He often left on business, but when he returned, he took the time to teach her. And Halfdan was far more important to the Ghosts than she had understood. At first she thought he had only been a circlemaster, commanding a circle of nightfighters and nightkeepers like Riogan and Komnene. But many couriers and messengers arrived with letters for him, and he was the unquestioned commander of everyone at the Vineyard. Caina realized that Halfdan was one of the high circlemasters, one who commanded the lesser circlemasters.
He was one of the most knowledgeable and dangerous men in the Empire of Nighmar, a man who knew every trick that had ever been used.
And he taught those tricks to her.
“You have to understand,” said Halfdan, “that people see what they expect to see. The best place to hide anything is in plain sight. That coin of Emperor Cormarus your father sent to us? Most men would look at the coin and see nothing but a coin, spend it on wine or a whore. But to eyes that know where to look, there was a message.”
“Hiding in plain sight,” said Caina.
“Precisely,” said Halfdan.
He taught her pick locks. The Vineyard had a small workshop where the guards’ armor and crossbows were repaired. Caina sat at one of the workbenches, working with picks as Halfdan showed her how to open a lock. He also taught her to disarm mechanical traps. Powerful nobles and wealthy nobles liked to build traps into their locks, preparing poisoned needles or even toxic gases for would-be intruders. The needles in the practice traps stabbed into Caina’s fingers again and again until she mastered the trick of disarming them.
She did not complain.
“Pain teaches best,” said Halfdan. “But…you know that already, don’t you?”
Caina nodded, and kept practicing.
The trap released without stabbing her fingers.
“Motivation,” Halfdan told her some days later. “That is the key.”
“The key to what?” said Caina.
“To understanding your enemies,” said Halfdan. “Many nobles betray the Emperor. Why do they betray him?”
Caina shrugged. “Why does anyone betray anyone? Wealth and power and ambition.”
“Yes,” said Halfdan, “but what kind of power? Where does the wealth come from, what does the ambition desire? The nobles want different things. Some are loyal to the Emperor. Some want to see the Magisterium returned to power, see slavery restored in the Empire. Others want to see the Legions in command of the Empire. And some want nothing more than to be left alone with their families.”
“But not very many, I suppose,” said Caina.
Halfdan laughed. “Not really. So. Why is important to know what your enemies want?”
Caina thought about it. “Because then you can use it against them.”
“Exactly,” said Halfdan. “Your enemies will have weak spots, levers that you can use against them. Weaknesses you can exploit. Akragas told you this, I suppose?”
“That I should never try to fight fair,” said Caina. “He said most men are stronger than I will ever be, so when I fight, I must strike first, and strike hard.”
“Very good,” said Halfdan. “That is the nature of the Ghosts. We are spies, not soldiers or sorcerers. We cannot face our enemies in a contest of strength. We would quickly lose. Our minds must be our weapons, our cunning our armor. We must understand our enemies, for that is our only hope of defeating them.”
Caina thought about that.
“What about,” she said, “what about Maglarion? What does he want?”
“I don’t know. No one in the Ghosts knows,” said Halfdan. He sighed. “Which is why the Ghosts have not been able to defeat him, not in three hundred years.”
Halfdan also taught her to move silently, to walk without making a sound. There was a room in the Vineyard’s cellars where the slightest noise produced dozens of reverberating echoes, and he took her there to practice. At first she could not take a single step, even barefoot, without setting off the echoes.
“Your footsteps are wrong,” said Halfdan, walking in a circle around her, his boots making no noise against the floor. “Look at my feet. Toe first, then heel. The weight upon the outside of my feet, not the heel. Yes. Yes, that’s it. Again now. Turn your ankle a bit to the left. Yes. Now. Again.”
He kept her practicing. It would have been difficult, once upon a time. But open-handed practice with Akragas and weapons practice with Sandros had made her stronger, tougher, and Halfdan’s exercises came easier and easier. Soon she could move in perfect silence around the echoing cellar, even while wearing boots.
“A good start,” said Halfdan. “But moving silently while alone in a room isn’t very useful, is it? You’ll need to practice on someone else.”
So he set her to creeping up behind various people around the Vineyard. If she could walk upon behind a man and tap him on the shoulder, without being detected, she passed the test. At first she failed, over and over again. The Vineyard’s residents kept close watch over their surroundings, and Caina suspected Halfdan often used them to train new Ghosts.
