“Third Aspect of the Order?”
Dentos paused, brow furrowed as he searched his memory for the answer. “Kinlial?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.”
“Good. You’re right.” Vaelin clapped him on the back as they continued across the courtyard. “Dentos, my brother, I think you may pass this test today.”
They were called to the Test in the afternoon, lining up outside a chamber in the south wall. Master Sollis gave them a stern warning to behave themselves and told Barkus he was first. Barkus seemed about to make a joke but the gravity on Sollis’s face stopped him and he gave them only a brief bow before entering the chamber. Sollis closed the door behind him.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “When you’re done get to the dining hall.” He stalked off leaving them staring at the solid oak door to the chamber.
“I thought he’d be doing this,” Dentos said, a little weakly.
“Doesn’t look like it does it?” Nortah said. He went to the door, leaning down to put his ear to the wood.
“Hear anything?” Dentos whispered.
Nortah shook his head, straightening. “Just mumbles, the door’s too thick.” He reached inside his cloak and came out with a board of pine wood about a foot square with numerous scars on its surface and an inch wide circle of black paint in the centre. “Knives anyone?”
Knives had become their principal game in recent months, a simple enough contest of skill where they would take turns trying to get their throwing knives as close to the centre of the board as possible. The winner would keep all the other knives in the board. There were variations on the basic game where a board was propped against a convenient wall, sometimes it would be suspended from a rope tied to a roof beam and the object was to hit it as it swung back and forth, in other games it would be thrown in the air, occasionally set spinning end over end. Throwing knives were a kind of surrogate currency in the Order, they could be swapped for treats or favours and a brother’s popularity was invariably enhanced if he managed to amass a large stock. The weapons themselves were plain, cheaply made items, triangular six inch blades with a stubby handle, little larger than an arrowhead. Master Grealin had begun to hand them out at the start of their third year, ten for each boy, the supply to be renewed every six months. There was no formal instruction in how to use them, they simply watched the older boys and learnt as they played. Predictably the best archers turned out to be the most successful players, Dentos and Nortah had the largest knife collection with Caenis a close third. Vaelin won only one game in ten but knew he was consistently improving, unlike Barkus who seemed incapable of winning a single match, making him guard his knives jealously, although he became skilled at bartering for more with the spoils of his many thieving expeditions.
“Shitting, stupid, sodding thing!” Dentos fumed as his knife struck sparks on the wall behind the board. Evidently his nerves were throwing his aim.
“You’re out,” Nortah informed him. If a player missed the board they were out of the game and their knife was forfeit.
Vaelin went next, sinking the knife into the outer edge of the circle, a better throw than he usually managed. Caenis’s knife was a little further in but Nortah took the game with a blade only a finger width from the centre.
“I’m just too good at this,” he commented, retrieving his knives. “I really should stop playing, it’s not fair on everyone else.”
“Piss off!” Dentos spat. “I’ve beaten you tons of times.”
“Only when I let you,” Nortah replied mildly. “If I didn’t you wouldn’t keep coming back for more.”
“Right.” Dentos snatched a knife from his belt and let fly at the target in a single smooth movement. It was probably the best throw Vaelin had seen, the knife buried dead in the centre of the board up to the hilt. “Beat that, rich boy,” Dentos told Nortah.
Nortah raised an eyebrow. “Luck smiles on you today brother.”
“Luck my arse. You gonna throw or not?”
Nortah shrugged, taking a knife and eyeing the board carefully. He slowly drew back his arm and then snapped it forward so fast his hand blurred, the knife a brief glitter of silver as it spun towards the target. There was the high ping of metal on metal as it rebounded from Dentos’s knife hilt and landed a few feet away.
“Oh well.” Nortah went to retrieve his knife, its blade bent at the tip. “Yours I believe,” he said, offering it to Dentos.
“We should call it a draw. You would’ve hit centre if my knife wasn’t in the way.”
“But it was, brother. And I didn’t.” He continued to hold the knife out until Dentos took it.
