Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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“How is such a thing possible?” Vaelin wondered.

Makril took a long pull from his flask before continuing. “Did you ever hear of Brother Shasta?”

Vaelin recalled some of the more lurid battle stories told by the older boys. “Shasta the Axe?”

“That’s him. A legend in the Order, a great brute of a man, arms like tree trunks, fists like hams, they said he’d killed over a hundred men before they sent him to the Blackhold. Truly he was a hero… and quite the stupidest shit-head I ever met. Mean with it too, ‘specially when he’d had a drink. He was her gaoler.”

“I had heard he was a great warrior who did the Order much service,” Vaelin said.

Makril snorted. “The Keep is where the Order puts its relics, boy. The ones that survive their fifteen years who’re too stupid or too mad to be masters or commanders, they get sent to the Keep to live out their time locking up heretics, even if they’re no bloody good at it. I’ve seen plenty of Shastas, big, ugly, brutish idiots with no thought in their heads but the next battle or the next tankard of ale. Usually they don’t last long enough to be a problem but if they’re big and strong enough they linger, like a bad smell. Shasta lingered long enough to be sent to the Blackhold, Faith help us.”

“So,” Vaelin ventured carefully, “this oaf left her cell open and she walked out?”

Makril laughed, a hard unpleasant sound. “Not quite. He gave her the keys to the front gate, took his axe down from the wall of his quarters and started killing the other brothers on watch. Cut down ten men before one of the archers put enough shafts in him to slow him down. Even then he killed two more before they gutted him. Weird thing, he died with a smile on his face, and before he died he said something: ‘She touched me.’”

Vaelin realised his fingers were playing on the subtle weave of Sella’s scarf. “She touched him?” he asked, auburn curls and elfin features looming large in his head.

Makril took another long gulp from his flask. “So they say. Didn’t know the nature of her Dark affliction, see? If she touches you, you’re hers forever.”

Vaelin was feverishly engaged in recalling his every encounter with Sella. I pushed her into the shelter, did I touch her then? No, she was well clothed… She reached to me though... I felt her, in my head. Was that how she touched me? Is that why I helped her? He felt an urge to ask Makril for more information but knew it would be folly. The tracker was suspicious enough already. Drunk as he was it would be unwise to question him further.

“Tendris and me’ve been hunting her ever since,” Makril continued. “Four weeks now. This is the closest we’ve got. It’s that bastard she’s with, swear I’m gonna make him squeal good and long before I kill him.” He cackled and drank some more.

Vaelin found his hand inching closer to his knife. He was forming a deep dislike of brother Makril, he reminded him too much of the assassins in the forest. And who knew what conclusions he had drawn. “He told me his name was Erlin,” he said.

“Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names.”

“So who is he really?”

Makril gave an extravagant shrug. “Who knows? He helps Deniers. Helps them hide, helps them run. Did he tell you about his travels? From the Alpiran Empire to the Leandren Temples.”

The knife hilt was tight in Vaelin’s grasp. “He told me.”

“Impressed were you?” Makril belched, a long rumble of escaping gas. “I’ve travelled, y’know. I’ve bloody travelled. Meldenean Islands, Cumbrael, Renfael. Killed rebels, heretics and outlaws all over this great land, I have. Men, women, children…”

Vaelin’s knife was halfway out of its sheath. He’s drunk, won’t be too difficult.

“One time, me and Tendris found a whole sect, families, bowing to one of their gods in a barn in the Martishe. Tendris got angry, it’s best not to argue with him when he gets like that. He ordered us to lock the doors and douse the place in lamp oil, then he struck a flint… Wouldn’t have thought children could scream so loud.”

The knife was almost clear of its sheath when Vaelin saw something that made him stop: beads of silver were shining in Makril’s beard. He was crying.

“They screamed for such a long time.” He lifted his flask to his mouth but found it was empty. “Shit!” Grumbling he got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled off into the darkness, a short while later came the distinctive sound of piss hissing into snow.

Vaelin knew if he was going to do it now was the time. Slit the bastard’s throat when he’s having a piss. A fitting end for such a vile man. How many more children will he kill if I let him live? But the tears were troubling, tears that told him Makril was a man who hated what he did. And he was a brother of the Order. It seemed wrong to kill a man whose fate he might be sharing in years to come. A sudden conviction rose in him then, fierce and implacable: I’ll fight but I won’t murder. I’ll kill men who face me in battle but I won’t take the sword to innocents. I won’t kill children.