But bit by bit, she learned. She learned when to move, and when to remain motionless. When to take cover, and when to stay in the open. She learned to gauge shadows, to watch where they pooled in the walls and the corners, and how to conceal herself within their folds.
When at last she sidled up behind a guard and slapped him on the back, and the man jumped with a startled yell, Caina felt so proud that she could burst.
###
Evenings, she spent doing chores. The Vineyard was, after all, a vineyard, and Caina helped tend grapes or roll barrels along the terraces.
After dinner, her time was her own, and she spent it in the Vineyard’s library.
For the Vineyard had a huge library, easily six times larger than the one once housed in Sebastian Amalas’s study. Caina had seen many of the titles on her father’s shelves, but she read them again anyway. But most of the books she had never seen before, and she started to devour her way through the library, making her way through book after book.
And at night, she returned to her tiny room, and had nightmares.
She would probably have nightmares for the rest of her life, Halfdan had told her.
“Nightmares,” he said, “are scars of the mind. Your body can recover from a wound, but it will bear a scar for the rest of your life. The mind is much the same way. It can recover from an injury…but it will retain a scar. And you will carry that scar for the rest of your days. Whether you let it destroy you…that is up to you.”
But as the months passed, as summer became winter and then spring again, Caina grew used to the nightmares. Sometimes she woke up, heart pounding, hands trembling, sweat pouring down her brow, tears streaming from her eyes. She saw again Maglarion cutting her father’s throat, felt again the cold metal table against her back and legs.
But sometimes she slept the night. Her lessons and training often left her exhausted, and on those days she sank into a black and dreamless sleep. Or, at least, if she did dream, she did not remember it.
“Work is the best medicine for grief,” Halfdan told her once.
So Caina worked hard.
###
One night Halfdan walked to Komnene’s infirmary. He had frequent headaches, and Komnene prepared a bitter tea that helped him sleep.
Komnene was awake when he arrived, mixing the herbs by candlelight.
“Ah,” said Halfdan. “You received my message, I see.”
Komnene laughed. “Yes. Do you know where Caina left it this time? Upon my pillow. While I was sleeping, no less! I locked the door, I am sure of it. So your student picked my lock, crept across my room without disturbing me, slipped the note under my pillow, and left - all without waking me!”
“Caina,” said Halfdan, “is a fast learner.”
“So I see,” said Komnene. She handed Halfdan a cup of steaming tea, and poured one for herself. “Have a seat.”
Halfdan sat, took a drink, smiled behind the cup.
“The things you are teaching Caina…” said Komnene.
“You think they won’t be useful?” said Halfdan.
Komnene shook her head. “I think she will find them most useful.”
“So you think that the things I am teaching her are useful,” said Halfdan, “but you don’t think I should be teaching them to her.”
“No,” said Komnene. She sighed, looked into her cup. “You are turning her into a weapon, Halfdan.”
“I know,” said Halfdan.
“She will never have a chance at…at a quiet life, at happiness,” said Komnene.
“We make our own happiness,” said Halfdan. “And she will never have a peaceful life, not after what happened to her. You examined her yourself, Komnene. She will probably never bear a child.”
“I know,” said Komnene. “She could have been a priestess, though. A scholar, a physician.”
“You have peace in your profession,” said Halfdan. “Do you think Caina could have peace as a physician?”
Komnene sighed again. “No.”
They sat in silence for a moment, drinking the tea.
“She will have to do terrible things,” said Komnene.
“She’s already done terrible things,” said Halfdan. “She killed her mother, after all.”
“That was an accident,” said Komnene.
“Nevertheless,” said Halfdan. “Laeria Amalas is dead. And she deserved to die. She sold Caina to Maglarion. She destroyed the minds of every man, woman, and child in Count Sebastian’s villa.”
Komnene said nothing.
“And consider how much evil would have been averted,” said Halfdan, “if Caina had killed Laeria before she contacted Maglarion. Her father would yet be alive. His servants would yet be alive. Those smugglers in Koros would still be alive.”
Komnene closed her eyes.
