With the month of Prensur the remaining time narrowed to a few days and Master Grealin informed them their lessons were over.
“Knowledge is what shapes us, little brothers,” he told them, for once his smile was absent, his tone entirely serious. “It makes us who we are. What we know informs everything we do and every decision we make. In the next few days think hard on what you have learned here, not just the names and the dates, think on the reasons, think on the meaning. All I have told you is the sum of our Order, what it means, what it does. The test of knowledge is the hardest many of you will face, no other test bares a boy’s soul.” He smiled again, gravely this time, then brightened into his habitual humour. “Now then, final rewards for my little warriors.” He produced a large bag of sweets, moving down the line and dropping a selection into their upturned hands. “Enjoy, little men. Sweetness is a rare thing in a brother’s life.” Sighing heavily, he turned and waddled slowly back to the storeroom, closing the door softly behind him.
“What was that about?” Nortah wondered.
“Brother Grealin is a very strange man,” Caenis said with a shrug. “Swap you a honey-drop for a sugar bean.”
Nortah snorted. “A sugar bean is worth three honey-drops at least…”
Vaelin resisted the temptation to barter his sweets and took them to the kennels, where Scratch rolled and yelped with delight as he tossed the treats into the air for him to catch. He didn’t miss a single one.
The test began on a Feldrian morning, two days before Summertide. Those boys who passed would be rewarded not only with the right to stay in the Order but also a pass for the great Summertide Fair at Varinshold, the first time they would be allowed out of the Order’s care since the day of their joining. Those who failed would be given their gold coins and told to leave. For once the older boys had no dire warnings or ridicule to offer. Vaelin noted that mention of the Test of Knowledge around their peers provoked only sullen looks and vicious cuffs. He wondered what made them so angry, it was only a few questions after all.
“The only brother to journey through the Great Northern Forest,” he demanded of Dentos as they made their way to the dining hall.
“Lesander,” Dentos replied smugly. “That was too easy by half.”
“Third Aspect of the Order?”
Dentos paused, brow furrowed as he searched his memory for the answer. “Kinlial?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.”
“Good. You’re right.” Vaelin clapped him on the back as they continued across the courtyard. “Dentos, my brother, I think you may pass this test today.”
They were called to the test in the afternoon, lining up outside a chamber in the south wall. Master Sollis gave them a stern warning to behave themselves and told Barkus he was first. Barkus seemed about to make a joke but the gravity on Sollis’s face stopped him and he gave them only a brief bow before entering the chamber. Sollis closed the door behind him.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “When you’re done get to the dining hall.” He stalked off, leaving them staring at the solid oak door to the chamber.
“I thought he’d be doing this,” Dentos said, a little weakly.
“Doesn’t look like it does it?” Nortah said. He went to the door, leaning down to put his ear to the wood.
“Hear anything?” Dentos whispered.
Nortah shook his head, straightening. “Just mumbles, the door’s too thick.” He reached inside his cloak and came out with a board of pinewood about a foot square with numerous scars on its surface and an inch-wide circle of black paint in the centre. “Knives anyone?”
Knives had become their principal game in recent months, a simple enough contest of skill where they would take turns trying to get their throwing knives as close to the centre of the board as possible. The winner would keep all the other knives in the board. There were variations on the basic game, where a board was propped against a convenient wall, sometimes it would be suspended from a rope tied to a roof beam and the object was to hit it as it swung back and forth, in other games it would be thrown in the air, occasionally set spinning end over end. Throwing knives were a kind of surrogate currency in the Order, they could be swapped for treats or favours and a brother’s popularity was invariably enhanced if he managed to amass a large stock. The weapons themselves were plain, cheaply made items, triangular six-inch blades with a stubby handle, little larger than an arrowhead. Master Grealin had begun to hand them out at the start of their third year, ten for each boy, the supply to be renewed every six months. There was no formal instruction in how to use them, they simply watched the older boys and learned as they played. Predictably the best archers turned out to be the most successful players, Dentos and Nortah had the largest knife collection with Caenis a close third. Vaelin won only one game in ten but knew he was consistently improving, unlike Barkus, who seemed incapable of winning a single match, making him guard his knives jealously, although he became skilled at bartering for more with the spoils of his many thieving expeditions.