“Is Hutril still there?” Makril slurred, stumbling back to collapse onto his bedroll. “Still teaching you little shits how to track?”

“He’s still there. We are grateful for his wisdom.”

“Fuck his wisdom. Was supposed to be my job, y’know. Commander Lilden said I was the finest tracker in the Order. Said when he got made Aspect he’d bring me back to the House to be master of the wild. Then the silly bastard got a Meldenean sabre through his guts and Arlyn was chosen. Never liked me, the sanctimonious shit. Chose Hutril, legendary silent hunter of the Martishe forest. Sent me off to hunt heretics with Tendris.” He slumped onto his back, his eyes half lidded, his voice softening to a whisper. “Never asked for this. I just wanted to learn how to track… Like my old man could… Just wanted to track…”

Vaelin watched him pass out and added more wood to the fire. Scratch crept back to camp and settled next to him after a few wary glances at Makril. Vaelin scratched his ears, reluctant to go to bed, knowing his dreams would be full of burning barns and screaming children. Although his urge to kill Makril had evaporated he still didn’t feel comfortable sharing a camp with the man.

He spent another hour studying the stars with Scratch beside him. On the other side of the fire Makril slept his drunken sleep in silence. It was odd that the tracker made so little noise, not a snore or a grunt, even his breathing was soft. Vaelin wondered if this was a skill that could be learned or was it an instinct all brothers gained after years of service; no doubt the ability to sleep in silence could prolong a man’s life. He took to the shelter when tiredness made his eyelids droop, settling into his blanket with Scratch between him and the entrance. He had decided Makril hadn’t come to kill him but it was best to be safe and it seemed highly unlikely the man would attempt an attack if he had to get past the dog.

Vaelin huddled close to the animal, drawing warmth and feeling glad he had kept him. A boy could do worse than have a slave-hound for a friend…

In the morning Makril was gone. Vaelin searched thoroughly but found no sign the tracker had ever been close by. As expected the hollow where he had hidden Sella and Erlin was empty. He took Sella’s scarf from his neck, studying the intricate pattern woven into the silk, gold threads describing various sigils. Some were clearly recognisable, a crescent moon, the sun, a bird, others unfamiliar. Probably icons of her Denier beliefs. If so he should discard it, any Master finding it would mete out severe punishment, maybe more than a beating. But it was such a well made thing, so finely woven, the gold thread glittered like new. He knew Sella would grieve its loss terribly, it had been her mother’s after all.

Sighing he tucked the scarf into his sleeve and sent a silent plea to the Departed to see the pair safely to wherever they were going. He made his way back to the camp, lost in thought. He had to decide what to tell Master Hutril and needed time to consider his lies carefully. Scratch scampered ahead of him, snapping at the snow joyfully.

It was a silent ride back with Master Hutril, Vaelin was the only boy in the cart. He asked about the others and received only a grunted response: “Bad year, the storm.” Vaelin shivered, suppressing panicked thoughts about his comrades, and climbed onto the cart. Hutril started off with Scratch scampering after in the deep ruts left in the snow. Hutril had listened to Vaelin’s story in silence, staring expressionlessly at Scratch as Vaelin stumbled through his partially invented account. He stuck mostly to the same story he had told Tendris but left out Makril’s visit the night before. Hutril’s only reaction had come when Vaelin mentioned the tracker’s name; a raised eyebrow. Otherwise he said nothing, letting the silence drag out when Vaelin had finished talking.

“Erm, I suggest we take the dog back to the House, master,” Vaelin said. “Master Jeklin may find a use for him.”

“The Aspect will decide that,” Hutril said. “Get in.”

At first it seemed the Aspect would have even less to say than Master Hutril, sitting behind his large oak wood desk staring wordlessly at Vaelin over steepled fingers as he repeated his tale, desperately hoping he remembered it correctly. The presence of Master Sollis, seated in the corner, did little to alleviate his discomfort. Vaelin had been to the Aspect’s rooms only once before, on an errand to deliver parchment, and found the piles of books and papers that littered the place had grown since. There must have been hundreds of books crammed in here, stacks stretching from floor to ceiling, with countless scrolls and ribbon bound sheaves of documents occupying the remaining space. It was a collection that made his mother’s library seem paltry in comparison.

Vaelin had been surprised at the lack of interest in Scratch. The Masters seemed preoccupied, besides which they were difficult men to impress at the best of times. Sollis met him in the courtyard as he got down from the cart, favouring Scratch with a brief look of incurious disgust, he said, “Nysa and Dentos made it back so far, the others are due in tomorrow. Leave your gear here and follow me to the Aspect’s chambers. He wants to see you.”

