Reign of Shadows (7 page)

A
servant attired in a plain tunic of heavy fawn-colored wool with a narrow band
of dark fur at collar and cuffs stood by to receive them. The servant was
clean-shaven and old. His blue eyes regarded Caelan without expression.

In
silence the servant led Caelan and the proctors up a staircase. Lamps hung from
brackets on the walls, lighting their way.

On
the second floor, the air hung heavy with the scents of snow-dampened wool, old
carpets, and crushed borage. The same oppressive silence was to be found here
as every where else. It seemed, as Caelan’s feet moved soundlessly over the
carpet running the full length of the hallway, that all he could hear was the
loud
lub-dub
of his own heartbeat, growing louder and faster with every step.

He
swallowed, but his mouth grew no less dry. His confidence wavered, but he
forced himself to keep his shoulders straight and his head high. He was the son
of a master healer without equal in all of Trauland, not some nobody they could
frighten.

The
servant tapped softly on a heavy door at the very end of the passage. Caelan
heard no response, but the servant opened the door, then stepped aside. Caelan
entered alone, the proctors and servant remaining outside. The door closed quietly
behind him.

The
Elder sat at his desk, writing on parchment. He did not look up at Caelan’s
entry.

Sighing,
Caelan looked around. The walls of the office were smooth white plaster, very
austere. Cold northern light from large windows on one side made the room seem
even bleaker. A modest fire hissed and crackled on a small hearth. It failed to
warm the room.

The
Elder’s desk, fashioned from plain native spruce- wood, held tidy scrolls of
parchment rowed up on one side. His ink stand was carved simply from buta horn,
as was his pen. On the other side of the desk, balancing the harmony, stood a
small triangle, the symbol of
severance.

Finally
the Elder’s pen stopped scratching across the parchment. He read what he had
just written, sanded the ink to dry it, then shook the grains away into a small
receptacle and rolled up the parchment.

Only
then did he lift his gaze to Caelan. He quirked up one eyebrow, and Caelan
walked forward.

The
Elder was a thin, white-haired man. His robe was white, indicating the level of
his powers as well as his rank. His face curved in a crescent, ending in a
pointed chin made more prominent by his short white beard. His skin was very
pale, translucent enough to show a faint tracery of veins pulsing at his
temple.

It
was said that any follower of
severance
eventually grew progressively paler throughout life,
until the very ancient practitioners were practically transparent. They were
said to die like beams of light, shining bright, then slowly fading as they
finally achieved total
severance
from life.

“You
do not answer my question, Novice Caelan E’non,” the Elder said in a displeased
voice.

Caelan
blinked and realized he’d heard nothing. He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he stammered.
“I did not hear.”

“It
seems you make a habit of living with your mind unfocused.”

Caelan
lowered his gaze. He could not protest.

“You
have caused much trouble since your arrival here last term.”

Caelan
kept his head bowed. So far, this wasn’t too bad.

The
Elder’s pale thin hand fluttered over certain of the scrolls on his desk. “These
are lists of your various transgressions, offenses, and errors. They have been
compiled by the masters who have charge of you.”

Caelan
looked up. “I guess there’s a lot of them.”

The
Elder’s expression grew even more severe. “This is not a matter of amusement,
Novice Caelan.”

Caelan
hastily rearranged his own expression. “No, sir.”

“Nor
pride.”

“No,
sir.”

“You
are from one of the finest Traulander families. You have been brought up according
to principles of harmony and perfection. You have been taught
severance,
witnessed it practiced in
your home. You have enjoyed the advantages of private tutors. You have never
known want or lack. Is this true?”

Caelan
shifted uneasily. He wasn’t enjoying this. “It’s true, Elder Sobna.”

Harmony
and perfection, he thought bitterly. Yes ... if he made no noise, asked no
questions, never ran or leaped or stretched, never sought independence, never
searched for different answers. Private tutors like jailers, droning on and on,
holding accounts like money changers, running to share the results with Beva,
telling, tattling fools. No, Caelan had never known any lack at home, unless to
crave love and understanding was a lack.

He
could feel his emotions churning up, stinging his eyes. Furiously he held them
back.

“Why
did you run away?”

Caelan
lifted his chin. He didn’t answer.

“Have
we mistreated you here, Novice Caelan?”

Caelan
opened his mouth, then checked the hot words on his tongue.

When
he said nothing, the Elder’s gaze moved sharply to his. “Did you fail again to
hear my question?”

“No,
I heard it,” Caelan said.

“Then
give me your reply. Have we mistreated you here?”

Caelan
set his jaw. There was no going back now. “I think so.”

“You
think
so. You are not sure?”

Damn
him. Caelan flushed. “I’m sure,” he said curtly.

“Please
go on.”

“You
know,” Caelan said, struggling against his anger. “You probably have it on a
list.”

“You
are impertinent, Novice Caelan. I am waiting for a reply to my question.”

