walk will be—”
“I know what it will be,” Torg cut him off. “Take him there.”
Torg himself went to choose the shackles, selecting chain long enough for his purpose. He did not allow himself to think beyond the night, beyond what he must do.
He climbed the steep stairs to the northwest tower and went out onto the walk, where soldier and boy waited. The wind cut across the plain and through his cloak; the temperature was already falling. Rain sliced the air around them. Torg looped a length of chain around the crenelations on either side of the walk and pulled them snug.
“Between them?” the soldier said, one hand holding Shianan’s shoulder. “Not against the wall?”
“He can’t keep a good watch with his back to the wall, can he?” Torg asked. “He needs to be able to see.” And there would be a modicum of shelter against the wall.
He tested the chains and gestured for the boy to be brought. He fastened the shackles himself and stepped back. The boy’s arms were outstretched to the sides, though not tightly, which pushed his heavy winter cloak over his back. Torg moved forward again and unfastened the cloak, dragging it over his wet head.
“Hey!” The boy moved against the chains, breaking the surly dignity he’d tried to maintain. “I’ll freeze!”
Torg made his voice steel. “Then you won’t sleep, will you?” He turned away, attaching the key to his own belt. He eyed the soldier until the man moved away, and then he strode toward the tower without looking back. The rain fell coldly around them.
Torg worked a little longer at his desk and then retired early, leaving a sergeant to see to the usual posts—of which the northwest walk was not one. His fire could not completely hold back the damp chill. He looked out the window at the paved courtyard and saw a glassy sheen to the rain-slick stones. It was becoming one of those icy storms the north dreaded.
So much the better.
Sometime past midnight he rose and cloaked himself against the storm, going by protected ways to the northwest tower. He opened the top door carefully, hoping the sound would be lost in the storm.
The boy was hunched against the rain, his face turned downwind. His wet winter clothing was plastered to his body, sculpted into stiff wrinkles. He was shivering violently, Torg saw, arms shaking against the chains.
Torg watched him for a while, but little happened. Once or twice the boy shifted, probably trying to ease the strain on his shoulders, and once during a lull after a gust of wind Torg heard him moan as he shivered. Finally Torg returned to his own room, warming himself beside the fire before going to bed.
In the morning he rose early, well before the sentries would be recalled from their posts. Only a hint of light in the east foretold the winter dawn. Torg took the confiscated cloak and went to the northwest tower, keeping to interior walks where the ice had not reached.
The rain had mostly ceased, and only icy drops fell, freezing upon impact. Torg opened the tower door and eased out onto the slick walk. He slid once and caught himself against the crenelated wall. He stepped cautiously toward the limp body and lifted his shaded lantern.
Ice was crusted over the shackles and pointed icicles hung from the chains. The boy’s clothing was frozen, frosty ice bleaching the colors. His wet hair had frozen into stiff chunks around his pale face. He had sunk onto his knees finally and hung by his arms. It was a horrific sight.
Torg’s breath blew away in a little crystalline cloud as he looked at the boy. He had not wanted to do this, but now it was done. There was nothing left but to take the body. That would be simpler when the ice had melted, but he did not want anyone else finding him first. He bent to examine the ice-covered lock.
A gleam of white moved at the edge of his vision, and he looked sharply toward the boy. No, he had not moved. That was impossible. But he frowned and moved closer; after years of battle against the Ryuven, corpses held no horror for him. He watched the boy for a moment and saw no movement in the pale face, no flicker of the frosted eyelashes.
And then there was a puff, a tiny puff, of vapor, easing from the blue lips. Torg reached quickly to the boy’s neck and felt for the throbbing pulse of life. Yes—yes, it was there, slow, weak, but there.
The boy was yet alive.
Torg cursed. It shouldn’t be so. Now he must—
Yet if he were yet alive, Torg would not throw back that gift. He opened the shielded lantern and held the key over the flame for a moment before pushing it through the ice and into the frozen lock. The arm dropped heavily, lifelessly, and Torg almost expected it to shatter. Shianan swung unresisting toward the remaining arm and Torg caught him. He reheated the key and unlocked the other shackle, then he threw the cloak around him and tried to lift.
The boy did not rise, impossibly heavy. Torg looked down and saw his legs had frozen to the stones. He lowered the boy and worked at the legs, pushing the lantern close until he could peel them away with chunks of ice clinging to the fabric. He moved carefully, carefully across the ice and into the tower, where he began the cautious descent down the steep stairs.
The boy was deadweight on his shoulder. It might be too late; Torg might lose him anyway. He carried him to his own quarters and settled him before the fireplace, adding two logs to build up the flame. “First order, let’s get these clothes off you,” he said aloud, hoping his voice might somehow reach the frozen mind. “Jacket first, let’s go.”
The outer jacket was stiff with ice, and Torg’s heart sank. But the next woolen was a little less so, and the woven inner shirt was cold and wet but without ice. The boy’s bare skin felt like steel on a winter day, though.
“Boots next.” He stripped the boy and left him naked before the fire. Passing into the third of his rooms—being an officer had some compensation—he opened the tap into the small wooden tub. He started the fire beneath and built it larger than was wise, hoping to warm the water quickly.