“Caina will become a Ghost nightfighter,” said Halfdan. “She will have to do terrible things. The Ghosts do terrible things, I know. But sometimes it is necessary. Sometimes we must do terrible things, to keep even worse things from happening. Killing her mother was a dreadful thing. But if Laeria Amalas had died a month earlier…think how much evil might have been averted.”
Komnene kept her eyes closed…but nodded at last.
###
Caina kept training, kept working.
And one day she looked up and realized that she had spent over a year at the Vineyard.
Chapter 11 - You’re Turning Her Into A Weapon
The day after her thirteenth birthday, Caina stood on the Vineyard’s highest terrace, watching Akragas. The old man seemed relaxed, his stance loose, his eyes wandering.
Caina knew better.
She waited, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, breathing slow and steady. She heard the roar of the waterfall, the buzz of insects and the chirp of birds, felt the cool wind against her face.
But her whole attention was on Akragas, on his arms and legs.
On his hands.
On the hand blurring for her face…
Caina moved.
Her right hand shot up, catching Akragas by the wrist. She thrust his arm over her head and spun, intending to force his arm behind his back. But Akragas spun with the movement, his free hand coming for Caina’s head. She released his arm, ducked, and swept her leg, intending to knock the old man from his feet.
Akragas jumped back, the tips of Caina’s toes brushing his knees. She spun back to her feet and came at Akragas, refusing to surrender the momentum, palm swinging for his face. Akragas slapped aside her blow, and then the next one, and the next one, and then his foot drove for her leg. Caina hopped aside and kicked at Akragas’s extended leg, hoping to knock him off balance. But Akragas anticipated the blow and swiveled, regaining his feet, and his hand shot towards Caina’s face. Her block knocked his arm aside, and she tried to counterstrike with her free hand. But Akragas saw the strike coming and blocked it, though just barely.
Then he came at her, launching a barrage of punches and short sharp kicks. Caina ducked and dodged and blocked, her breath coming harder, her heart pounding. Every ounce of her concentration went into blocking Akragas’s attacks, and she could spare no effort for a counterattack.
Then one of Akragas’s kicks got through, and Caina landed on her back.
Akragas sighed, wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Better,” he said. “But still not good enough.” He grunted, wiped more sweat from his face. “Though I will have time for only one course at breakfast.”
He walked away, still breathing hard.
###
Later Caina stood in the courtyard garden, a slender steel throwing knife in hand. Sandros stood behind her, arms crossed over his chest.
“Again!” he said. “With your entire arm - it must snap like a bowstring. And roll your wrist - all in one motion! The knife must spin when you throw it. Otherwise it shall flop to the ground like a dead fish, and it is very hard to kill a man with a dead fish, yes?”
Caina took a deep breath and stepped forward, her right arm and shoulder thrown back, the flat of the blade grasped in her fingers. Then her arm shot forward, her entire body going into the motion, her wrist rolling as she released the knife.
The knife spun end over end, burying itself in the shoulder of a straw dummy against the courtyard wall.
“Better!” Sandros said. “But again! The throat, put the knife in the poor fool’s throat!”
Caina drew another knife from her sash and flung it.
This time the blade embedded itself in the dummy’s groin.
“Well,” said Sandros, “you certainly won’t have to worry about that fellow fighting back.”
“I was aiming for his throat,” said Caina.
“Though he will probably spend a great deal of time screaming,” said Sandros. “Which, if you were trying to kill him quickly, would rather defeat the point, would it not?”
###
Later they sparred with practice daggers.
A practice match might drag on for minutes, Sandros explained, but real fights ended in a matter of seconds, of heartbeats. A solid dagger or knife blow to the throat, the heart, or the eye, and a man would die in seconds. Or at least be too incapacitated to fight.
“You are a woman,” said Sandros, “or you will be, anyway. So you will be weaker than all but a few men. Almost certainly you will be faster than most, and more skilled than many, thanks to our excellent training. But they will almost always be stronger than you. Fighting hand-to-hand is a mistake.”
“Fighting fairly is always a mistake,” said Caina, thinking of her father.
Sandros chuckled. “Indeed! Now you are thinking like a Ghost. Your enemies may be stronger than you, but a knife…if you know how to use it, that will negate their strength. Even the strongest man cannot fight when the veins in his throat have been cut. You must strike first…”
“And quickly,” said Caina, finishing the proverb Sandros and Akragas and Halfdan had told her over and over again.