Vaelin assumed the Aspect wanted an explanation as to why he had returned with a large and savage animal in tow and repeated his story when the Aspect asked for a report on his test.

“You seem well fed,” the Aspect observed. “Usually boys return thinner and weaker.”

“I was fortunate, Aspect. Scr– the dog, helped by scenting a stag killed in a storm. I didn’t think it would breach the conditions of the test as we are permitted to use whatever tools we find in the wild.”

“Yes.” The Aspect clasped his long fingers together, resting them on the desk. “Very resourceful. Pity you couldn’t help Brother Tendris in his search. He is one of the Faith’s most valued servants.”

Vaelin thought of burning children and forced an earnest nod. “Indeed, Aspect. I was impressed with his devotion.”

Vaelin heard Sollis make a small noise behind him and couldn’t decide if it was a laugh or a snort of derision.

The Aspect smiled, an odd sight on such thin face, but it was a smile of regret. “There have been… events beyond our walls since your test began,” he said. “That is why I called you here. The Battle Lord has resigned from the King’s service. This has caused disharmony in the Kingdom, the Battle Lord was popular with the common folk. That being the case, and in recognition of his service, the King has granted him a boon. Do you know what that is?”

“A gift, Aspect.”

“Yes, a King’s gift. Anything which it is in the King’s power to give. The Battle Lord has chosen his boon and the King looks to us to fulfil it. Except our Order cannot be commanded by the King, we defend the Realm but we serve the Faith and the Faith is above the Realm. But still, he looks to us, and it is not an easy thing to refuse a King.”

Vaelin stirred uncomfortably. The Aspect seemed to be expecting something from him but he had no idea what it could be. Eventually, finding the silence unbearable he said, “I see, Aspect.”

The Aspect exchanged a brief glance with Master Sollis. “You understand Vaelin? You know what this means?”

I am the Battle Lord’s son no longer, Vaelin thought. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, in fact he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all about it. “I am a brother of the Order, Aspect,” he said. “Events outside these walls do not concern me until I pass the Test of the Sword and am sent forth to defend the Faith.”

“Your presence here was a symbol of the Battle Lord’s devotion to the Faith and the Realm,” the Aspect explained. “But he is Battle Lord no longer and wishes his son returned to him.”

Vaelin wondered at the absence of joy or surprise, no leap of the heart or stomach churning surge of excitement. Just numb puzzlement. The Battle Lord wishes his son returned to him. He remembered the drumbeat thud of hooves on damp sod fading into morning fog, the stern command in his father’s words, Loyalty is our strength.

He forced himself to meet the Aspect’s eye. “You would send me away, Aspect?”

“My wishes are not at issue here. Neither are Master Sollis’s, although rest assured he has made them plain. No, this decision falls to you, Vaelin. As the King cannot command us, and it is a cherished maxim of our Order that no student is forced to leave unless they fail a test or transgress the Faith, the King has given the choice to you.”

Vaelin suppressed a bitter laugh. Choice? My father made a choice once. Now so will I. “The Battle Lord has no son,” he told the Aspect. “And I have no father. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. My place is here.”

The Aspect looked down at his desk, suddenly seeming older than Vaelin had seen him before. How old is he? It was difficult to tell. He had the same fluid movements of the other masters but his long features were lean and worn with outdoor living, his eyes aged and heavy with experience. There was a sadness too, a regret as he pondered Vaelin’s words.

“Aspect,” Master Sollis said. “The boy needs rest.”

The Aspect looked up, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with his old, tired eyes. “If that is your final word.”

“It is, Aspect.”

The Aspect smiled, Vaelin could tell it was forced. “You gladden my heart, young brother. Take your dog to Master Chekril, I think he’ll prove more welcoming than you might expect.”

“Thank you, Aspect.”

“Thank you Vaelin, you may go.”

“A Volarian slave-hound,” Master Chekril breathed in awe as Scratch stared up at him, his scarred head angled in puzzlement. “Haven’t seen one in twenty years or more.”

Master Chekril was a cheerful, wiry man in early middle age, his movements more jerky and less measured than the other masters, mirroring the hounds he cared for with such dedication. His robe was dirtier than any Vaelin had seen, stained with earth, hay and a mixture of urine and dog muck. The odour he emitted was truly spectacular but he didn’t seem to mind, or pay the slightest heed to any offence it might cause anyone else.

“You killed its pack brothers you say?” he asked Vaelin.

