By Ways Unseen Page 3

  He raised Mickel’s sword, flexing his fingers quickly along the handle. But instead of striking, he placed the point against the mannequin’s chest and twisted lightly back and forth. Around him, staccato sword-blows faded to a background. After a few moments, the sounds of the thumps and image of the shavings of wood that curled away from his twirling sword-point linked in Haydren’s mind.

  He paused to silence his thoughts. The mannequins were Sir Cullins’ creation, and the spindles on which they rested were sanded and greased daily. Every strike, no matter how swift or slow would send the clubs spinning and reaching for unarmored flesh. The object was not to strike well, but to understand the fight was not over after one or two blows.

  Haydren stepped and began the dance he saw in his mind; Mickel’s sword flowed and struck, each blow chipping wood. Haydren didn’t notice as his flurry of strikes drew everyone’s attention; it was not until his dance culminated in a powerful blow that knocked the dummy entirely from its stand that he stopped, sword outstretched, feeling the eyes of everyone.

  Haydren quickly stooped to pick up the dummy, but couldn’t find a way to replace it on its spindle. He fumbled as his sword hung dangerously from his grasp, till finally the blade fell with a clatter against the floor.

  “The spindle is broken, Haydren,” Sir Cullins said quietly, standing before him suddenly as he embraced the ruined mannequin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, wishing it was only exertion that pinked his face.

  “Not at all,” Sir Cullins replied, flaring his eyebrows. “I assumed they were strong enough for my students.”

  A knock sounded at the classroom door. “You will not learn by simply holding your swords with stupefied looks on your faces!” Sir Cullins said as he turned for the front of the room. The blows resumed as Haydren tried to figure out what to do with the mannequin in his arms.

  “Excellency!” Sir Cullins said as he opened the door. The wooden dummy crashed to the floor again as the students dropped to one knee; Haydren’s head bowed lower than everyone’s.

  “You certainly needn’t knock, your Grace,” Sir Cullins said.

  “I heard a powerful crash as I approached,” Earl Junei said gravely. “I didn’t want to walk into an assault.”

  Sir Cullins rose with a grin as Haydren flushed even deeper red. “Some students try perhaps a little too hard to do well,” he said.

  “But much good can come of that, too,” the Earl replied. “What would you say to one of your students saving the lives of hundreds, if not the lives of everyone in Hewolucs, because of their desire to do well?”

  “I would disbelieve, if they did it with their sword, Excellency,” Sir Cullins said wryly, though he could not mask the curiosity in his voice.

  Earl Junei chuckled. “They did not; in fact, he did it with tea-brewing.”

  Haydren’s head snapped up, then ducked back down.

  “Excellency?” Sir Cullins asked as the head of every other student looked quizzically back and forth.

  “Mort-root was found in the south fields; had first seed gone to sow, it might have poisoned the entire crop, and we would not have known till it began to kill those who ate it. But it was found by a curious young student who tried to steep a mixture from it. Herbmistress Felise recognized it before that could have happened, though. So tell me, how might you reward such a student?”

  “I’m not sure such an accident could be rewarded,” Sir Cullins said. “But perhaps the student could be granted a personal request – provided it was not asked in arrogance.” His sharp glance at several students indicated of whom he thought as he spoke.

  “Perhaps,” Earl Junei said. “What do you say, Haydren?” he asked, his eyes sparkling as all the rest turned again upon the young orphan. “Is there anything you would ask of your Earl?”

  Haydren glanced up quickly. “No, Excellency; as Sir Cullins said, it was an accident.”

  “Nevertheless, I wish to repay such good accidents,” Earl Junei said, his tone indicating Haydren had better not deny his beneficence.

  A glint caught Haydren’s eye; the gilded pommel of Mickel’s sword stuck out from under the mannequin’s torso. “Lieutenant,” Haydren muttered.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I would ask that Mickel be reinstated, your Grace,” Haydren said, not daring to look up for fear of his insolence. “Guard-lieutenant.”

  “I could not put his example in a position of leadership,” the Earl replied, quietly but not angrily. It was the absence of anger to which Haydren affixed his hope.