“Yes,” said Sandros, “you must…”
She jabbed him in the chest, between the ribs.
Sandros flinched, hissing in pain. Then he laughed. “Yes. You are learning.”
###
A few days later Caina awoke with twisting cramps in her stomach. She felt lightheaded, and a little nauseous. At first she thought to push aside the sensations, to go for her run and training with Akragas, but she did not feel up to it.
Instead, she went to Komnene’s infirmary.
“This just began today?” said Komnene.
Caina nodded. “I didn’t feel quite right before I went to bed. I thought I just pushed myself too hard.”
“Before you went to bed, how did you feel?” said Komnene, frowning.
“A little feverish, I guess,” said Caina. “I just felt…off.”
Komnene nodded, began to mix up one of her teas.
“Did I accidentally poison myself?”
Komnene laughed. “Not at all. You’re experiencing your first menstrual cycle, that’s all.”
Caina blinked. “Oh.”
“I’m surprised that it took so long,” said Komnene. She was speaking carefully, slowly, as she did when worried. “Though given your…injuries, I suppose it was to be expected.” She put the tea into a cloth bag, dropped it into a clay cup. “I suppose your mother didn’t warn you what to expect?”
“No,” said Caina. “We never talked about anything, except how much she hated me.” She shrugged. “But my father had books about medicine in his library. So I know what should happen.” She thought for a moment. “Isn’t there supposed to be blood?”
Komnene closed her eyes. “There’s no bleeding?”
“None,” said Caina.
“What Maglarion did to you,” began Komnene, “the things he did…”
“He cut me open and drained out my blood for his spells,” said Caina. “I know what happened. I was there.” It came out harder than she intended.
“He cut too deeply,” said Komnene. “You said he would…heal you, somehow, after he finished, but I don’t think he was actually healing anything. He was just patching you up enough to stay alive. I think he cut deeply enough to destroy your womb, Caina. The blood…if a woman of childbearing years is not pregnant, her womb will purge itself every month, that’s where the blood comes from. You probably don’t have much of a womb left, not after what Maglarion did to you. So you’ll never…”
“Never have a child, I know,” said Caina. “You already told me that.”
“But we wouldn’t know for sure until you had your first cycle,” said Komnene.
“And you told me that too,” said Caina, getting to her feet. “I already knew that. I…”
She blinked, and was surprised to see that she was crying.
Komnene guided her back to the chair, helped her to sit.
“I just…” Caina rubbed at her eyes, furious at herself. She had known she would never have children. But it had hit her harder than she had thought. “I just…thought that my father would find a suitable husband for me, and I would have children. That I would be a better mother…a better mother than my mother ever was.” She scowled at the floor. “But she took that from me too, didn’t she?”
“She did,” said Komnene.
“That’s why…that’s why I’m becoming a nightfighter, isn’t it?” said Caina. “Not many women become nightfighters. It’s because I can’t have children.”
“I’m sorry,” said Komnene.
Caina scrubbed the tears from her eyes and gave a sharp nod. “Then so be it. I’ll become a nightfighter. And if I find someone like my mother, or like Maglarion, I’ll make sure they never hurt anyone else ever again.”
“Into a weapon,” said Komnene, her voice low.
“What?” said Caina, blinking the last of the tears from her eyes.
“Nothing,” said Komnene. She rose, took the kettle from the fire, and poured tea into the clay cup. “Here. Drink this. It will help with the cramps.”
Caina took the cup, drank. The tea, as usual, did not taste very good, but it spread a gentle warmth through her. “Did you ever have children?”
“No,” said Komnene. “Nor did I ever want them, I’m afraid. My father was a bookbinder in Caer Rhyfel, with seven daughters and no sons. I was the youngest, and I saw my sisters get married off one by one to advance my father’s business. They all seemed miserable, and I didn’t want to end up like them. I preferred to spend my time reading the books in my father’s workshop. So when the chance came, I ran away, and joined the Temple of Minaerys in Malarae. I never regretted it.”
“Never?” said Caina. “Not even a little?”
“No,” said Komnene. “The things I regret came later. After I left the Temple.”
“I always wanted a family of my own,” said Caina. “It was just my father and me, against my mother. I thought it would be different, someday, when I could have children of my own. That I would be better to them than she was to me.”
