Book Two of the Travelers (13 page)

T
hree days later Alder was trudging up the High Street toward the academy when he noticed a small sign hanging over the window of a building that had been empty for quite a few years. It read:

 

WENCIL OF PELDAR
MASTER OF ARMS
INSTRUCTION OFFERED TO YOUNG
BEDOOWAN GENTLEMEN
INQUIRE WITHIN

 

Alder stood rooted to the ground, looking at the sign. The building was much like Wencil himself—shabby. One of the windows was broken out. The walls needed painting. The roof looked like it needed to be rethatched. Alder held his sword and the various wooden practice weapons in his hand. It seemed ridiculous, carrying the weapons around with him all the time. Every day he carried them from his little room in the castle to the
academy—as though he were actually going to
use
them. And every day he did nothing but sweep the academy and cut wood and carry things around for Master Horto's obnoxious wife.

He studied the sign some more. Master of arms. That meant that the old man taught the knightly arts—swordsmanship and so on. For years Master Horto had been the only certified master of arms in the castle.

Wencil of Peldar was a nobody, of course. He was no Master Horto. If you wanted to be a knight, you obviously had to train with Horto, a man with a reputation at court. Still, Alder was intrigued by the sign. He wondered idly if there were some way he could at least pick up a few tips from the old man.

Out of curiosity as much as anything, Alder tentatively pushed open the front door of the building. It groaned on rusty hinges. He found himself in a very small, cold, empty room.

“Hello?” he said.

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

He walked tentatively into the next room. It too was empty. And yet…He felt the hairs come up on the back of his neck.
Someone is here!
He was sure of it.

He quietly leaned his practice weapons against the wall—all of them except his wooden sword. He gripped the sword tightly and crossed the room as silently as he could. “Hello?” he whispered. “Sir? Master Wencil?”

He thought he heard something in the next room. A squeak? A slight exhalation of breath? He wasn't sure.

He moved as silently as he could into the next room.

Whack!

For a moment Alder didn't know what had happened. He whirled around as pain shot through his shoulders. Standing behind him was Wencil. How in the world had he gotten there? In Wencil's hand was a stick, much like the one he'd carried the first time Alder met him.

“Sneak into my home, would you?” the old man shouted.

“But I—the sign said—I was just—”

“Defend yourself or die!” the old man shouted. Then he began attacking Alder with the stick. Alder desperately tried to defend himself. But it was pointless. The old man, grinning broadly, drove him backward.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

The stick caught him on his shin, his elbow, his arm—flicking out like the tongue of a snake. By the time Alder got his sword anywhere near the stick, it was already hitting him someplace else.

“Please! I was just trying to—”

Alder could see he was wasting his effort trying to talk to this man. He decided his best hope was to make for the door.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Apparently the old man saw what he was trying to do: He bounded in front of Alder, cutting off his escape. Alder tried to make for the back of the building. Surely there would be a door there!

Whack, whack, whack!
The stick hit him again and again. And yet, the old man never quite finished him off. After a while Alder started to get the feeling that Wencil
was just toying with him. But try as he might, Alder couldn't escape.

Soon Alder was feeling breathless and winded. His legs were like rubber, and his arms could barely hold the sword.

“Keep your guard up!” the old man shouted. “Or I might—”
Whack!
“Be forced—”
Whack!
“To pummel you in the head!”
Whack whack whack!

Alder felt a sense of gloom and desperation fill him. There was nothing he could do to stop the old man. And he had no strength left.

Then he saw it. His last chance. The old man had driven him into the corner of the room farthest back in the house. It had a broken window through which blew a cold wind.

The window! If he could just get to—

With his last shred of energy, Alder parried the old man's cane, and dove through the window. There was a rush of air and a brief feeling of freedom before…

Splat!

Alder sat up. Yuck! He had landed in a large, smelly pile of something.

A bunch of muddy pigs stared at him with angry pink eyes.

Oh, god! He knew what he'd fallen into now. He tried to stand up, slipped, fell again. The smell was awful. And the sticky feeling against his skin. Horrible!

For a moment he just lay there, eyes closed, imagining all the jokes and laughter and jeering that would follow if he showed up at the academy covered in pig poop. There would be ten times as much ridicule as usual. But
if he went home to clean up, Master Horto would punish him for being late.