  “I understand, your Grace.”

  The silence stretched until it was clear Haydren would ask for nothing else. “Well done, young Loren,” Junei said. He nodded to Sir Cullins, who inclined his head as the Earl left and closed the door behind himself.

  “You are all dismissed,” Sir Cullins said after a few quiet moments. The students rose and moved to retrieve their swords.

  “This changes nothing,” Willam muttered to Haydren as he made to adjust his tunic. “We all know Mickel is not your father, and nothing you have can be attributed to him, or him to you.” He tightened his sword-belt and smoothed the front of his vest. “The only ones who care about you will not be in a position to do anything, when Guntsen’s time comes. You should enjoy what you have left, instead of reaching for more; you were never meant to have it, anyway.”

  Kitrel approached, then, his height and bulked muscles more immediately relevant than Willam’s lineage, and the son of the Earl’s advisor quickly left the classroom.

  “What was that about?” Kitrel asked.

  Haydren glanced up at his friend. “I should have asked for something else,” he said.

  *

  North across the sea, in the farthest reaches of the Andelen continent, the drums of war in Geoffrey’s dream faded into the night, the screams of wounded and dying going with them; he rose as if through water, the sounds around his small room sharpening – the drums were pounding fists, the screams authoritative demands.

  He knew them all well; the drums, screams, pounding fists, and demands had followed him from Rinc Na. He rose quietly but quickly; he slept dressed, and had for fourteen years – he pushed that thought aside, grasping his sword and exiting swiftly out of the back of the single-room house at the edge of town.

  Fourteen years of running from town to town, country to country. Rinc Na’s arm was long, indeed – but always only reached the front door, never quite the rear.

  Behind him, he heard the door finally crash inward, and men begin tramping through the room. It did not take them long, it never did. Geoffrey ducked behind a tree, not stopping but putting it between his flight and the now-open back door where a young soldier stood peering. The forest here in Tarkusnaab had seemed a blessing, and in itself it was; that the forest ran only the northern shoreline of Andelen, leaving Geoffrey a long and exposed flight down the length of the narrow continent, was now a curse.

  Tarkusnaab was small, a stopping point on a crown of earth before reaching the great foresters’ town of Ethfirlaf. Sheppar, Kinnig of Andelen, desired his towns and villages to have autonomy. It should have been safe.

  So much for that.

  But Geoffrey had learned this part of the Brithelt well, and by sun’s rising was out of the range of even an interested patrol. He guessed the soldiers who came to arrest him that night were not interested, only commanded. They would report back that the house was empty, maybe even that they were unsure if Geoffrey had ever lived there.

  Life should be more than mere existence, Geoffrey thought as he tucked himself into the sprawling roots of a freckle-barked emerson tree. He hadn’t lived in that house: he had merely occupied it for a few months until he had to move on, again. But move on to where?

  They said Burieng was part Rinc Nain, part Cariste. Surely, as far removed as the tiny continent was from both home countries, they would not hold as much to the traditional hates.

  Still, Rinc Na had reached to Andelen; it c
ould reach a little further south to Burieng. Perhaps refuge lay on the Cariste side, then. Geoffrey leaned his head back against the smooth, pale tree; he knew so little about the country. Perhaps he might pick up a few things along his flight. But he would need a Cariste ship to get him there – he would not take chances with a Rinc Nain one.

  It surprised him how easily he left the bosom of his motherland to find solace in the arms of his former enemy. His betrayal, begun fourteen years ago, must now be complete.

  He sighed in the darkness, hoping the drums would not be waiting for him behind closed eyes.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FISSURES

  “You know what it says? And why?”

  “Yes.”

  “The God help him, then.”

  “As will we.”

  22 Nuamon 1319 – Spring

  Haydren stood near the middle of the classroom with arms folded, his mind tumbling through possible reasons for the students’ summons at so late an hour. On the floor near Haydren’s feet, a small ant was scurrying – lost, it seemed, searching for something as it skittered down into a crack, resurfaced, and scurried to the other side of the board.

