He allowed himself a final glance at Alornis before spurring Spit into a gallop. This time he vaulted the log without the slightest hesitation and they thundered into the woods, leaving the girl and her mother behind.
I always wondered why he did that…Now I know.
The months passed, winter’s frost became spring’s thaw and Vaelin spoke no more than he had to. He practised, he watched the birth of Scratch’s pups, he listened to Frentis’s joyous tales of life in the Order, he rode his bad-tempered horse and he said almost nothing. Always it was there, the coldness, the numb emptiness left by his meeting with Alornis. Her face lingered in his mind, the shape of it, the darkness of her eyes. Ten and eight months… His mother had died a little under five years ago. Ten and eight months.
Caenis tried to talk to him, seeking to draw him out with one of his stories, the tale of the Battle of the Urlish Forest, where the armies of Renfael and Asrael met in bloody conflict for a day and a night. It was before the Realm was made, when Janus was a lord and not a king, when the four Fiefs of the Realm were split and fought each other like cats in a sack. But Janus united them, with the wisdom of his word and the keenness of his blade, and the power of his Faith. It was this that brought the Sixth Order into the battle, the vision of a Realm ruled by a king that put the Faith before all things. It was the charge of the Sixth Order that broke the Renfaelin line and won the day. Vaelin listened to it all without comment. He had heard it before.
“…and when they brought the Renfaelin Lord Theros before the King, wounded and chained, he spat defiance and demanded death rather than kneel before an upstart whelp. King Janus surprised all by laughing. ‘I do not require you to kneel, brother,’ he said. ‘Nor do I require you to die. Scant use you would be to this Realm dead.’ At this Lord Theros replied…”
“‘Your Realm is a madman’s dream,’” Vaelin cut in. “And the King laughed again and they spent a day and a night arguing until argument became discussion and finally Lord Theros saw the wisdom of the King’s course. Ever since he has been the King’s most loyal vassal.”
Caenis’s face fell. “I’ve told you this before.”
“Once or twice.” They were near the river, watching Frentis and his group of youngsters play with Scratch’s puppies. The hound bitch had produced six in all, four males and two females, seemingly harmless bundles of wet fur when she had licked at them on the kennel floor. They had grown quickly and were already half the size of a normal dog, though they gambolled around and tripped over their own paws like all pups. Frentis had been allowed to name them all but his choices proved somewhat unimaginative.
“Slasher!” he called to his favourite pup, the largest of the lot, waving a stick. “Here boy!”
“What is it, brother?” Caenis asked him. “Where does this silence come from?”
Vaelin watched Frentis being bowled over by Slasher, giggling as the pup slobbered over his face. “He loves it here,” he observed.
“The Order has certainly been good for him,” Caenis agreed. “Seems he’s grown a foot or more since he came here, and he learns quickly. The masters think well of him since he never needs to be told anything twice. I don’t think he’s even had a caning yet.”
“What was his life like, I wonder, that this place is somewhere he could love?” He turned back to Caenis. “He chose to be here. Unlike the rest of us. He chose this. He wasn’t forced through the gate by an unloving parent.”
Caenis moved closer and lowered his voice. “Your father wanted you back, Vaelin. You should always remember that. Like Frentis, you chose to be here.”
Ten years, eight months…Mumma said you were going to come live with us and be my brother…but you never did… “Why? Why did he want me back?”
“Regret? Guilt? Why does a man do anything?”
“The Aspect told me once that my presence here was a symbol of my father’s devotion to the Faith and the Realm. If he had come into conflict with the King, perhaps withdrawing me would symbolise the opposite.”
Caenis’s expression grew sombre. “You think so little of him, brother. Although we are taught to leave our families behind, it bodes ill for a son to hate his father.”
Ten years, eight months… “You have to know a man to hate him.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The coming of summer brought the traditional weeklong exchange with brothers and sisters from different Orders. They were allowed to choose the Order in which they would be placed. It was usual for boys of the Sixth Order to trade places with brothers from the Fourth, the Order with which they would work most closely following confirmation. Instead Vaelin opted for the Fifth.
