Reign of Shadows (11 page)

Caelan
frowned. After a lifetime of watching his father spurn emotions, these admissions
were doubly bewildering. Caelan’s heart twisted. “You have no pride,” he said
coldly. “You say that pride is a false emotion and to be avoided.”

Beva’s
face burned with color. His gloved hands were clenched hard on the reins. “A
father’s pride,” he said softly, “lies in knowing he has sired a strong,
upright son, a boy of talent and keen mind, a boy in whom he can see himself
achieve even more, become even more complete within the pattern, walk even
farther along the inner road. That is a father’s pride.”

“All
you can see is yourself!” Caelan cried. “All you think of is yourself. Haven’t
you done enough, accomplished enough? You’re the best healer in all of Trau.
Can’t that be enough for you? Why do you have to live through me, control me?”

“You—”

“Why
can’t I be myself? Live my own life? Walk my own road? Why must everything be
done your way?”

“Because
my way is best.”

“For
you, but not for me! Now it’s over. Face it, Father. I’m never going to be a
healer like you.”

“Once
you are purified, all will change,” Beva said.

Caelan
stared at him, the blood draining from his face in shock. “I refused that,” he
whispered.

“I
have already made the preparations at home,” Beva said as though he had not
heard. “It would have been better had the masters performed it, but I will do
what is necessary. When you have recovered, I will personally begin your
training once again.”

“No,”
Caelan said.

“Of
course you will never be able to achieve the rank of master this way. After
all, the Ouon Bell has been rung over you. But when I am finished, you will be
a competent and able assistant, and you will have forgotten these foolish
dreams of becoming a soldier.”

“I
said no,” Caelan repeated.

Beva
did not even glance at him or indicate he heard.

Caelan
drew rein sharply, and after a few steps Beva stopped and glanced back.

“I’m
not going home,” Caelan said. “Not to that. I’d rather be carried off by
Thyzarenes than face that.”

“Your
fear shows the love of darkness within you,” Beva said. “Why else should you
fear the enlightenment?”

“You
want to
sever
me,”
Caelan said, looking at him with horror. “You would do this to your own son.”

“I
will do what is necessary,” Beva said, “to save you.”

“You
would destroy me!”

“Only
the shadows within you.”

“The
shadows are in
you!”
Caelan burst out. “You don’t want me to find the truth. You want me to
trot at your heels in blind obedience to a philosophy that’s as stupid as it is
unjust—”

The
back of Beva’s hand smacked against his jaw.

Caught
completely off guard, Caelan went tumbling out of the saddle and fell flat in
the snow.

Stunned,
he lay there a moment. Astonishment flattened him more than the actual blow.
His father had never struck him before. Never. His father did not believe in
violence. His father always said his hands were a gift from the gods, to be
used to heal, not harm.

Beva
must hate him for what he’d done. Bitterness welled up in Caelan. He’d spent
his life loving his father, wanting so desperately to measure up to his father’s
high standards, yet torn by wanting to go his own way. Now he wondered why he
had ever bothered to seek this man’s affection.

Above
the treetops, jackdaws wheeled in the sky with their raucous call. The ponies
jangled their bits impatiently and stamped in the cold.

“Get
up,” Beva said at last. His voice had lost its anger. It sounded hollow and
unlike him. “Get back on your horse. We have far to ride.”

Caelan
rose to his feet and brushed the snow from his clothing. Nothing dealt him at
the school had been this humiliating; not even the treatment from the soldiers
had equaled this. His head was on fire; the rest of his body felt cold and
detached.

“I’m
not going with you,” he said.

“Don’t
be foolish. You ran away from school without adequate preparation and came to
grief immediately. How long do you think you would last out here?”

“I
won’t go,” Caelan said, refusing to acknowledge his father was right. “I won’t
go home to be purified. I won’t do it.”

Beva’s
eyes narrowed. They locked stares—Beva’s cold and Caelan’s hot. Finally it was
Beva who looked away first.

“Get
on your pony,” he said in a voice like stone. “We shall settle the matter once
we are home.”

Resentfully,
knowing he had little choice, Caelan mounted and they rode on. Neither of them
spoke again through the long cold hours until dark, when they camped in an ice
cave at the foothills of the Cascades. The air held the crisp scent of the
glacier far above. Outside, beyond the edge of the forest, the aurora shimmered
lights of green and pink and yellow in a dazzling display that tilled the night
sky. Caelan huddled at the mouth of the ice cave, far from the warmth of the
tiny fire his father had kindled, shivering in his cloak and enraptured by the
sight.

“Caelan,”
his father said finally, breaking the long silence between them. “Come back to
the fire. You have seen enough of the light spirits at play.”

Caelan
said nothing. He did not move.

“Caelan!”
his father said sharply. “Come here.”

Caelan
ignored him, his gaze still locked on the beauty of the sky. How magical it
was, as though the gods opened the veil between heaven and earth just enough
for mortals to enjoy this glimpse of their wondrous world far beyond reach.

“The
light spirits can dazzle your wits and draw you outside if you’re not careful.
Don’t tempt the wind spirits into preying here.”

Caelan
snorted to himself. He knew the aurora had nothing to do with the malevolence
that flew on the winds during winter nights. His father didn’t believe the old
superstitions either, no matter what he might say.