Finally he opened his eyes.

Only to find a man staring down at him. Wencil.

The old man had his hand out, palm up. “Five pieces of silver, please,” Wencil said.

Alder sat up. “Huh?”

“Are you deaf, boy? Give me five pieces of silver!” The old man still had his hand out.

“For
what
?” Five pieces of silver was a lot of money. Alder had no idea what the old man was getting at. He was obviously completely insane.

“For your first lesson.”

“My what?”

“Your first lesson.”

Alder stared at him. Finally he pointed at the building. “In there? That was…a
lesson
?”

“Young man, I am an instructor in the arts of fencing, pikesmanship, spear throwing, strategy, tactics, the equestrian arts, archery, grappling, rope climbing, etc. etc. etc. Didn't you read the sign on the door?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then what in the name of creation do you think I was doing in there? Playing patty-cake? Five pieces of silver, please.”

“But…I'm sorry, sir, I don't have any money.”

“Then go to your parents and get some!”

“I'm afraid I don't have any parents. I'm an orphan.”

“An
orphan
?” the old man said sharply. Alder noticed that his eyes were an intense green. “No money at all?”

“None, sir.”

“Oh,” Wencil said. “In that case your instruction will be complimentary. I'll see you tomorrow at nine sharp. Don't be late.”

“But…sir, I'm a student at the Academy.”

“Not anymore, boy. That charlatan Horto has obviously taught you nothing. You fight like a three-year-old girl. Nine o'clock sharp.”

Alder blinked. He had never heard anyone speak that way about Master Horto before. “But—”

The old man wrinkled his nose. “And for goodness sake, clean your clothes. I can't have my students wandering around the castle smelling like pig dung!”

With that, the old man whirled around and disappeared.

T
he next day at nine o'clock, Alder appeared at the door of Wencil's house. Wencil was standing next to the door, tapping his fingers impatiently. “Let's go,” he said.

“Where?”

“To my academy.”

“But I thought
this
was your—”

“You see, boy, that's your problem. You think too much. Close your mouth, listen, do what you're told. That is the way one becomes a warrior.”

“So…uh…should I bring my weapons?”

“You can throw them in a lake for all I care.”

The old man began marching down the street, his cane clacking smartly on the cobblestones. Alder didn't see the point of martial arts lessons if you didn't have weapons. So he carried them behind the old man. Besides, he was very proud of all his training gear. He had spent every bit of what little money he had buying the fanciest wooden training weapons available at the academy. They were custom made for him from genuine
striped pakka wood by a famous craftsman in another city. He oiled them every night so that they gleamed.

They walked down the High Street, out the north gate, and down the road. Soon they were out in the woods. Wencil was old, but he sure walked fast. Alder was feeling slightly out of breath. Suddenly the old man stopped, clapped his hands, together and turned around.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Where are we?” Alder said.

“In my academy, of course,” the old man said.

Alder looked around. They were in the middle of a stand of ancient kena trees. Beneath them was a fragrant mat of kena needles. It was a beautiful spot. But he didn't see a building anywhere. “I don't see it,” Alder said.

“This is it!” The old man spread his hands.

“But…” Alder frowned.

“Let me ask you a question,” the old man said. “Do you think battles happen inside academies? Do you think that knights fight on nice clean straw mats?”

“Well. I guess not.”

“Then why should they train there?”

Alder had never thought about it that way.

The old man looked around. “Brisk out here, isn't it. Build a fire.”

“Okay.” Alder looked around. There wasn't much deadfall on the ground to burn. He was going to have to go forage. “Let me go look around for some wood.”

“Why go to all that trouble? You could just burn those.” He pointed at Alder's collection of beautiful wooden training weapons.

Alder stared. Surely Wencil was joking.

“Hurry up,” Wencil said. “Start the fire. I'm freezing.”

“But…if I burn my training gear, what will I train with?”

“The whole world is a weapon, boy.” Wencil tapped his temple with his finger. “A true knight fights with his mind.”

Alder hesitated. His beautiful weapons gleamed dully in the mottled light. The striped wood looked deep as a river. How could he
burn
them? He stalled, gathering some tinder and building a little blaze.

