Reign of Shadows (6 page)

Agel
bowed. “Yes.”

“Thank
you, Master Grigori,” Caelan said, but the healer turned on his heel and left
without another glance at Caelan.

“So
it’s to be the silent treatment, is it?” Caelan muttered angrily.

Saying
nothing, Agel rebandaged him with quick  efficiency. “Your clothes are in the
basket,” he said, pointing at the foot of the cot.

Resentfully
Caelan flung off his blanket and dug out his clothing. He found a fresh shirt
and leggings and a replacement novice robe, all clean items from his quarters.

He
dressed while Agel stripped the bedding from the cot and removed it. By the
time Agel returned, rolling down his sleeves, Caelan was ready.

In
silence they left the infirmary and walked across the courtyard. The day held
the warm golden light of mid- afternoon. Serfs were baking bread in the large,
outdoor ovens. The fragrance of the loaves was intoxicating. Caelan closed his
eyes and drank it in.

“I
could swoon from hunger,” he said. “How long have I been unconscious?”

Agel
walked steadily beside him, not looking at him, not replying.

Caelan’s
anger flamed higher. He grabbed an apple from a basket and munched on it as
they entered the hall, shadowy and silent, its vaulted ceiling soaring high
above their heads.

Novices
were arranging the long trestle tables and benches for the evening meal as part
of after-class chores. Some of them looked up at Caelan with open mouths and
astonished eyes. Others turned away with frowns.

At
the entrance to the quarters stood a hooded proctor. Caelan tensed
involuntarily, but the proctor let them pass without question. They climbed the
broad staircase to the fourth floor and walked down the silent corridor. Agel
pushed open the door to Caelan’s room, and Caelan walked inside.

Agel
started to shut the door on him without entering, but Caelan gripped him by the
front of his robe and pulled him inside. Slamming the door with a bang that
echoed down the corridor, Caelan released Agel and stood with his back to the
door.

“Now
you can talk,” Caelan said, glaring at him. “How was I found? How long have I
been unconscious?”

Agel
compressed his lips, but Caelan strode over to him and gripped him by the arm.
Agel jerked away from his touch, and the two boys glared at each other,
nostrils flaring and eyes hot, for a long moment.

“Talk!”
Caelan said.

“It’s
forbidden.”

Caelan
snorted and swung away. “So I’m to be shunned now by everyone. Even you.”

Agel’s
face whitened with rage. “What you did was unforgivable.”

Caelan
shrugged, but doing so brought a faint twinge to his shoulder. “I ran away.
What of it? Anything was better than freezing to death.”

“Even
now you have no shame, no remorse,” Agel marveled. He sent Caelan a horrified
look. “I thought I knew you. But your kind heart and decency are gone.” Shaking
his head, he stepped past Caelan. “There is nothing to say to you.”

“Wait!”
Caelan said, reaching for his sleeve.

Agel
shoved him hard against the wall.

Pain
shot a sickly web of yellow and gray across the world. Caelan caught his breath
and sagged against the wall, trying to hide how much it hurt. The expression of
contempt on Agel’s face made it hurt even more.

“Agel,”
he said, making it a plea.

His
cousin averted his eyes. “You have shamed your father,” he whispered, his
throat working. “You have shamed
me.
I cannot forgive you. No one can.”

“But—”

Wrenching
open the door, Agel stormed out and left Caelan there, too stunned and
bewildered to go after him.

Caelan
rubbed his face with his hands and slowly straightened himself. Agel was only
overreacting like everyone else around here. Running away was a worse offense
than most, but it was hardly a calamity.

A
faint rustle of sound made him look up. Me saw a proctor standing in the open
doorway.

Warily
Caelan faced it. “What do
you
want?” he asked rudely.

The
proctor said nothing, but only closed and bolted the door. The sound of the
lock shooting home made Caelan bite his lip.

His
temper heated up, and he paced slowly around his small room twice before
plopping down on his cot. He didn’t care what kind of punishment they handed
out this time, he told himself. As soon as he got the chance, he was running
away again. And this time he would be properly prepared.

In
the morning Caelan awakened to the sound of silence. The usual dawn bell was
not ringing. He listened a long while, his body attuned to the regimen of
Rieschelhold.

Silence.
No work in the courtyard. No shuffling of sleepy boys along to the washrooms.
No bell of assembly. No smell of breakfast cooking.

Getting
up, Caelan dressed and paced the floor hungrily. He felt stiff and sore this
morning, but when he flexed his right shoulder there was no discomfort from his
wound.

The
continued quiet made him nervous and uneasy. So what were the proctors doing,
punishing all the boys for his infraction?

Defiance
and resentment hardened in Caelan. If they thought to make him penitent, they
had misjudged him. Caelan could be persuaded, but he did not like to be pushed.
The more they tried to break him, the more he vowed to defy them.

Outside
in the corridor, he heard doors opening slowly, the hinges creaking with
hesitation. Boys shuffled out, their queries to each other low and
apprehensive.

Caelan
listened at his door with derision. No bell, he thought. Without a bell to tell
them what to do, the novices were stupid and helpless.