  It was not the entire class in the room today; only nine other boys, all nearing graduation, gathered into their little groups. Haydren stood apart, watching an ant search for a purpose.

  “Say, Haydren,” said Harlan, who was standing near him. “You're close to the Earl, right? What's this about?”

  Haydren didn't look up. “I don't know,” he murmured.

  “I told you,” the boy said to his friends as he turned back. The other boys in the circle snickered, but when Haydren continued to ignore them they returned to their low conversation.

  The truth was, Haydren did know – or rather, he hoped he knew. But after almost ten years in training, it seemed still impossible that he might soon go outside Hewolucs. No matter that, for the past eight years, he dreamed of the day; no matter that he devoured every one of his classes, desperately trying to become a better fighter and soldier. After so much delayed hope it seemed proper that it would be delayed forever. But not after what he’d overheard from a guard when he had been cleaning tack a few days ago.

  The ant paused and cast back and forth, then turned around the way it had come. Haydren drew a breath as the ant disappeared into a crack and didn’t reappear.

  “I thought I saw you here,” said Kitrel’s voice behind him, breaking him from his thoughts. He turned, a grin widening.

  “I was wondering if you were invited too,” he replied.

  Over the years, Haydren and Kitrel had competed for stature: finally satisfied at only several fingers-width short of six feet, Haydren crested even the well-fed height of Guntsen – though no one matched Guntsen’s spiced-wine-and-sweetmeats girth. And yet Haydren’s eyes came barely to Kitrel’s chin; Haydren’s whipcord muscles handled a one-handed sword better than anyone in the class, but Kitrel’s bulk could nearly best him with a battle-axe. Haydren was glad Kitrel was one student he didn’t have to worry about fighting.

  They shook hands, and Haydren said, “How are you?” with a grin to deepen the question.

  “I’m about the same as when you saw me this morning, I guess,” Kitrel said hesitantly. “Why?”

  Haydren shrugged. “Well I know you had your herb exam this afternoon…”

  “Oh please,” Kitrel said, waving him off. “Don't even speak to me of that. What a bleeding waste of my life. I suppose you took the top score, right?”

  Haydren pursed his lips, looking away with feigned innocence. Kitrel punched him in the arm, laughing.

  “I like the art!” Haydren protested.

  “Uh huh.”

  “You know what?” Haydren said, returning the punch playfully. “Just because some of us are smarter than others.”

  “Right. Okay, school-boy, why are we here then?” Kitrel asked.

  “Because we're fighting hellhounds tomorrow,” Haydren replied flatly.

  “We're fighting what?” a voice piped up near the back, with Guntsen's circle of friends.

  “Nothing, Dillion,” Haydren responded loudly. But as he turned back to face Kitrel, he could hear whispered echoes spreading among the groups. He grinned and shook his head.

  “Rumor-monger,” Kitrel muttered, shaking his head and smiling. Haydren shrugged indifferently.

  “I think maybe we're going on patrols tomorrow,” Haydren said, more quietly this time. “I overheard a guard muttering something about taking ‘sprouts’ on patrol soon; I don't think he meant the food.”

  Kitrel raised an eyebrow, glancing around the room. “We're certainly getting to the age for it. Even Harlan. I mean, if we're just talking about age.”

  Haydren followed him in looking around the room. “Yeah, but Guntsen's going to end up getting someone killed if he goes out there.”

  Kitrel flicked his eyes toward Guntsen, and scoffed. “I doubt he's going. They don't train his level of royalty to go on patrols, Haydren; they just want to know how to handle a sword so if they get in a huff with another lord, they can have something resembling a duel. For their honor!” Kitrel shook his head and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  The door latch rattled as the schoolmaster, Sir Cullins, entered the classroom. Though he was nearing sixty, and the gray in his hair now crept halfway back from his forehead, training students in swordplay and weapons history had not allowed Sir Cullins to age much; and it was no accident that not even Haydren could beat him in a sparring match.

