Reign of Shadows (3 page)

“You
must learn to accept it if you are to heal.”

“I
don’t want to heal,” Caelan said in exasperation. “Why can’t you accept that?”

“Because
it’s in you.”

“It’s
in my father, not me!”

“But
you have the gift. You are his blood. He tested you and said you could
sever.
I remember when he did it.”

“The
ability to do something doesn’t mean it’s my destiny,” Caelan said. “I know
they teach that here, but you don’t have to believe everything they say.”

“The
ways that are taught here are good ways,” Agel said.

“But
they aren’t the
only
ways,” Caelan argued. He saw no change in Agel’s expression and
sighed. “What’s the use? You’ve turned to stone, just like the masters here.
You’re becoming exactly like my father.”

A
smile dawned across Agel’s face. “Really?” he asked in delight. “You really
think so?”

Disgust
filled Caelan. Without answering, he shouldered past Agel and headed down the
steps to the courtyard.

Agel
followed close on his heels, and in silence they hurried toward the hall.

In
the gloom and quiet of evening, the courtyard had an eerie, deserted feel.
Light glowed warm from the narrow window slits in the buildings, and the air smelled
of peat smoke. The wind still blew sharp and bitterly cold, knocking old snow
off the roofs in soft drifts of white.

No
one was supposed to be abroad by the last stroke of the Quarl Bell. All
residents of the hold had to be indoors before nightfall, safe within the
warding keys and secured from the wind spirits that hunted during the long
winter darkness. Which, Caelan thought to himself, was only an elaborate way of
enforcing a strict curfew.

It
seemed that everything at Rieschelhold was buried under an endless series of
rules. Living here was like dying a slow death. Caelan hated the tall stone
walls, hated the confinement, the serenity, the order, the iron routine that
never varied. At home he could always find a way to escape his tutors. He lived
for wild gallops across the glacier, his horse’s mane whipping his face, the
icy wind whistling in his ears. The mountains, the sweeping views of the top of
the world, the endless sky. And at night, the breathtaking display of colors
from the light spirits.

That
was living.

But
here, in the marshy lowlands, the winters were bleak and rainy and the summers
were hot and insect-riddled. Beautiful days were wasted cramped inside
classrooms. The joy of life, the urge, the passion were all driven away in
favor of
severance,
which meant to be cold, aloof, detached, emotionless, and dead as far as he was
concerned.

Caelan
tipped back his head to look at the starry sky. His heart ached for freedom.
But even if he sent for the scrivener and wrote another letter to his father,
begging for release, it would be a waste of time. Beva E’non wanted his only
son to be a healer; therefore, the son would be a healer. Close of subject.

Accept
it, Caelan told himself as he and Agel crunched across gravel, then reached the
cobblestones. Grow up and do as you’re told.

But
even when he forced himself to concentrate and really tried to do his lessons,
his heart wasn’t in the work. He wasn’t a scholar, never had been. And always
in the back of his heart gnawed the question of what kind of healer he would
be. How could he cure anyone? How could he reach the depth of empathy necessary
to
sever
illness and suffering from
the lives of his father’s patients?

Ahead,
from the side yard, a shadow suddenly emerged from the darkness. Long-robed and
hooded in cerulean blue, it carried a long rod of yew carved with the faces of
the four wind spirits. Its left hand was held aloft, and upon its palm glowed a
pale blue flame not of fire. It saw the boys and paused, then headed toward
them.

Dragging
in a breath of exasperation, Caelan stopped so quickly Agel bumped into him
from behind.

Agel’s
breath hissed audibly. “Gault have mercy on us.”

Caelan
turned his head. “Run,” he whispered. “Take the passage by the stables and slip
into the hall of studies through the side door. It’s always open at this hour
for Master Mygar.”

Beside
him, Agel was tense with alarm. “But the proctor—”

“Shut
up and go! I have so many demerits another won’t hurt me. Just go.”

As
he spoke, Caelan gave Agel a shove. Ducking his head, Agel shuffled away; then
abruptly he broke into a run and vanished from sight.

The
proctor veered that way and lifted its staff, but Caelan stepped into its path.

“I
have permission to be out after Quarl Bell,” he lied loudly.

Proctors
did not split their attention well and tended to confront whatever was closest.
Figuring this out had enabled Caelan to avoid them many times. But now he
danced nervously across the path of the proctor a second time as it tried to
look in the direction Agel had gone.

The
proctor finally turned its hooded head back to Caelan and pointed its staff.

Caelan
backed up warily. That staff could strike with lightning speed to enforce the
hold’s many rules. He had the bruises to prove it.

“Master
Mygar released me from late drills for an errand,” he said quickly. “I’m to
report back to him after supper.”

The
proctor, its face unseen within the depths of its hood, stared at Caelan in
grim silence. Extending its left hand, it cast the truth-light at him.

His
heart sank, but he knew better than to flinch.

The
light flowed over him from the top of his head and spread slowly down. Caelan
scarcely breathed and kept his lie uppermost in his mind, visualizing old
Master Mygar with his food-stained robe and toothless gums.

The
pale blue light flowed over him in a shimmering glow. At first its color did
not alter, indicating the truth had been told. Caelan began to hope he might
get away with this.