“Yes master. Brother Makril said it saw me as pack leader now.”

“Oh yes. He’s right about that. Dogs are wolves, Vaelin, they live in packs, but their instincts are dulled, the packs they run in are temporary, they quickly forget who is leader and who is not. But slave-hounds are different, got enough of the wolf left in them to keep the pack order but they’re more vicious than any wolf, bred that way centuries ago. Only the nastier pups got bred, some say there was a touch of the Dark in their breeding. They were changed somehow, made more than a dog but less than a wolf, and different to both. When you killed the pack leader it adopted you, saw you as stronger, a worthy leader. Doesn’t happen every time though. You’ve certainly got a measure of luck young man.”

Master Chekril took a small piece of dried beef from the pouch at his belt and crouched lower to offer it to Scratch, Vaelin noting the hesitant, wary movements of the man. He’s scared, he realised, appalled. He’s frightened of Scratch.

Scratch sniffed the meat cautiously, glancing uncertainly at Vaelin.

“See?” Chekril said. “He won't take it from me. Here.” He tossed the morsel to Vaelin. “You try.”

Vaelin held the meat out to Scratch who snapped it up and wolfed it down in an instant.

“Why’s he called a slave-hound, master?” Vaelin asked.

“Volarians keep slaves, lots of them. When one of them runs they bring him back and cut the small fingers off his hands. If he runs again they send the slave-hounds after him. They don’t bring him back, except in their bellies. It’s not an easy thing for a dog to kill a man. Men are stronger than you think, and more cunning than any fox. For a dog to kill a man it must be strong and swift but also cunning, and vicious, very vicious.”

Scratch lay down at Vaelin’s feet and rested his head on his boots, tail thumping slowly on the stone floor. “He seems friendly enough.”

“He is, to you. But never forget, he’s a killer. It’s what he’s bred for.”

Master Chekril went to the rear of the large stone store room that served as his kennels and opened a pen. “I’ll put him in here,” he said over his shoulder. “You better lead him in, he won’t stay otherwise.”

Scratch obediently followed Vaelin to the pen and went inside, briefly circling a patch of straw before laying down.

“You’ll have to feed him too,” Chekril said. “Muck him out and so on. Twice a day.”

“Of course master.”

“He’ll need exercise, plenty of it. Can’t take him out with the other hounds, he’d kill them.”

“I’ll attend to it master.” He went into the pen and patted Scratch on the head, provoking a slobbering attack of licks that knocked him off his feet. Vaelin laughed and wiped the drool away. “I had wondered if you would be happy to see him, master,” he told Chekril. “I thought you might want him killed.”

“Killed? Faith no! Would a blacksmith throw away a finely made sword? He’ll be the start of a new blood line, he’ll sire many puppies and hopefully they’ll be just as strong as him but easier to manage.”

He stayed in the kennels for another hour, feeding Scratch and making sure he was comfortable in his new surroundings. When it came time to leave Scratch’s whines were heart rending but Master Chekril told him he had to get the dog used to being left so he didn’t turn around after he closed the pen door. Scratch started howling when he went out of his sight.

The evening was subdued, an unspoken tension reigning in the room. He exchanged stories of hardship and hunger with the others. Caenis, like Vaelin looking better fed than when he left, had taken shelter in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak only to find himself attacked by an angry eagle owl. Dentos, never fleshy at the best of times but now distinctly gaunt, had spent a miserable week fighting starvation with roots and the few birds and squirrels he managed to catch. Like the masters, neither seemed all that impressed with his story. It was as if hardship bred indifference.

“What’s a slave-hound?” Caenis asked dully.

“Volarian beast,” Dentos muttered. “Nasty buggers. Can’t use ‘em for fighting, they turn on the handlers.” He turned to Vaelin, his gaze suddenly interested. “Did you bring any food back with you?”

They spent the night in a sort of exhausted trance, Caenis honing the edge on his hunting knife with a whetstone and Dentos nibbling at the dried venison Vaelin had hidden in his cloak with the small bites they knew were best when you had an empty stomach, bolting would only make you sick.

“Never thought it was gonna end,” Dentos said eventually. “Really thought I’d die out there.”

“None of the brothers I went out with came back,” Vaelin commented. “Master Hutril said it was the storm.”

“Starting to see why they’re so few brothers in the Order.”