“They're a little long for such a small fire,” Wencil said. “Break them up first.”

Alder had been told a million times that being a Bedoowan knight was all about doing what you were told. So he broke his weapons one by one over his knee and fed them into the fire.

“Ahhhh! That feels great, huh?” Wencil said, warming his hands over the little fire.

Alder said nothing. He couldn't even speak, he was so angry and hurt. These weapons had represented everything to him. His hope. His future. His soul. His very identity. Without weapons, a Bedoowan knight—even a poor, pathetic trainee—was nothing.

When the fire had burned down to embers, the old man pulled a knife from his belt. It's handle was intricately carved from silver, and the blade showed signs of great age. “Go to the riverbank,” the old man said. “You will find small trees sticking up out of the water. They are called ‘ipo.' Do you know what an ipo tree looks like?”

Alder nodded sullenly. They were a runty little trash
tree that grew in swampy areas along the river.

“Good. Then go and cut one for me. About this long.” Wencil held his arms out about three and a half feet.

 

Fifteen minutes later Alder came sloshing back with a piece of ipo wood, his boots full of water. He had been surprised at how hard the wood was to cut.

Just to spite the old man, Alder had chosen the knobbiest, ugliest piece of ipo he could find.

Wencil took the gnarled, homely stick from him, examined it carefully. You'd have thought it was a work of art the way he squinted and pored over it, fingering each minute imperfection.

“You chose well,” he said finally, handing it back to Alder. “Now break it over your knee and throw it in the fire.”

Alder wanted to punch the old man in the face. It had been a huge pain in the neck cutting the wood. And now he wanted him to break it? If he'd wanted firewood, he should have just said so. There were plenty of dead kena branches on the ground between here and the riverbank.

Alder tried to break the wood over his knee. It bent. But it wouldn't break. Alder grunted and strained, turning red in the face and muttering angrily under his breath.

“Come on, are you that weak?” Wencil said. He sat down on the ground and crossed his feet. “Harder!”

Alder wrestled with the wood. He felt embarrassed and foolish.

“It won't break!” Alder shouted finally. “It can't be done.”

The old man cocked his head. “All of that firewood over there,” Wencil said. “How much did you pay for it?”

It took Alder a moment to realize what he meant by “firewood.” The silly old man was talking about Alder's training weapons, so beautifully made and so lovingly maintained. “Close to a hundred pieces of silver,” Alder said through gritted teeth.

“And yet you broke them all without any great strain.”

Alder flushed. Now he saw what the old man was getting at. This junky, gnarled piece of ipo was stronger than all of those training weapons he'd been so proud of.

“In the old days,” Wencil said, “a Bedoowan knight cut his own piece of ipo on the first day of training. It was expected that he would train with that same piece of ipo for eight, ten, twelve years. If, during that entire decade of training, his weapon broke, it was cause for great shame. He'd chosen unwisely.” Wencil's lip curled in disgust. “Now we pay
others
to make our weapons.”

Alder looked sheepishly at the ground.

“Being a Bedoowan knight is not about appearances, boy. Those were pretty pieces of wood. And they might have lasted a year or two. But in the long run, they wouldn't have served you. To be a Bedoowan knight is to be like this.” He held up the gnarled stick. “A Bedoowan knight serves…not the king, not your commander, certainly not your own ego. A Bedoowan knight serves the realm. He serves the good of
all
the people in the realm—Bedoowans, Novans, even the despised Milago who toil under the earth to bring out glaze.”

Alder frowned. “But at the academy they say, ‘Novans bow, Milagos serve, Bedoowans rule.'”

“To be a Bedoowan is to be responsible. At all times. Not just for yourself, but for those whom you protect. To wear this”—he pulled back his cloak, revealing the hilt of his sword—“to wear
this
is to bear a great responsibility. You hold the power of life and death in your hand. It's not for the faint of heart.”

“I try hard to do what I'm told.”

“Of course. A Bedoowan must do as he's told.” The old man smiled craftily. “Except when he doesn't.”

“But…how do you know when not to do what you're told?”

The old man patted one wrinkled old hand over his heart. “You always
know
,” he said. “The question is whether you take responsibility for what is right. Or whether you don't.”