“You would have been,” said Komnene.
“Thank you,” said Caina. She shook her head. “Not that it would have been very hard.”
“Perhaps you’ll find your family elsewhere,” said Komnene. “In other things.”
After a day or two, Caina felt much better, and went on with her training.
###
A week later, Akragas sent her to the gate.
Riogan was waiting for her.
Caina had not seen him for a year and a half, not since he had left the Vineyard on some task for Halfdan. He looked much as Caina remembered, the same lean build, the same close-cropped blond hair, the same cold eyes and cold voice.
And still he held her in contempt.
“Child,” said Riogan. “You’ve changed.”
“People do that,” said Caina.
“You’re taller and you’ve started growing teats,” said Riogan. He laughed. “No doubt Halfdan will soon have you made up like a whore, ready to lure men into bed so you can steal their secrets.”
“He’s been teaching me to fight,” said Caina.
“He’s been teaching you to kill,” said Riogan. “The purpose of fighting is to kill. The purpose of the knife is to kill.” For a moment he almost sounded as if he were reciting some long-remembered lesson. “And death isn’t pretty, child. All those books you’ve read, all those stories about wars and swordfights? Did they tell you how the blood will spray across your fingers when you cut a man’s throat, how the very air will smell like hot copper? Or if you crush a man’s head, his brains will look like oatmeal mixed with blood? Of if you stab a man in the belly, and pierce his entrails, you can smell his own filth, and leave him to wallow in it?”
“I’ve seen people die,” said Caina.
She remembered the sound her mother’s head had made as it bounced off the edge of Sebastian Amalas’s desk, remembered the dark blood pooling on the floor.
“So you have,” said Riogan. “But seeing people die is not the same as killing them yourself. Come. Let us see if you are hard enough.”
Caina followed Riogan, apprehensive. For a moment she wondered if he had brought prisoners back to the Vineyard, prisoners that he wanted her to kill in cold blood. They passed through the Vineyard’s fortified gate, walking below the walls.
A herd of goats waited below one of the stone watchtowers, staked and leashed in place. A wooden shed stood nearby, and Riogan led Caina inside. Within one of the goats hung from a crossbeam, still alive, its legs tied together.
“Blood,” said Riogan. “That necromancer friend of yours was right. It all comes down to blood in the end.”
Caina scowled. “Maglarion’s not my friend.”
“Regardless,” said Riogan, picking up a heavy knife. “He was right. Halfdan’s been teaching you to kill…and we’ll see if you have the stomach for it.”
He reached up, grabbed the goat’s head, and cut its throat. The animal thrashed against its bonds, the blood draining into a trough running along the floor, and soon died. He cut it down, dumped its corpse in the corner, and retrieved another one from outside. The goat started to panic as soon as it smelled the blood, but the cords held fast, and Riogan hung it from the crossbeam.
“Now,” he said, “let’s see if you have the stomach for it.”
He held the bloody knife out to her, handle first.
Caina took it, staring at the stained blade, and started to laugh.
Riogan blinked.
“Really?” said Caina. “I know that you’re trying to scare me, but…seriously? A goat? You’re trying to scare me with a goat?”
She reached up, grasped the goat’s head, and dragged the knife across its throat. She wasn’t as strong as Riogan, and she had to saw the knife back and forth to cut everything. But Sandros had taught her well, and she did not flinch as she felt the blood spatter against her fingers, as the crimson spray splashed into the trough.
Riogan stared at her, expressionless.
Caina laughed. “What, did you expect me to start crying, or to run out screaming because of a little blood? I told you, I’ve seen people die. What are a few goats next to that?” She gestured with the knife. “Do you want to do the rest of them, or should I?”
They had goat meat for dinner that night.
###
A few weeks later Halfdan summoned Caina to the Vineyard’s villa.
He awaited her in the library.
A magus in a black robe stood besides him, a red sash around his waist.
Caina hissed in sudden alarm, reaching for the dagger she now carried everywhere.
Halfdan’s hand closed about her wrist. “Calm yourself.”
“An interesting reception,” said the magus, speaking High Nighmarian with a precise accent. He was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks and a jaw shaded with a close-cropped black beard. “Fiery little thing, isn’t she? I do believe she would have plunged that dagger into my chest, if you weren’t here to stop her.”