  Being as late in the evening as it was, and outside of normal class-time, the boys did not rush to get into any sort of position. Sir Cullins glanced over the group and said nothing at first; Haydren saw a rolled parchment in his hand, with the royal seal stamped in red wax over its free end.

  “As most of you know, you all are nearing graduation,” Sir Cullins said solemnly, as the boys finally settled and gave him their attention. “Within the month, most of you will be serving the Earl in one capacity or another. Since this is the case, he has decreed that you will all go with the next patrols outside of the castle.”

  Haydren's breath caught in his throat. Even though he had overheard the guard, something in him still had not expected it. Was he ready? Was there any way to be ready?

  Haydren glanced at his other classmates, seeing much the same frozen expression on their faces as he assumed was on his. Suddenly Willam cackled gleefully and clapped his hands. The class’ collective breath was released, and Haydren and several others broke into smiles.

  Sir Cullins glanced sideways at Willam with a bemused half-grin. He unrolled the parchment in his hand and glanced at it. “You will be attached in teams of three to the three patrols. I have here the names of who is going where, so pay attention.”

  Three teams of three? Haydren glanced around; but that would mean – his gaze came to rest on Guntsen, whose expression was placid and a little smug. So, Haydren thought, Kitrel was right. He shook his head and looked back at Sir Cullins.

  “Orenius, Destis, and Gregson.” Cullins paused as the three students stiffened. “You will be going to Westide at week’s end. Be prepared before Dawn, at the East gate.”

  “Where Haydren’s father used to work. You know, before he was relieved,” Guntsen piped up. Haydren’s gaze was steady, even as several other students snickered.

  “Enough,” Cullins warned. He glanced over the parchment quickly. “Willam, Brahn, and Kitrel, you are going to Raka in two days.” He looked up and gazed at each student in turn; Guntsen’s face was strangely reserved, but Cullins ignored it. “Pack enough for a long journey, for your patrol may extend to Sanir. Those orders will follow you. At the very least, you will be spending some nights in Raka. Be ready by Mid-Morning, at the west gate.”

  “Where Mickel works now, since he was reinstated,” Haydren said with a smirk, though he still didn’t look at the heir to the throne. Cullins fixed Haydren with a stern gaze, but said nothing.

  “Ha
ydren, Dillion, and Harlan, you three ride for Hodp tomorrow,” Sir Cullins continued. “Be ready before Morning, at the north gate.” He paused, then added: “Where I had all of you running in circles for an entire morning. Don’t think I won’t do it again simply because you graduate soon after returning from these patrols. Dismissed.”

  Kitrel turned to Haydren and shrugged. “I wish I was going with you,” he said, offering his hand.

  “To Hodp?” Haydren replied dubiously, grasping Kitrel's hand and giving it a firm shake. “Are you insane? I don't even know why I have to go there; does he think I'm not skilled enough to handle a patrol to the west?”

  Kitrel sighed, fixing Haydren with his gaze. “You know why you're going to Hodp.”

  Haydren took a deep breath, his shoulders drooping. He did know why: Harlan’s lack of skill should have precluded his graduating, and Dillion had the least relation to royalty; of course, Haydren had no relation.

  Kitrel placed a hand on Haydren's shoulder. “I wish I was going with you,” he repeated, then grinned. “We'd have a great adventure of it, wouldn't we?”

  Haydren forced a smile. “That's probably why he kept us separated.”

  “If I don't see you, good luck. I'm going to start packing.”

  “Hey,” Haydren said, suddenly serious. “Be safe. There are a lot of folks who aren't friends of non-Cariste out that way.”

  “Oh really?” Kitrel replied sarcastically. “Was that in class sometime?”

  Haydren smiled again. “Sorry. But be safe.”

  “I will.” Kitrel replied.

  Sir Cullins had taken a position behind his desk, surveying the students as they talked amongst one another excitedly. He glanced at the window, noting the sinking sun. He would give them a little more time before ordering them to start packing; but he remembered the first time he had received orders, and how long he had spoken with his friends afterward.

  Haydren approached, and Sir Cullins smiled at him. “Good evening, Haydren,” he said. “I imagine you're looking forward to your first mission?”