“The Fifth?” Master Sollis frowned at him. “The Order of the Body. The Order of Healing. You want to go there?”
“Yes, Master.”
“What on earth do you think you can learn there? More importantly what do you think you can offer?” His cane tapped the back of Vaelin’s hand, marked with the scars of practice and the splash of molten metal from Master Jestin’s forge. “These aren’t made for healing.”
“My reasons are my own, Master.” He knew he was risking the cane but it had lost its sting long ago.
Master Sollis grunted and moved down the line. “What about you, Nysa? Want to join your brother in mopping the brow of the sick and feeble?”
“I would prefer the Third Order, Master.”
Sollis gave him a long look. “Scribblers and book hoarders.” He shook his head sadly.
Barkus and Dentos chose the safe option of the Fourth Order whilst Nortah took evident delight in electing for the Second. “The Order of Contemplation and Enlightenment,” Sollis said tonelessly. “You want to spend a week in the Order of Contemplation and Enlightenment?”
“I feel my soul would benefit from a period of meditation on the great mysteries, Master,” Nortah replied, showing his perfect teeth in an earnest smile. For the first time in months Vaelin felt like laughing.
“You mean you want a week of sitting on your arse,” Sollis said.
“Meditation is normally conducted in a sitting position, Master.”
Vaelin laughed, he couldn’t help it. Three hours later, as he completed his fortieth lap of the practice ground, he was still chuckling.
“Brother Vaelin?” The grey-cloaked man at the gate was old, thin and bald, but Vaelin found himself disconcerted by the man’s teeth, pearly white and perfect, like Nortah’s only the smile was genuine. The old brother was alone, wiping a mop across a dark brown stain on the cobbled courtyard.
“I am to report to the Aspect,” Vaelin replied.
“Yes, we were told you were coming.” The old brother lifted the catch on the gate and pulled it open. “Rare for a brother from the Sixth to come to learn from us.”
“Are you alone, brother?” Vaelin said, stepping through the gate. “I assume in a place such as this there is sore need for a guard,”
Unlike the Sixth, the House of the Fifth Order was situated within the walls of the capital, a large, cruciform building rising from the slums of the southern quarter, its whitewashed walls a bright beacon amidst the drab mass of closely packed, poorly built houses hugging the fringes of the docks. Vaelin had never been to the southern quarter before but quickly came to understand why it was rarely frequented by people with something worth stealing. The intricate network of shadowed alleyways and refuse-clogged streets provided ample opportunities for ambush. He had picked his way through the mess, not wishing to report to the Fifth Order with dirty boots, stepping over huddled forms sleeping off the previous night’s grog and ignoring the unintelligible calls of those who had either had too much or not enough. Here and there a few listless whores gave him a disinterested glance but made no effort to entice his custom, Order boys had no money after all.
“Oh we never get bothered,” the old man told him. As he closed the gate Vaelin noted there was no lock. “Been guarding this house for ten years or more, never a problem here.”
“Then w
hy do you have to guard the gate?”
The old brother gave him a puzzled look. “This is the Order of Healing, brother. People come here for help. Someone has to meet them.”
“Oh,” Vaelin said. “Of course.”
“Still I do have my old Bess.” The old brother went into the small brick building that served as a guardhouse and returned with a large oak-wood club. “Just in case.” He handed it to Vaelin, seemingly expecting an expert opinion.
“It’s…” Vaelin hefted the club, swinging it briefly before handing it back, “a fine weapon, brother.”
The old man seemed delighted. “Made it meself when the Aspect gave me the gate to guard. My hands had gotten too stiff to mend bones or sew cuts, y’see?” He turned and walked quickly towards the House. “Come, come, I’ll take you to the Aspect.”
“You’ve been here a long time?” Vaelin asked, following.
“Only five years or so, apart from training o’course. Spent most of my brotherhood in the southern ports. I tell you there’s no pox or disease on this earth that a sailor can’t catch.”