Then
the light faded to sickly yellow.

Caelan
gulped but resigned himself. All this meant was a couple of stout blows and no
supper tonight. The black mark would go on his record, and tomorrow he’d have
extra drills from Master Mygar for lying. Unpleasant, but easy enough to endure
when he had to.

The
proctor stretched forth its left hand again, and the light spread from Caelan’s
feet, then gathered itself into a tight ball and returned to the proctor’s
palm. The proctor swept its rod aside, gesturing for Caelan to pass.

Disbelieving,
for an instant Caelan thought he was being allowed to go. He grinned and
hurried past the proctor, but a faint whistle in the air warned him of his
mistake.

The
blow slammed across his back with a force that drove him to his knees. Streaks
of black and red crossed his vision. He wheezed and could not draw in air. His
back felt as though it had been broken in half. Wrapped in agony, Caelan sagged
forward onto his palms.

The
staff struck him again, knocking him flat. His cheek scraped on the
cobblestones, a tiny flare of pain beneath the immense agony in his back. He
coughed and choked, still unable to drag in any air.

Just
when he began to panic, his lungs started working again. He drew in another
breath, then another, although each one caused pain to stab through his back.
It was too hard to get up so he lay there, fighting back tears, too angry and
proud to let the proctor see how badly it had hurt him.

The
proctor glided around him in a silent circle. From where he lay, Caelan could
see that the proctor’s feet did not quite touch the ground. Instead it floated
ever so slightly in the air. Caelan swallowed hard and closed his eyes. He and
another novice had a bet on whether the proctors walked. Right now, winning
Ojer’s quarterly allowance didn’t seem very important. Caelan felt too gray and
clammy to care about anything except that it was over. In a moment he’d manage
to get to his feet, then he’d be confined to his quarters without supper. No
loss, the way he felt right now.

The
tip of the proctor’s staff struck the ground a scant inch from the tip of his
nose. Startled, Caelan jerked open his eyes.

The
proctor bent over him. Truth-light rolled down the length of the staff, making
it glow. Caelan thought he saw the carved faces of the wind spirits shift and
grimace.

Gasping
in alarm, he jerked himself up to a sitting position and winced with pain.

“You
fear no wind spirits. You mock the rules of protection,” the proctor said, its
voice hollow and not quite real. “You meet wind spirits.”

“No,”
Caelan said in growing unease. He held up his hands and scrambled to his knees.
“I’ve learned my lesson. Honest. Don’t—”

“More
lies,” the proctor said sternly. It lifted the glowing staff over its head and
swung it in a circle.

A
gust of wind swirled around Caelan, dumping snow down his collar and making him
shiver.

“Tonight
you meet the wind. You learn.”

The
proctor turned, but Caelan reached out in desperation and gripped the hem of
its robe.

The
cloth was scorching hot. With a cry, Caelan released it and shook his singed
fingers.

“You
can’t leave me outside all night,” he said in protest. “I’ll freeze to death.”

“Then
lesson will be learned.” Without looking back, the proctor glided away and left
him kneeling on the cold cobblestones.

By
the time
Caelan managed to stagger to his feet and lurch forward, the proctor had
vanished from sight.

Sharp
pain stabbed through Caelan’s left knee every time he took a step. He could
feel blood trickling down his leg, and his leggings were ripped.

Fresh
resentment washed over him, but he pushed it away, determined to get inside the
hall before the proctor locked him out. He wasn’t going to spend all night out
here. They had no right to do that to him.

Limping
and gasping, he hobbled past the main hall entry. The massive wooden doors with
their elaborate carvings were always bolted shut at the conclusion of Quarl
Bell. He didn’t waste time trying to get in that way. Instead, he limped around
to the side door that he’d recommended to Agel.

It
was locked.

He
pushed on it with all his strength, then cursed and kicked it.

He
tried the larder.

Locked.

He
checked the stables, but they were firmly bolted. He knocked as loudly as he
dared, but no one came.

The
storage barns, harvest shed, and cider press were all secured. He could not
gain entry to the servants’ quarters, and the only access to the tall stone
building that housed the students was through the hall.

As
for Elder Sobna’s small house, tucked up against the low wall of the kitchen
garden ... impossible. He wasn’t about to seek refuge there.

Darkness—bleak
and terribly cold—closed in around him. The wind cut harshly through his
clothing. Shivering, he tucked his numb hands into his armpits and tried to
pull his robe up over his head to protect his aching ears. It wasn’t enough.

They
had to let him in, he kept reassuring himself. They couldn’t let him die of
exposure out here. How would they explain it to his father?

His
mind’s eye conjured up a scene of his father, grim and sorrowful, standing in
Elder Sobna’s study. The Elder would be stroking his beard and shaking his
head.

“The
boy was always in trouble. Lax and disobedient, always breaking rules designed
for his own protection. No one knew he’d slipped outside again. The poor boy
simply froze to death. An unfortunate accident.”

Caelan’s
anger came surging up hot and fierce. He wasn’t going to shiver out here,
losing toes and the tips of his ears to frostbite. They thought he would pound
on the doors and plead for forgiveness. They were trying to scare him into behaving.

But
it wasn’t going to work.