That’s
what the masters wanted them to be. But he wasn’t ever going to become mindless
and blindly obedient. Rote learning, cruelty, and fear were the tools of lazy
teachers. They didn’t want the novices to think or grow. They considered
inquiring minds dangerous. Instead, the masters wanted trained monkeys, silent
and respectful monkeys, who would heal only the simple cases and be baffled by
anything requiring innovation.

He
hated them, hated them all.

“Watch
out! Proctor on the floor!” called someone in warning.

The
voices and footsteps outside hushed immediately as though everyone had frozen
in place. Caelan pressed his ear to his door gain.

“No
bell. No breakfast,” a proctor’s hollow, unnatural voice said into the quiet.

Voices
broke out in consternation and protest.

“Silence!”
the proctor ordered, and they quieted at once. “No classes are held. You will
remain in quarters until further notification. That is all.”

There
came the repeated slam of doors up and down the corridor. Caelan heard the bolt
to his own door slide back, and he stepped away from it just as the door was
pushed open.

Two
proctors stood looking in, their faces hidden deep within their cerulean hoods.

One
of them pointed at Caelan with his carved staff.

“Come.”

Wary,
expecting a beating, Caelan made no move to obey.

“You
have been summoned to the chambers of Elder Sobna. Come.”

Caelan’s
mouth went dry, and for a moment he was frightened. He’d actually spoke to
Elder Sobna only once, on the day he first came to be enrolled. The Elder had
eyes like glaciers, a white beard, and a soft voice as quiet as falling snow.
He had made a dry little speech about welcoming the son of Master Beva. Caelan,
anxious to avoid favoritism, had said all the wrong things. Since then, the
Elder had not acknowledged his presence again.

Caelan
straightened his shoulders and told himself not to worry. There was no
punishment worse than what he’d already faced. Maybe he was going to be
expelled. But as soon as that hope was born in Caelan, it died. No one was ever
disrobed from Rieschelhold. He’d probably have to poison a master or something.

Wearing
defiance like a cloak, he swaggered out into the corridor with his silent
escort.

It
was strange walking down the staircase at that hour of morning to find the
place still and empty. The air smelled of peat fires and wood polish. But not
even the serfs were to be seen.

Caelan
looked around. “Has everyone been confined to quarters?”

“All,”
said the proctor on his left.

The
other glided stoically on his right, close by, his staff held out as though to
steer Caelan.

“But
why?” Caelan asked. He’d never expected to find himself grateful to be talking
to proctors, but even they were better than no one. “What’s going on?”

The
proctor on his left turned slightly toward him. “None is to look upon a
transgressor.”

“But—”

The
proctor on his right lifted its hand. “Silence.”

They
walked on, pausing only while the proctors unlocked the doors to the building
without touching them. Outside, they paused again, and Caelan heard the bolts
shoot home without being touched by the proctor’s hand. He shivered, feeling
spooked and increasingly nervous about this.

Caelan
gazed up at a pewter-gray sky, then across the snow-draped expanse of garden
and courtyard. The air lay still, not a whisper of wind stirring the quietness.
The courtyard had been swept of the fresh snow that had fallen in the night,
but it might have been twilight instead of day, for not a soul was to be seen
anywhere.

I
have vanished,
Caelan thought with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold
sinking through his wool robe.
They can do anything to me now, and no one will ever
know.

With
difficulty he forced his alarm away, drawing on his own anger for strength.
This place thrived on fear, using it as a tool, a weapon to coerce the students
into obedience. There was no joy here, no light. Dreams and ambitions faded
into the mind-dulling miasma of hard work, stern threats, and punishment.

Caelan
refused to let fear conquer him now. He had faced soldiers and lurkers and the
unknown. He had even risked meeting a wind spirit. Yet somehow, the silence
surrounding him now seemed far worse. For courage he sought memories of his
home, E’nonhold, which shone like a refuge in his mind. He thought of days of
unhampered freedom when he’d raced his pony up through the valley pass of the
Cascades and climbed out on top of the glacier. He thought of the cold wind
whipping his hair back from his face and the feathery soft feel of snowflakes
on his eyelashes. He thought of hawking—his version of it, not the swift bloody
sport of the rich. No, to reach out and share identity with the great predator
bird. To feel the rush of wind through its wings. To feel the weightlessness of
its body on the air currents, circling, circling, keen eyes alert. To dive in
one great, swift, heady rush, the earth hurtling straight at him. Then pulling
out seconds before the strike, earthbound and separate once again, gasping with
the forbidden exhilaration of it.

Ah,
sevaisin,
the joining. So different
from
severance.
So
much fun, yet absolutely denied. It was supposed to take years of training
among the Vindicants in order to learn the technique. Caelan didn’t know how he
did it, and he didn’t care. It seemed to be as natural as breathing, unlike
severance,
which was a strain.

At
that moment they passed near the gates. He saw no warding key hanging over the
small pass gate. A momentary pang of guilt shot through him, yet at the same time
he had to bite the inside of his lips to keep from grinning. Wonder what old
Master Mygar thought of him now? Who said he couldn’t
sever
? He could when he had to. He’d
proven it.

With
a swagger back in his step, Caelan entered the Elder’s house. The entry was
lined with the burled wood of Carpassian walnut, very rare and costly to
import. No carving adorned it. The lovely grain of the wood was its only
ornamentation. Large oil lamps of plain silver cast a steady illumination to
supplement the weak morning light crawling in through the narrow windows.