He returned and set a kettle at the fire’s edge. Then he scooped up the boy, carrying him in the damp cloak to the partially-filled tub and dropped him into the water. The boy jerked, moving for the first time, and Torg felt his heart jump. “That’s right.” He splashed him. “That’s right, fight it. Come on, boy.”
The water struck his face, and Shianan moved again. He moaned without opening his eyes and then, most gratifying to Torg, began to shiver.
“Yes! Good.” He stopped the water at the boy’s neck; with his legs folded against his torso more of Shianan fit into the tub than when Torg used it. He added more fuel to the warming fire and then took a rough scrubbing rag to the boy’s arms and back, trying to rub circulation back into them.
Shianan whimpered. “Hurts.”
“You’re speaking!” Torg rubbed harder. “It’s going to hurt, boy.”
“S’ot.”
The water was fresh from the tank Torg and the kitchen shared, and the fire had made it only tepid thus far. “It’s not hot, boy, that’s just you. You’ll be warm soon enough. Move your legs, boy. Wiggle your toes.” He began to rub the other arm.
Shianan only slouched shivering in the tub. His shaking was uncontrollable, his teeth chattering violently, but Torg was happy to see it. Shivering meant his body had recognized cold again and had strength yet to fight it.
Encrusted ice melted and ran into the tub, leaving heavy wet sections of hair across Shianan’s face and shoulders. �
��Stay a moment,” Torg said, although he didn’t think Shianan needed the instruction. He was hardly sure Shianan heard him. “I’ll bring you something to drink.”
The kettle was hot, and he poured it over a handful of tea leaves. He thought briefly of adding something more but decided against it. While alcohol might make the boy feel warmer, it would actually inhibit the warming of his body. He carried the brewing tea into the bathroom and lifted it to the boy’s face. “Drink.”
Shianan’s lips might have moved, but it was hard to be sure with the shivering. Torg drew his head back and poured the tea into him, supporting Shianan as he swallowed reflexively and coughed. “More,” he said, pouring another cup and raising it.
By the time he had emptied the kettle, the water in the tub was warm. Someone knocked at the outer door, and Torg left the boy in the tub to answer it. “Yes?”
“Morning, sir. I just checked the northwest walk, sir, and the boy’s not there.”
“I have him,” Torg said. “I released him this morning.”
“Ah, yes, sir.” The soldier’s eyes asked what he could not ask aloud.
Torg was not obligated to answer his questions, spoken or unspoken. “He’s relieved of his duties for the day.”
“Yes, sir.”
Torg closed the door and exhaled. They would not like this.
He went back to the tub. Shianan blinked at him, his eyes focusing for the first time. “Sir?”
“Rub your legs with this,” Torg ordered, dropping the cloth on his bare knee. “Rub hard.” The boy had to move, had to stir his own blood.
Shianan moved his arm jerkily, still shivering. His fingers could not grasp the cloth. “I—I want….”
“What do you want? Rub harder, boy! Put some muscle into it!”
Shianan tried, straining silently. He always tries, Torg thought. He always tries.
Torg went into his sleeping room and collected the discarded clothing, now fully melted and sopping wet. He hung them before the fire to dry, regretting that the room would smell of hot wet wool.
He then went into his office, the outer room, and gathered paperwork. Later he would have to write a very carefully-worded letter, but that would wait. He worked for an hour or so, glancing periodically toward the bathroom, and then returned.
Shianan was drowsing, his head sagging toward the water. “Wake up! You’ll drown yourself.” Torg tested the water, comfortably hot. “You’ve stopped shivering,” he observed. Was that a good sign, or was the boy simply too exhausted to continue? “Let’s get some warm food into you and then let you sleep. Holy One knows you’ve earned it.”
He went for the boy’s under-braies, the only item that had dried, and tossed it beside the tub. “Let me help you out,” he said. “You’re likely to spill yourself all over.” He gripped the boy under the arms and lifted him half-clear of the tub. Shianan tried to lift his legs but they dragged over the edge. Torg deposited him on the floor. “Dry yourself and get into that.”
Back in the office, he opened the door and summoned the man who stood nearby. “I need a bowl of hot soup and some watered ale,” he said, “and my own breakfast.”
“Yes, sir.”
Shianan was rubbing his limbs dry with slow and exaggerated movements. It didn’t seem he had full control of his body yet. He crawled to his feet, steadying himself against the wall. “In here,” Torg said with a nod of his head. “You’ll eat before the fire.”
Shianan attacked the soup, fumbling with the spoon. Before he had finished the ale, though, he was nodding, and Torg looked up from his work as he dropped the cup, spilling what was left over himself and the chair before the fire. Shianan looked alarmed. “I—I’m sorry….”
“Never mind that,” Torg said, “you need sleep.” He gestured toward his own bed. “Go.”
“But….”
“Into bed, now.” Torg followed the boy and helped him with the heavy blankets. “You’ll be warmer here than in your own place, and the barracks are probably being swept now anyway. Rest.”
