Reign of Shadows (17 page)

“Rebellion
is one gateway to the dark path,” Beva quoted without mercy. He gestured at
Farns’s unconscious form. “You have endangered my watchman, a servant of long
devotion. He will probably die of the madness because of you. What were you
leading him to, Caelan?”

“Nothing,”
Caelan said, appalled by this newest accusation. “I was only trying to collect
my bow from the—”

“Weapons
are the handiwork of destruction,” Beva said. “I have had all of them broken—”

“Yes,
I saw,” Caelan broke in angrily. “This hold now lies unprotected and vulnerable
to anyone who chooses to attack it. How could you be so irresponsible?
Thyzarenes don’t believe in the pattern of harmony. If they come here, are we
to drive them off with our bare hands?”

“The
gods protect us because we live on the path of good,” Beva said.

“The
gods protect those who stand prepared to defend themselves,” Caelan said in
disgust.

Beva
scowled. “I will not have disrespect in my house.”

“Fine.
I plan to leave your house.”

Beva’s
head snapped up. He looked at Caelan with alarm.

“That’s
right. I’m going,” Caelan told him.

“But
you are my son,” Beva said. “Your place is here, with me.”

Grief,
anger, and disillusionment twisted inside Caelan. “When I go to sleep tonight, will
you try to purify me again? Make me a mindless, obedient slave? You’ve already
called me a demon. As if the insult to my mother wasn’t enough, I know you care
nothing about me at all. Why should you want me?”

“You
are my son.”

“Your
pride be damned!” Caelan shouted at him. “I don’t want to be your son! I don’t
want anything to do with you!”

Color
flamed in Beva’s face. “You are not of age. You must obey me. You must take the
apprenticeship I assign you. The law supports me in this. If you leave, I can summon
you home. And I will do it.”

“Disown
me! Forget about me! It’s Agel who wants to be a healer and work with you. Just
leave me alone, because I will never give in. Never! And you won’t trick me
again.”

Caelan
swung away, but before he’d gone two steps his father called after him.

“You
cannot go.”

“Watch
me,” Caelan muttered, seething.

“You
cannot go! My son, if you do not stop this rage that fills you ... if you do
not learn to submit to the inward path, you will become what I most fear.”

Caelan
stopped and looked back. “What?” he asked with deliberate insolence. “A free
man?”

“No,
a
donare.
An abhorrence. Son, it lies within you. It grows into a twisted evil. You must
be stopped. You must be saved. If you cannot crush it within yourself, then let
me
sever
it from you—”

“No!”
Caelan said, his fear returning. He backed away from his father, fearing the
fanaticism burning in Beva’s face more than anything. “Stay away from me! I don’t
believe you. I don’t—trust you.”

With
that break in his voice, he rushed from the ward. By the time he reached the
passage connecting the infirmary to the house, he was staggering on weak,
unsteady legs. Tears streamed down his face.

There
was no love in Beva. There would never be.

A
sob choked Caelan’s throat, but he held it down. His father had called him a
monster, one of the demon-blood, all because he wouldn’t submit blindly to Beva’s
wishes.

Unfair,
but so was all of life. He refused to feel sorry for himself. That way led to
weakness, and he might even find himself crawling back like a shivering dog,
willing to take whatever abuse Beva wanted to give in exchange for acceptance.

There
was no question of ever pleasing his father. He never had. He never could.

And
now ... and now ... he choked again, and wiped the tears from his face. He
thought his father was half afraid of him.

Fear,
not love.

Control,
not compassion.

Hatred,
not acceptance.

Why?

The
question branded him, burning deep, never to be erased from his soul.

Had
he been a changeling of some kind or even an orphan of mysterious origin
adopted by his parents, he might understand what was happening to him. But
there had been no fateful discovery of an infant son by Beva during his
travels. There had been no unexpected arrival of an infant son at the hold gates,
left by the spirits. There had been no secret trade of an infant son with the
Choven who migrated through the Cascades during the summer months.

Caelan
had been born in the bed where his father still slept, as Lea had been. He was
an E’non, able to count his ancestors back for twelve generations. There was no
strange or foreign blood in his veins, nothing to support his father’s cruel
accusations. No soothsayer in the towns of Meunch and Ornselag had ever decried
his destiny on a street corner.

Yet
he had held a warding key three times, and he still lived.

What
did it mean?

What
did Lea’s unusual gifts mean?

Beva
had more than the usual talent for healing. What talents had his bride
possessed? What had the two of them created in their children?

Or
was it all a growing madness in Beva’s mind? Were his own talents and beliefs
driving him too far? People thought him so wise and good. Why couldn’t he show
that wisdom and goodness to his own son? Why did he have to be so harsh and
unyielding? What did he want?

Something
Caelan could not give.

Safe
in his room, Caelan slammed the door and slid down it to the floor.

There,
in the quiet shadows, he sobbed.

The
next day
brought Caelan’s chance for escape.

Strangers
came to the hold, more Neika tribesmen to fetch the two who were already there.
Clad in furs, their long blond hair braided at the temples, ice frozen in their
thick mustaches, they carried axes in their belts and freedom in their eyes.
The Neika entered warily, forever uneasy within the confines of hold walls.
They stood knotted together in the courtyard, fingering their axe heads and
mumbling beneath their mustaches until their comrades emerged from the
infirmary—one rushing out in greeting, the other limping with a broad grin.