“I won’t trade this one,” he said. “This’ll be my charm, for luck y’know? Like that silk scarf Vaelin thinks we haven’t noticed.”
Vaelin snorted in disgust. “Can’t I keep anything from you buggers?”
They passed the remaining time playing toss board, hurling knives at the board as Vaelin tossed it into the air. It was Caenis’s best game and he was up five more knives by the time Barkus emerged.
“Thought you’d be in there forever,” Dentos said.
Barkus seemed subdued, responding only with a brief, guarded smile before turning and walking quickly away.
“Shit,” Dentos breathed, his rebuilt confidence faltering visibly.
“Bear up brother.” Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Soon be over.” His tone hid a real unease. Barkus’s demeanour worried him, reminding him of the older boys’ sullen silence when the subject of this Test came up. Master Grealin’s words coming back to him as he puzzled over why this test inspired such grim reticence. No other test bares a boy’s soul.
He steeled himself as he approached the door, a hundred and one likely questions flitting through his head. Remember, he told himself emphatically, Carlist was the third Aspect in the Order’s history not the second. It’s a common mistake due to the assassination of the previous incumbent only two days after inauguration. He took a breath, forcing the tremble from his hand as he turned the heavy brass door handle and went inside.
The chamber was small, an unremarkable space with a low arched ceiling and a single narrow window. Candles had been placed around the room but did little to alleviate the oppressive gloom. Three people sat behind a solid oak table, three people who wore robes a different colour to his own dark blue, three people who were not of the Sixth Order. Vaelin’s trepidation took another leap and he couldn’t suppress a visible start. What kind of Test is this?
“Vaelin,” one of the strangers addressed him, a blonde woman in a grey robe. She smiled warmly, gesturing at the empty chair facing the table. “Please sit down.”
He steadied himself and moved to the chair. The three strangers studied him in silence giving him the chance to return the scrutiny. The man in the green robe was fat and bald with a thin beard tracing the line of this jaw and mouth, although his corpulence didn’t compare to Master Grealin’s he had none of the brother’s innate strength, his pink, fleshy face shining with sweat, his jowls wobbling as he chewed. A bowl of cherries sat on the table next to his left hand, his lips a tell-tale red of continual indulgence. He regarded Vaelin with a mixture of curiosity and obvious disdain. By contrast the man in the black robe was thin to the point of emaciation, although he was equally bald. His expression was more troubling than the fat man’s, it was the same fierce mask of blind devotion he had seen on brother Tendris’s face.
But it was the woman in grey that commanded most of his attention. She seemed to be in her thirties, her angular face framed by gold-blonde hair that hung down over her shoulders, was comely and vaguely familiar. But it was her eyes that intrigued him, bright with warmth and compassion. He was reminded of Sella’s pale face, and the kindness he had seen in her when she stopped herself touching him. But Sella had been full of fear, whereas he found it hard to imagine this woman ever being so vulnerable. There was a strength in her. The same strength he saw in the Aspect and Master Sollis. He found it hard not to stare.
“Vaelin,” she said. “Do you know who we are?”
He saw little point in trying to guess. “No my lady.”
The fat man grunted and popped a cherry into his mouth. “Another ignorant whelp,” he said, chewing noisily. “Don’t they teach you little savages anything but the arts of slaughter?”
“They teach us to defend the Faithful and the Realm, sir.”
The fat man stopped chewing, his contempt suddenly replaced by anger. “We’ll see what you know of the Faith young man,” he said evenly.
“I am Elera Al Mendah,” the blonde woman said. “Aspect of the Fifth Order. These are my brother Aspects, Dendrish Hendril of the Third Order,” she gestured to the fat man in green, “and Corlin Al Sentis of the Fourth Order.” The thin man in black nodded gravely.
Vaelin was taken aback to be in such august company. Three Aspects, all in the same room, all talking to him. He knew he should feel honoured but instead there was only a chilling uncertainty. What could three Aspects from other Orders ask him about the history of his own?