“Why?”
Caelan burst out. “You know the answer. What I say isn’t going to make any
difference. You already have your mind made up.”

The
Elder’s face might have been carved from stone.

“Ah,
so you have the ability to read minds, Novice Caelan. Interesting. What other
talents do you possess?”

Seething
at his cool mockery, Caelan glared at him and said nothing.

“Your
failure to answer my question indicates you have no answer. Therefore, I can
only conclude that you do not truly believe we have mistreated you.”

“You
want to see my bruises?” Caelan retorted.

The
Elder raised his brows. “You have been disciplined, Novice Caelan, when you
transgressed. You have been placed under a discipline conducive to study, no
doubt for the first time in your life. You have fought that, as many wild or
untamed creatures must fight at first. But neither have you learned.”

Caelan
glared at the floor, his ears roaring against this lecture he didn’t want to
hear.

“We
are tolerant here,” the Elder went on, “but tolerance has limits. Because of
your father, we were willing to continue our efforts to train you, even
allowing you to remain in the novice class for an unprecedented third term if
necessary.”

Caelan
looked up in dismay. He should have known they wouldn’t kick him out. His anger
welled up anew. “I’ll run away again.”

“It
will not be necessary.”

Caelan
caught his breath in hope.

“Boyish
pranks and rebelliousness are an annoyance, nothing more. Endangering the
entire hold is something else entirely.”

Caelan
thought about the destroyed warding key and dropped his gaze. He hadn’t meant
to put anyone in danger.

“How
did you remove it?”

Caelan
frowned and said nothing.

The
Elder rose to his feet. “How?” he demanded.

“I—I
just took it off.”

A
look of alarm crossed the Elder’s face, then was gone. His eyes were bleak. “Impossible.”

Caelan
shrugged. “Then believe what you want.”

The
door behind him opened, and the proctors glided inside. Glancing at them,
Caelan shifted uneasily on his feet. He didn’t like the idea of them standing
behind him, and both held truth-lights in their hands.

“How
did you remove the warding key?” the Elder asked again.

There
was something awful in his tone, something that compelled Caelan to answer.
Casting a resentful glance at the proctors, he scowled and tucked his hands
inside his sleeves. “I entered
severance
and pulled the key off the gate. I just wanted out.”

“You
were not injured from touching the key?”

Caelan
shook his head. “My hand felt burned, but it really wasn’t. That’s the way
severance
is supposed to work, isn’t
it? So for once I did it right.”

The
Elder did not meet his gaze directly. “You show no remorse for this action.”

“Oh.
Well, I didn’t mean to leave the hold unprotected. The soldiers could have come
looting, I guess. But they didn’t.” As he spoke, he looked up with a question
in his gaze.

“No,
they didn’t,” the Elder said heavily. “We have nothing here which they would
consider of value.”

Caelan
nodded. “So it worked out. Except for—” He broke off, remembering.

“Yes,
except for the fact that you were attacked and nearly killed.”

“I—”
But there was nothing for Caelan to say. He thought about the soldiers who had
jeered at him, robbed him, then tried to kill him for sport. Their laughter
still rang in his ears. Humiliation still burned inside him, fueled by his
shame.

“We
are responsible for your life while you are entrusted to our care,” the Elder
said sternly. “We keep you inside our walls for a reason, to guarantee your
safety.”

“I’m
not a baby,” Caelan said. “I don’t need—”

“Help?”
the Elder said softly.

Caelan
bit his lip and scuffed his toe against the floor. “I guess I did need some.”

“We
have warding keys for good reason. How you twisted the purity of
severance
to shatter the spell of a
key is blasphemous enough.”

“But—”

“You
have done far worse. You left us vulnerable to attack, whether from this world
or the other. You exposed our throats, and only by the grace of Gault were we
not attacked.”

Shame
filled Caelan. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I wasn’t thinking about that.”

“Running
away to join the army,” the Elder said, contempt like ice in his voice. “Wanting
to become a butcher, a defiler, a taker of life. This is abhorrent to us and
all we stand for.”

“But
I—”

The
Elder lifted his hand for silence. “If you had died out there in the forest,
what could we have said to your father? How could we explain our mistake in
letting harm befall you?”

“It
wasn’t your responsibility,” Caelan said. “I chose to leave. I took the risk,
and I’ll—”

“It
is
our responsibility. You are
underage, and we are entrusted with your safety. You put us in an untenable
position.”

Feeling
cornered, Caelan turned and pointed at the proctors. “Your proctor locked me
outdoors for the night. What was I supposed to do, freeze or be clawed by wind
spirits? I chose neither. Blame your proctors as much as me.”

“You
would not have been left outside all night,” the Elder said dismissively.

“How
was I to know that?”

“At
Taul Bell your absence was discovered. Harmony was broken. Disorder filled the
darkness. The serfs had to brave the night to search the hold for you. The
proctors found the open gate. That told its own story, and by the quick wits of
your cousin we were able to determine which direction you had fled.”