There
was much shouting and back-slapping Squalling in a large ring in the courtyard,
they began to talk formally, using ritualized sign language to supplement it.

Everyone
in the hold except Beva and Gunder found an excuse to venture by and stare at
the newcomers.

The
Neika spent winter months following the nordeer that migrated across the
glacier. They also cut wood and sold it to craftsmen in the lower towns.
Sometimes, in lean years when the nordeer were scarce, the Neika cut peat and
brought it to holds in exchange for food. In the summer they cut ice, packed it
in meadow grass, and brought it down through the Cascades to the towns on large
skids drawn by tame nordeer.

Brawny
and tall, the tribesmen looked fierce. In reality, however, most were shy. They
rarely fought among them selves and were aggressive only in protecting their
herds and families.

These
men had been to E’raumhold while waiting for
their brother’s leg to mend.
Now they were hack, having successfully sold their bundles of beaver pelts and
nordeer hides. And they had an order for stripped logs for the building of a
new barn at E’raumhold. Red-cheeked with prosperity, they talked rapid-fire,
hands flying with gestures as quick as their words.

When
Anya came forth with a tray of apple cakes, they accepted with hesitant
pleasure.

Caelan
approached them cautiously and took the piece of cake Anya handed to him.

“Have
you heard about any raids?” he asked them.

The
oldest man of the group glanced up. “Naw,” he said gruffly. “We been to and fro
along the river all this moon. No raiders. None since E’ferhold was burned out.”

Caelan
and Anya exchanged a glance. The housekeeper looked relieved. Smiling, she
gathered her empty tray and headed back into the house.

“No
sightings of Thyzarenes anywhere?” Caelan persisted. “I guess that means the
army is gone?”

“Um,”
the Neika said around a mouthful of cake. “Talk in E’raumhold full of it. Bad,
they say. Bad to let army plunder loyal provinces. Will be more war if army
does not go.”

Caelan’s
ears perked up. Trying not to act too interested, he said, “So the army is
still in Trau?”

“Um.
Talk be of it. Army camped near Ornselag. Waiting for transport ships. Too many
fighters for waiting. Much trouble.”

The
Neika exchanged solemn glances, grumbling beneath their mustaches.

“We
stay far from towns. No trouble for Neika. Talk say, raiders eager to go. When
thaw comes, they take the fire-breathers home for breeding. Have a big festival
after thaw. Got to divide spoils. Got to let fire-breathers breed and the
raider folk breed too.”

He
glanced around, his eyes as untamed as the woods beyond the hold, and brushed
cake crumbs from his mustache.

Beva
came out, slender and tall, his white healer robes immaculate, his gray eyes
cool.

The
tribesmen rose to their feet in nervous respect.

Beva
held out a small pouch, which the injured man took warily. “Mix that into a
weak tea and drink a cup of it with each meal. The leg is healing well, but
this will keep fever away.”

“Um.”
The tribesman who had answered Caelan’s questions dug into his money purse for
coins.

Beva
accepted them without expression. “I have taken away his pain, but the leg will
heal straighter if he does not walk on it much for another week.” He held up
his left hand, fingers spread wide. “This many days.”

The
tribesman nodded, and Beva walked back into the house.

“We
go,” the Neika said.

Almost
in unison, they headed for the gates, braids swinging around their wide
shoulders.

Caelan
hurried after them. “Wait!” he said. “I want to barter.”

They
laughed above his head, strong teeth flashing in the sunshine.

“No
barter,” the tribesman said kindly. “All goods sold. We go back to camp.”

“Wait.
Please.” Feeling breathless, Caelan looked up into his blue eyes. “How much for
an axe?”

The
Neika’s laughter faded abruptly. He set his hand protectively on his axe-head
and frowned. “Axe is blessed. No sell, ever.”

Caelan
held up his hands. “Sorry. I didn’t understand. What about a dagger?”

The
man squinted thoughtfully with his head tilled to one side. “What healer need
with fighting dagger?”

“I’m
not a healer.” Caelan glanced over his shoulder at the house. “My father has
nothing to do with this It’s for me.
”

“Little
warrior.” The Neika laughed and said something in his own language that made
the others laugh too.

It
reminded Caelan of how the soldiers had laughed as they circled him. Anger
steeled him, and he vowed to himself that he would become a man at whom no one
laughed ever again. But for now, he needed a weapon if he was to make his plan
work.

“What
can I offer you?” he persisted. “Which of my possessions would most please the
Neika?”

“You
have bargained with our people before. This is good.” Nodding, the man
squatted.

Caelan
crouched beside him while the others stood patiently. Caelan’s heart quickened
with excitement. Carefully, he tried to be polite and wait for the big man to
think.

Lea,
bright in her scarlet wool cloak, came running up. “Caelan!” she called,
elbowing past the tribesmen. “Are you coming? You promised—”

Caelan
frowned and shook his head at her, but she settled herself beside him anyway. “You
promised,” she said with more urgency.