But
defiance had a way of diminishing Caelan’s pleasure in the beautiful display.
Abruptly he returned to the fire.

It
was so small it hardly gave out any warmth. Ice caves ran deep into the
Cascades. They were camping inside a long, tunnellike entry that was made more
of stone than of ice. To build a fire deeper would be to start the ice walls
melting. The ceiling could fall. But here they were safe enough, deep enough
into the mountain to avoid detection by anything prowling the darkness, their
fire glimmer further concealed by the branches pulled across the mouth of the
cave.

Beyond
the fire and their bedrolls, the ponies shifted restlessly. Their shaggy bodies
gave out warmth in the narrow space to supplement what the fire provided.
Overhead a few icicles dripped. Caelan shifted position to avoid them. He had
already eaten, too hungry to refuse the rations his father offered.

Beva,
as usual, ate only a tiny portion of the bread and cheese, picking at his food,
tasting, nibbling, putting it down again. He studied Caelan, who pretended not
to notice.

Gathering
a handful of pebbles, Caelan tossed them one by one at the opposite wall.

“You
have never learned to stand fast,” Beva said finally. “Your will is like a
river, winding along the easiest path. Yet, like the river, you resist change
and will not allow the channel you follow to be altered. This is not the way,
my son.”

It
wasn’t an apology. Beva was simply trying another argument on the same old
line. Caelan ached with disappointment, but even that was nothing new. He went
on tossing pebbles at the wall.

“They
also told me you used
severance
to remove a warding key from the gate,” Beva said
quietly. “That, more than anything else, shows me the strength of your talents.
If you would just surrender to the true ways, you would surpass even what I
have accomplished.”

Caelan
frowned, refusing to look at his father. He did not like what he heard in his
father’s voice. Admiration? Greed? Caelan shivered and said nothing.

All
he’d ever asked for was simple affection, plain dealing, and freedom. All he’d
ever received was cold  isolation, lectures, riddles, and philosophy lessons.
Now he wasn’t sure exactly what his father wanted. All he knew was that the
blow from his father had destroyed something necessary and vital between them.

Beva
said something else, but Caelan didn’t listen. He was busy planning his next
course of action. As soon as he reached E’nonhold, he would persuade Old Farns
to unlock the arms room. He would gather weapons, provisions, and adequate
clothing. If necessary he would break into his father’s strongbox and take his
inheritance. He would see his little sister and give her a proper goodbye
before he left her.

“Caelan,”
Beva said again, sharply enough to penetrate his thoughts this time.

Caelan
looked up, keeping his expression blank and cold.

Beva
sighed. “Very well. If we cannot have a discussion, I will bid you goodnight.”

Caelan’s
heart still thrummed strongly with anger. He met his father’s gaze, aware of
all they would never have as father and son, all they would never share. His
father had killed his love. It was finished.

“Goodnight,”
Caelan replied and turned away.

In
the still
grayness of dawn, they broke camp and emerged cautiously from the cave where
they’d sheltered for the night. Heavy snow had fallen during the night, and the
ponies floundered their way through tall drifts. It was not snowing now, but as
they followed the steep trail into the mountain pass, they entered the gray
bellies of the clouds until all was dim mist and fog.

Caelan
could barely see his father’s back, although his pony crowded close to the
heels of the other. Beva’s white fur cloak and the white ponies looked ghostly
in the gloom. Around them the hills rose steeply, rocks jutting, the trail
growing ever steeper and more treacherous.

The
fog was freezing in the cold, coating the world in thin ice. Whenever Caelan
moved, it splintered and showered off his clothing like glass.

Then
they were high above the world, up in the Cascades themselves, and despite the
gloom, the beauty of this silent, frozen world made Caelan catch his breath in
appreciation.

The
mighty waterfall that gave the mountains their name was frozen, a vast sheet of
ice hanging in midair. During warm months the waterfall thundered with a force
that could be heard for miles, but now its voice was hushed. It was as though
the gods had struck the river and stopped it, leaving it suspended until spring
thaw when it would rush, gloriously cold and rapid, mist rising high to make
rainbows in the air.

They
rode up the trail beside it, then turned and passed behind the great sheet of
ice. Caelan put out his hand and trailed his fingers across its surface for
luck, the way he’d been doing since babyhood when his mother told him about the
blessings of the Cascade River. It was she who first dipped his chubby fingers
in the icy water. It was she who told him the river’s father was the mighty
glacier high above them on the top of the world, and that was why the water
would always run cold. It was she who had told him legends and stories from the
ancient times, filling his head with heroes and adventures, stirring curiosity
into his blood. She had loved life and laughter. Even now, though his memory
was dim, he could see her sitting on the rocks in the sunshine, her skirts
spread around her, a long golden braid hanging over her right shoulder, her
face merry and kind.

She
had been the sun in his life to his father’s moon. She had been the gentle
pressure of a loving hand on his shoulder after his father’s scolding. She had
bustled around the hold, directing the housework and singing melodies, her
voice as clear as birdsong.

He
had been eight when she died giving birth to Lea. The grief was gone now, faded
through the years, but he had never stopped missing her.

Homecoming
was never quite the same without her at the hearth, waiting to greet him.