Instead of leading him to the large door at the front of the house the old brother took him around the building and into a side entrance. Inside was a long corridor, bare of decoration and possessing a strong redolence of something both acidic and sweet.
“Vinegar and lavender,” the old man said, seeing him wrinkle his nose. “Keeps the place free of foul humours.”
He took Vaelin past numerous rooms, where it seemed there was little but empty beds, and into a circular chamber tiled from floor to ceiling with white porcelain tiles. In the centre of the chamber a young man lay atop a table, naked and writhing. Two burly, grey-cloaked brothers held him down whilst Aspect Elera Al Mendah examined the crudely bandaged wound in his stomach. The man’s screams were stopped by the strap of leather clamped into his mouth. The circumference of the chamber was lined with ascending rows of benches, where an audience of grey-robed brothers and sisters of varying ages looked down on the spectacle. There was a rustle of movement as they turned their gaze on Vaelin.
“Aspect,” the old man said, raising his voice, the echo of it incredibly loud in the chamber. “Brother Vaelin Al Sorna of the Sixth Order.”
Aspect Elera looked up from the young man’s wound, her smiling face adorned with a line of fresh blood-spatter across her forehead. “Vaelin, how tall you’ve grown.”
“Aspect,” Vaelin replied with a formal nod. “I submit myself to your service.”
On the table the young man arched his back, a plaintive whimper escaping the gag.
“You find me engaged in a most pressing case,” Aspect Elera said, taking a pair of scissors from a nearby table to cut away the dirty bandage covering the young man’s wound. “This man took a knife in the gut in the early hours of the morning. An argument over the favours of a young lady apparently. Given the amount of ale and redflower already in his blood, we cannot give him any more for fear of killing him. So we must work while he suffers.” She put the scissors aside and held out her hand. A young, grey-robed sister placed a long-bladed instrument in her palm. “Adding to his woes,” Aspect Elera went on, “is the fact that the tip of the blade broke off inside his stomach and must be removed.” She raised her gaze to the audience on the benches. “Can anyone tell me why?”
Most of the audience raised a hand and the Aspect nodded at a grey-haired man in the front row. “Brother Innis?”
“Infection, Aspect,” the man said. “The broken blade may poison the wound and cause it to fester. It may also be lodged close to a blood vessel or organ.”
“Very good, brother. And so we must probe the wound.” She bent over the young man and spread the lips of the cut with her left hand, applying the probe with the right. The young man’s scream spat the gag from his mouth and filled the chamber. Aspect Elera drew back a little, glancing at the two burly brothers holding the young man to the table. “He must be securely held, brothers.”
The young man began to thrash wildly, succeeding in wresting one of his arms free, his head banging on the table, madly kicking legs narrowly missing the Aspect, who was forced to retreat a few steps.
Vaelin moved to the table and placed his hand over the young man’s mouth, forcing his head back onto the table, leaning close, meeting his eyes. “Pain,” he said, fixing the man’s gaze. “It’s a flame.” The young man’s eyes filled with fear as Vaelin bore down on him. “Focus. The pain is a flame inside your mind, see it. See it!” The man’s breath was hot on Vaelin’s palm but his thrashing had subsided. “The flame grows smaller. It shrinks, it burns bright, but it’s small. You see it?” Vaelin leaned closer. “You see it?”
The young man’s nod was barely perceptible.
“Focus on it,” Vaelin told him. “Keep it small.”
He held him there, talking to him, fixing his eyes whilst Aspect Elera worked on his wound. The young man whimpered and his eyes flickered away, but Vaelin always brought them back until there was the dull clatter of metal falling into a pan and Aspect Elera said, “Needle and catgut please, Sister Sherin.”
“Master Sollis teaches you well.”
They were in Aspect Elera’s chamber, a room even more crammed with books and paper than Aspect Arlyn’s. But where the room of the Aspect of the Sixth Order had a certain chaotic quality, this one was tightly ordered and meticulously tidy. The walls were adorned with overlapping diagrams and pictures; graphic, almost obscene depictions of bodies shorn of skin or muscle. He found his eye continually drawn to the image on the wall behind her desk, a man shown spread-eagled and split from crotch to neck, the flaps of the wound drawn back to reveal his organs, each expertly rendered with absolute clarity.