The next day was probably the least punishing they had endured so far. Vaelin had expected a return to the harsh routine but instead Master Sollis filled the morning with a sign language lesson, Vaelin found his meagre ability had improved after his brief exposure to Sella and Erlin’s fluid signs although not by much and he still lagged behind Caenis. The afternoon was taken up with sword practice, Master Sollis introducing a new exercise, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them with blinding speed as they tried to fend off the putrid projectiles with their wooden swords. It was smelly but strangely enjoyable, more like a game than most of their exercises which normally left them sporting a few bruises or a bloody nose.

Afterwards they ate their evening meal in uncomfortable silence, the dining hall was much quieter than usual, the many empty places seemed to stall attempts at conversation. The older boys gave them a few looks of sympathy or grim amusement but no one commented on the absences. It was like the aftermath of Mikehl’s death only on a grander scale. Some boys were already lost and wouldn’t be coming back, others were yet to return and the tension of worrying over their possible non-appearance was palpable. Vaelin and the others exchanged some grunted comments about stinking like compost from the afternoon practice but there was little real humour in it. They concealed a few apples and bread rolls in their cloaks and returned to the tower.

It grew dark and still no one returned. Vaelin began to feel a sinking certainty that they were the only boys left in their group. No more Barkus to make them laugh, no Nortah to bore them with another of his father’s axioms. It was a truly chilling prospect.

They were climbing into bed when the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase outside caused them to freeze in wary anticipation.

“Two apples says it’s Barkus,” Dentos said.

“Taken,” Caenis accepted.

“Ho there!” Nortah greeted them brightly, coming into dump his gear on his bed. He was thinner than Caenis and Vaelin, but didn’t quite match Dentos’s haggard emaciation, and his eyes were red with exhaustion. Despite it all he seemed cheerful, even triumphant.

“Barkus here yet?” he asked, stripping his clothes away.

“No,” Caenis said smiling at Dentos who curled a disgusted lip.

Vaelin noticed something new about Nortah as he pulled his shirt over his head, a necklace of what looked like elongated beads around his neck. “Did you find that?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace.

There was a flash of smug satisfaction on Nortah’s face, a mingled expression of victory and anticipation. “Bear claws,” he said. Vaelin admired his offhanded manner and imagined the hours of rehearsal it must have taken. He decided to keep quiet and force Nortah to tell the tale of his own volition but Dentos spoilt it.

“You found a bear claw necklace,” he said. “So what? Took it off some poor fool caught in the storm eh?”

“No, I made it from the claws of a bear I killed.”

He continued to undress, affecting disinterest in their reaction but Vaelin saw clearly how much he was enjoying the moment.

“Killed a bear my arse!” Dentos sneered.

Nortah shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s of no matter.”

They lapsed into silence, Dentos and Caenis refusing to ask the inevitable question despite their obvious curiosity. The moment stretched and Vaelin decided he was too tired to let the tension endure.

“Please brother,” he said. “Tell us how you killed a bear.”

“I put an arrow in its eye. It took a fancy to a deer I’d brought down. Couldn’t have that. Anyone who tells you bears sleep through the winter is a liar.”

“Master Hutril says they only wake up when they’re forced. You must have found a very unusual bear, brother.”

Nortah fixed him with an odd look, coldly superior, which was usual, but also knowing which was not. “I must say I’m surprised to find you here brother. I met a trapper in the wilds, a rough fellow to be sure, and a drunkard if I’m any judge. He had a lot of news to share about events in the wider world.”

Vaelin said nothing. He had decided not to tell the others about the King’s boon to his father but it seemed Nortah would leave him little choice.

“The Battle Lord left the King’s service,” Caenis said. “Yes, we heard.”

“Some say he asked a boon of the King to return his son from the Order,” Dentos put in. “But since the Battle Lord don’t have a son, how could he be returned?”

They knew, Vaelin realised. They knew ever since I arrived. That’s why they’ve been so quiet. They were wondering when I was going to leave. Master Sollis must have told them I was staying today. He wondered if it was truly possible to keep a secret in the Order.

“Perhaps,” Nortah was saying. “The Battle Lord’s son, if he had one, would be grateful for an opportunity to escape this place and return to the comfort of his family. It’s not a chance any of the rest of us will ever get.”

Silence reigned. Dentos and Nortah glaring at each other fiercely and Caenis fidgeting in uncomfortable embarrassment. Finally Vaelin said, “It must have been a fine piece of bow work, brother. Putting an arrow in a bear’s eye. Was it charging?”

Nortah gritted his teeth, controlling his anger. “Yes.”

“Then it’s to your credit that you held your nerve.”

“Thank you, brother. Do you have any stories to share?”