Shianan lay absolutely still. Torg thought he was already asleep when a small voice stopped him. “Captain?”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I won’t—I won’t sleep on watch again.”
Torg’s stomach clenched. He thought it had all been a punishment, an unusually harsh penalty. But how could he know more?
Torg left him sleeping and went out to face the cold stares of his men. They knew what Shianan was, but they did not know the contents of the letters Torg received. They resented their captain now, disapproved of the brutal punishment. Torg knew the word would have gone around that their commanding officer had spent the morning trying to save the life of the boy he had nearly killed. They did not know he had been ordered to kill him.
Torg sighed and pulled himself away from the unforgiving memories. The boy was grown, now, and probably unforgiving as well. He did not know that Torg’s first instructions had been to raise the boy without being too careful of him; he would not, veiled language implied, be regretted if he were to die in an accident. But no fatal accidents had befallen him, and finally Torg had received the order to arrange a death. That too had failed. Shianan had survived that night in the ice storm, and Torg did not take his life in the morning.
He had sent a letter, his sixteenth draft, relating that Shianan had suffered a terrible night in a storm but his training and natural strength (of good stock, his letter implied without saying anything too openly dangerous) had carried him through. There had been no more letters regarding Shianan for a year, and the next had carried a different tone altogether.
Eventually, Shianan had been made a sergeant at only nineteen and sent into the mountains. He had returned a year later, forged even harder, and remained under Torg only a few months before being called to the capital of Alham—for service, the letter said, but Torg knew of half a dozen who might have qualified for the position. No, Shianan had fared too well fighting the Ryuven and had to be kept under closer watch.
And now Shianan Becknam was a commander—and a count, too, the news said. He’d proven himself unambitious toward the throne, Torg supposed, or else the king had ennobled him to keep him under surveillance in Alham. It was possible he had learned to use his position to advance himself, but that didn’t fit with the boy Torg had known. Regardless, somehow he’d become a person of some position and authority, minor as it might be beside his royal half-brothers.
And he had just written to Torg for the first time since leaving his command.
There was no point to delaying. It would read the same tomorrow as today, only weighted with a day’s worth of agony. Torg broke the seal, fingering the two pages, and began to read.
Captain Torg, it began, it has been a long time. I hope you will forgive the personal tone of this letter; it is not yet a military dispatch.
It could be the opening of anything. Torg forced himself to breathe and read on.
As you may have heard, my commandery is in Alham, where I serve under General Septime. Our Captain Wheate has fallen ill and has asked to retire from service. It is my responsibility to fill that position and rather than promoting one of the men here, most of whom I feel are already serving to the best of their abilities in their present positions, I am writing to ask if you would be willing to take Wheate’s place.
There was an ink blotch before the next line, as if the pen had hesitated an instant too long before beginning the sentence. I know there might be some difficulty in coming at this time; I understand the situation is tense. I refer to the testing of the new shield, of course, and our vigilance as we wait to see whether it will hold. If you feel you cannot leave your post in other hands, I would be happy to hear your recommendation for another suitable candidate or even your brief statement that you are not available. If you are amenable, on the other hand, you will find enclosed authorization to instate a temporary commanding officer for your outpost and to travel to Alham to take up your new position.
Torg stared at it, re-reading and re-reading. There should be more, something unseen. He would have thought it only Becknam’s late-coming revenge, summoning his former captain to his own command where he could torment him at leisure or arrange for something more. But he had been given the option of refusing, and that didn’t seem right for entrapment.
In fact, Becknam even acknowledged that Torg might have reasons for avoiding him. It was nominally concealed within worry over the Ryuven—Becknam was so much more the soldier than the diplomat—but it seemed as much of an honest option as could be conveyed in such a letter.
Torg set his chin in his hand and thought back to the young Shianan he knew. Certainly there had been disagreements, fights, rivalries among the men in his command, but they had all passed. He could not recall Shianan holding a serious grudge.
Torg sighed. Perhaps he should speak with Becknam before deciding. Surely Becknam would agree to that. He took a pen. I am curious as to the nature of the duties in Alham, and so I will come to discuss….
Chapter 12
Ariana stretched and reached for her cup of tea. It was cool; she had been studying a long time. But she could not afford many breaks. Her assessment was fast approaching, and she would not miss this second chance at earning a place in the Circle.
Sounds came from the entry, and she glanced up as Bethia entered the sitting room, Tam trailing behind. “Oh, hello.”
“I see you’ve started already.”
Ariana glanced at the books opened about her. “I think I started years ago. This latest bout started this morning, though. I was reading by eight.”
“Half past seven, my lady,” Tam offered. “I brought you oat cakes and honey at eight.”
Ariana gave him a smile. “So you did.”
“I brought you something.” Bethia set on the table a tiny rosewood box with a small brass latch.
Ariana opened it to reveal a comb, carved of catoblepas ivory and set with a dozen black pearls. “Bethia!”
“It’s only a comb. Not a very large piece.” She flipped glossy-dark hair over one shoulder and smiled. “Black pearls, for the Black Mage.”
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