“Aspect?” he said, tearing his gaze away.
“The pain-control technique you used,” the Aspect explained. “Sollis was always my most adept pupil.”
“Pupil, Aspect?”
“Yes. We served together on the northeastern border, years ago. On quiet days I would teach the brothers of the Sixth relaxation and pain-control techniques. It was a way to pass the time. Brother Sollis was always the most attentive.”
They knew each other, they served together. The idea of them even conversing felt incredible but an Aspect would never lie. “I am grateful for Master Sollis’s wisdom, Aspect.” It seemed the safest reply.
His eyes flicked to the drawing again, and she glanced at it over her shoulder. “A remarkable work don’t you think? A gift from Master Benril Lenial of the Third Order. He spent a week here drawing the sick and the recently expired, he said he wished to paint a picture that would capture the suffering of the soul. Preparatory work for his fresco commemorating the Red Hand. Of course we were happy to allow access and when he was done he gifted his sketches to our Order. I use them to teach the novice brothers and sisters the secrets of the body. The illustrations in our older books lack the same clarity.”
She turned back. “You did well this morning. I feel the other brothers and sisters learned much from your example. The sight of blood didn’t concern you? Make you feel ill or faint?”
Was she joking? “I am accustomed to the sight of blood, Aspect.”
Her gaze clouded for a second before her customary smile returned. “I cannot tell you how much it gladdens my heart to see how strong you’ve grown and that compassion is not absent from your soul. But I must know, why have you come here?”
He couldn’t lie, not to her. “I thought you might provide answers to my questions.”
“And what questions are these?”
There seemed little point in vagary. “When did my father sire a bastard? Why was I sent to the Sixth Order? Why did assassins seek my death during the Test of the Run?”
She closed her eyes, her face impassive, breathing regular and even. She stayed that way for several minutes and Vaelin wondered if she was going to speak again. Then he saw it, a single tear snaking down her cheek. Pain-control techniques, he thought.
She opene
d her eyes, meeting his gaze. “I regret I cannot answer your questions, Vaelin. Be assured that your service here is welcome. I believe you will learn much. Please report to Sister Sherin in the west wing.”
Sister Sherin was the young woman who had assisted the Aspect in the tiled room. He found her wrapping bandages around the waist of the wounded man in a room off the west-wing corridor. The man’s skin had an unhealthy grey pallor and a sheen of sweat covered his flesh but his breathing seemed regular and he didn’t appear to be in any pain.
“Will he live?” Vaelin asked her.
“I expect so.” Sister Sherin secured the bandage in place with a clasp and washed her hands in a water basin. “Although service in this Order teaches us that death can often deny our expectations. Take those.” She nodded at a pile of bloodstained clothes lying in the corner. “They need to be cleaned. He’ll need something to wear when he leaves here. The laundry is in the south wing.”
“Laundry?”
“Yes.” She faced him with the smallest of smiles. Although he fought it, Vaelin found himself taking note of her form. She was slender, the dark curls of her hair tied back, her face displaying a youthful prettiness, but her eyes somehow bespoke a wealth of experience well beyond her years. Her lips formed the words with precision. “The laundry.”
He was discomfited by her, preoccupied with the curve of her cheekbones and the shape of her lips, the brightness of her eyes, relishing confrontation. He quickly gathered the clothes and went to find the laundry. He was relieved to find he wasn’t required to wash the clothes himself and, after Sister Sherin’s cool reception, somewhat taken aback by the welcome he received from the brothers and sisters in the steam-filled laundry room.
“Brother Vaelin!” boomed a large, bearlike man, his hair-covered chest beaded with sweat. His hand felt like a hammer on Vaelin’s back. “I’ve waited ten years for a brother from the Sixth to come through our doors and when we finally get one it’s their most famous son.”