“Shitting, stupid, sodding thing!” Dentos fumed as his knife struck sparks on the wall behind the board. Evidently his nerves were throwing off his aim.
“You’re out,” Nortah informed him. If a player missed the board, he was out of the game and his knife was forfeit.
Vaelin went next, sinking the knife into the outer edge of the circle, a better throw than he usually managed. Caenis’s knife was a little further in but Nortah took the game with a blade only a finger width from the centre.
“I’m just too good at this,” he commented, retrieving his knives. “I really should stop playing, it’s not fair on everyone else.”
“Piss off!” Dentos spat. “I’ve beaten you tons of times.”
“Only when I let you,” Nortah replied mildly. “If I didn’t you wouldn’t keep coming back for more.”
“Right.” Dentos snatched a knife from his belt and let fly at the target in a single smooth movement. It was probably the best throw Vaelin had seen, the knife buried dead in the centre of the board up to the hilt. “Beat that, rich boy,” Dentos told Nortah.
Nortah raised an eyebrow. “Luck smiles on you today, brother.”
“Luck my arse. You gonna throw or not?”
Nortah shrugged, taking a knife and eyeing the board carefully. He slowly drew back his arm and then snapped it forward so fast his hand blurred, the knife a brief glitter of silver as it spun towards the target. There was the high ping of metal on metal as it rebounded from Dentos’s knife hilt and landed a few feet away.
“Oh well.” Nortah went to retrieve his knife, its blade bent at the tip. “Yours I believe,” he said, offering it to Dentos.
“We should call it a draw. You would’ve hit centre if my knife wasn’t in the way.”
“But it was, brother. And I didn’t.” He continued to hold the knife out until Dentos took it.
“I won’t trade this one,” he said. “This’ll be my charm, for luck y’know? Like that silk scarf Vaelin thinks we haven’t noticed.”
Vaelin snorted in disgust. “Can’t I keep anything from you buggers?”
They passed the remaining time playing toss board, hurling knives at the board as Vaelin tossed it into the air. It was Caenis’s best game and he was up five more knives by the time Barkus emerged.
“Thought you’d be in there forever,” Dentos said.
Barkus seemed subdued, responding only with a brief, guarded smile before turning and walking quickly away.
“Shit,” Dentos breathed, his rebuilt confidence faltering visibly.
“Bear up, brother.” Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Soon be over.” His tone hid a real unease. Barkus’s demeanour worried him, reminding him of the older boys’ sullen silence when the subject of this test came up. Master Grealin’s words coming back to him as he puzzled over why this test inspired such grim reticence. No other test bares a boy’s soul.
He steeled himself as he approach
ed the door, a hundred and one likely questions flitting through his head. Remember, he told himself emphatically, Carlist was the third Aspect in the Order’s history not the second. It’s a common mistake due to the assassination of the previous incumbent only two days after inauguration. He took a breath, forcing the tremble from his hand as he turned the heavy brass door handle and went inside.
The chamber was small, an unremarkable space with a low, arched ceiling and a single narrow window. Candles had been placed around the room but did little to alleviate the oppressive gloom. Three people sat behind a solid oak table, three people who wore robes a different colour to his own dark blue, three people who were not of the Sixth Order. Vaelin’s trepidation took another leap and he couldn’t suppress a visible start. What kind of test is this?
“Vaelin.” One of the strangers addressed him, a blonde woman in a grey robe. She smiled warmly, gesturing at the empty chair facing the table. “Please sit down.”