“I met a pair of fugitive heretics, one with the power to twist men’s minds, killed two Volarian slave-hounds and kept another. Oh, and I met Brother Tendris and Brother Makril, they hunt Deniers.”

Nortah threw his shirt onto his bed, standing with his muscular arms on his hips, face set in a neutral frown. His self-control was admirable, the disappointment he felt barely showing but Vaelin saw it. This was to be his moment of triumph, he had killed a bear and Vaelin was leaving. It should have been one of the sweetest moments of his young life. Instead Vaelin had refused the chance of escape, a chance Nortah hungered for, and his adventures made Nortah’s look paltry in comparison. Watching him Vaelin was struck by Nortah’s physique. Although still only thirteen, the shape of the man he would become was clear; sculpted muscle and lean, handsome features. A son to make his King’s Minister father proud. If he had lived his life outside the Order it would have been a tale of romance and adventure played out under the admiring gaze of the court. Instead he was doomed to a life of war, squalor and hardship in service to the Faith. A life he hadn’t chosen.

“Did you take its pelt?” Vaelin asked.

Nortah frowned in irritated puzzlement. “What?

“The bear, did you skin it?”

“No. The storm was brewing and I couldn’t drag it back to my shelter so I hacked its paw off to take the claws.”

“A wise move, brother. And an impressive achievement.”

“I dunno,” Dentos said. “I thought Caenis’s eagle owl thing was pretty good too.”

“An owl?” Vaelin said. “I brought back a slave-hound.”

They bickered good naturedly for a while, even Nortah joined in with caustic observations of Dentos’s thinness, they were family once more, but still incomplete. They went to bed later than usual, nervous of not greeting the next arrival, but tiredness overtook them. Vaelin’s sleep was dreamless for once and when he woke it was with a startled shout, hands instinctively scrabbling for his hunting knife. He stopped when his eyes fixed on the bulky shape on the next bunk.

“Barkus?” he asked groggily.

There was a soft grunt, the shape immobile in the gloom.

“When did you get in?”

No answer. Barkus sat still, his silence disconcerting. Vaelin sat up, fighting the deep seated desire to snuggle back into his blankets. “Are you all right?” he asked.

More silence, stretching until Vaelin wondered if he should fetch Master Sollis, but Barkus said, “Jennis is dead.” His voice was chilling in its complete lack of emotion. Barkus was the sort of boy who always felt something, joy or anger or surprise, it was always there, writ large in his face and his voice. But now there was nothing, just cold fact. “I found him frozen to a tree. He didn’t have his cloak on. I think he wanted it to happen. He hadn’t been the same since Mikehl died.”

Mikehl, Jennis… How many more? Would any of them be left by then end? I should be angry, he thought. We are just boys and these tests kill us. But there was no anger, just fatigue and sorrow. Why can’t I hate them? Why don’t I hate the Order?

“Go to bed, Barkus,” he told his friend. “In the morning we’ll offer thanks for our brother’s life.”

Barkus shivered, hugging himself closely. “I’m scared of what I’ll see when I sleep.”

“As am I. But we are of the Order and therefore of the Faith. The Departed do not want us to suffer. They send us dreams to guide us, not to hurt us.”

“I was hungry, Vaelin.” Tears glittered in Barkus’s eyes. “I was hungry and I didn’t think about poor Jennis being dead or how we’d miss him or anything. I just looked through his clothes for food. He didn’t have any so I cursed him, I cursed my dead brother.”

At a loss Vaelin sat and watched Barkus crying in the darkness. The Test of the Wild, he thought. More a test of the heart and the soul. Hunger tests us in so many ways. “You didn’t kill Jennis,” he said eventually. “You can’t curse a soul that’s joined the Departed. Even if our brother heard you he would understand the weight of the Test.”

It took a lot of persuading but Barkus went to bed about an hour later, his tiredness now too acute to be denied. Vaelin settled back into his own bed, knowing sleep would evade him now and the next day would be spent in a fug of clumsiness and confusion. Master Sollis will start caning us again tomorrow, he realised. He lay awake and thought about his test and his dead friend and Sella and Erlin and Makril crying like Barkus had cried. Was there a place for such thoughts in the Order? A sudden, unbidden thought, loud and bright in his mind, shocking him: Go back to your father and you could think what you like.

He squirmed in his bed. Where had that come from? Go back to my father? “I have no father.” He didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until Barkus groaned, turning over restlessly. On the other side of the room Caenis too had been disturbed, sighing heavily and pulling his blankets over his head.