He steadied himself and moved to the chair. The three strangers studied him in silence, giving him the chance to return the scrutiny. The man in the green robe was fat and bald, with a thin beard tracing the line of this jaw and mouth, although his corpulence didn’t compare to Master Grealin’s, he had none of the brother’s innate strength, his pink, fleshy face shining with sweat, his jowls wobbling as he chewed. A bowl of cherries sat on the table next to his left hand, his lips a telltale red of continual indulgence. He regarded Vaelin with a mixture of curiosity and obvious disdain. By contrast the man in the black robe was thin to the point of emaciation, although he was equally bald. His expression was more troubling than the fat man’s, it was the same fierce mask of blind devotion he had seen on brother Tendris’s face.
But it was the woman in grey who commanded most of his attention. She seemed to be in her thirties, her angular face framed by gold-blonde hair that hung down over her shoulders, was comely and vaguely familiar. But it was her eyes that intrigued him, bright with warmth and compassion. He was reminded of Sella’s pale face, and the kindness he had seen in her when she stopped herself touching him. But Sella had been full of fear, whereas he found it hard to imagine this woman’s ever being so vulnerable. There was a strength in her. The same strength he saw in the Aspect and Master Sollis. He found it hard not to stare.
“Vaelin,” she said. “Do you know who we are?”
He saw little point in trying to guess. “No, my lady.”
The fat man grunted and popped a cherry into his mouth. “Another ignorant whelp,” he said, chewing noisily. “Don’t they teach you little savages anything but the arts of slaughter?”
“They teach us to defend the Faithful and the Realm, sir.”
The fat man stopped chewing, his contempt suddenly replaced by anger. “We’ll see what you know of the Faith, young man,” he said evenly.
“I am Elera Al Mendah,” the blonde woman said. “Aspect of the Fifth Order. These are my brother Aspects, Dendrish Hendril of the Third Order”—she gestured to the fat man in green—“and Corlin Al Sentis of the Fourth Order.” The thin man in black nodded gravely.
Vaelin was taken aback to be in such august company. Three Aspects, all in the same room, all talking to him. He knew he should feel honoured but instead there was only a chilling uncertainty. What could three Aspects from other Orders ask him about the history of his own?
“You’re wondering about all your hard-earned facts on the fascinating history of the Sixth Order and its innumerable bloodbaths.” Dendrish Hendril, the fat man, spat a cherry stone into a delicately embroidered handkerchief. “Your masters have been misleading you, boy. We have no questions on long-dead heroes or best-forgotten battles. That’s not the strain of knowledge we seek.”
Elera Al Mendah turned her smile on her fellow Aspect. “I think we should explain the test in greater detail, dearest brother.”
Dendrish Hendril’s eyes narrowed slightly but he gave no reply, reaching instead for another cherry.
“The Test of Knowledge,” Elera went on, turning back to Vaelin, “is unique in that all brothers and sisters in training in each of the Orders must pass it. It is not a test of strength, skill or memory. It is a test of knowledge, self-knowledge. To serve your Order you must have more than skill with arms, just as servants of my order must know more than the arts of healing. It is your soul that makes you who you are, your soul that guides your service to the Faith. This test will tell us, and you, if you know the nature of your soul.”
“And don’t bother lying,” Dendrish Hendril instructed. “You can’t lie in here and you’ll fail the test if you try.”
Vaelin’s uncertainty deepened further. The lies he told kept him safe. Lying had become a necessary act of survival. Erlin and Sella, the wolf in the forest and the assassin he had killed. All secrets shrouded in lies. Fighting panic, he forced himself to nod and say, “I understand, Aspect.”
“No you don’t, boy. You’re shitting your pants. I can almost smell it.”
Aspect Elera’s smile faltered slightly but she kept her attention on Vaelin. “Are you afraid, Vaelin?”
“Is this the test, Aspect?”
“The test started the moment you entered the room. Please, answer me.”
You can’t lie. “I am…worried. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t want to leave the Order.”
Dendrish Hendril snorted. “Scared of facing your father more like. Think he’ll be happy to see you?”
“I don’t know,” Vaelin replied honestly.
“Your father wanted you returned to him,” Elera said. “Doesn’t that tell you he cares about you?”
Vaelin squirmed in discomfort. He had avoided or suppressed memories of his father for so long this kind of scrutiny was hard to endure. “I don’t know what it means. I…barely knew him before I came here. He was often away, fighting the King’s wars, and when he was home he said little to me.”
“So you hate him?” Dendrish Hendril enquired. “I can certainly understand that.”
“I don’t hate him. I don’t know him. He is not my family. My family is here.”
The thin man, Corlin Al Sentis, spoke for the first time. His voice was harsh, rasping. “You killed a man during the Test of the Run,” he said, his fierce eyes locked onto Vaelin’s. “Did you enjoy it?”
Vaelin was stunned. They know! How much more do they know?
“Aspects share information, boy,” Dendrish Hendril told him. “It’s how our Faith endures. Unity of purpose, unity of trust. Our Realm was named for it. Something you’d do well to remember. And don’t worry, your sordid secrets are safe with us. Answer Aspect Sentis’s question.”
Vaelin took a deep breath, trying to still the heavy thump in his chest. He thought back to the Test of the Run, the snap of the bowstring that had saved him from the assassin’s arrow, the slack, inanimate mask of the man’s face, his gorge rising as he sawed at the fletching with his knife…“No. No I didn’t enjoy it.”
“Do you regret it?” Corlin Al Sentis persisted.
“The man was trying to kill me. I had no choice. I cannot regret staying alive.”
“So that’s all you care about?” Dendrish Hendril asked. “Staying alive?”
“I care about my brothers, I care about the Faith and the Realm…” I care about Sella the Denier witch and Erlin who helped her run. But I can’t say I care much for you, Aspect.
He tensed, waiting for rebuke or punishment, but the three Aspects said nothing, exchanging unreadable glances. They can hear lies, he realised. But not thoughts. He could hide things, he didn’t have to lie. Silence could be his shield.
It was Aspect Elera who spoke next, her question the worst yet. “Do you remember your mother?”
Vaelin’s discomfort was abruptly replaced by anger. “We leave our family ties behind when we enter this house…”
“Don’t be impertinent, boy!” Aspect Hendril snapped. “We ask, you answer. That’s how this works.”
Vaelin’s jaw ached with the
effort of biting back a furious retort. Fighting to control his anger, he grated, “Of course I remember my mother.”
“I remember her too,” Aspect Elera said. “She was a good woman who sacrificed much to marry your father and bring you into this world. Like you she had chosen a life in the service of the Faith. She was once a sister in the Fifth Order, highly respected for her knowledge of healing; she was to be a Mistress in our House. She may even have become Aspect in time. At the King’s command she travelled with his army when it moved against the first Cumbraelin revolt. She met your father when he was wounded after the Battle of the Hallows. As she tended his wounds love grew between them and she left the Order to marry. Did you know that?”
Vaelin, numb with shock, could only shake his head. His memories of childhood outside the Order were dimmed with time and deliberate suppression but he recalled occasional suspicions of his parents’ dissimilar origins; their voices were different, his father’s lack of grammar and clipped vowels a contrast to the even, precise tones of his mother. His father also knew little of table manners, often ignoring the knife and fork next to his plate and reaching for the food with his hands, seeming genuinely bemused when his mother sighed a gentle rebuke, “Please dear. This is not a barracks.” But he had never dreamt she too once served the Faith.
“If she were still alive”—Aspect Elera’s voice snapped him back to the present—“would she let you give your life to the Order?”
The temptation to lie was almost overwhelming. He knew what his mother would have said, how she would have felt to see him in this robe, his hands and face bruised and raw from practice, how it would have hurt her. But if he said it, it became real, he couldn’t hide from it any longer. But he knew it was a trap. They want me to lie, he realised. They want me to fail.
“No,” he said. “She hated war.” So it was out. He was living a life his mother would never have wanted, he was dishonouring her memory.
“She told you that?”
“No, she told my father. She didn’t want him to leave for the war against the Meldeneans. She said the stench of blood sickened her. She wouldn’t have wanted this life for me.”