Authors: Deborah Chester
“Aye,
of course I believe you,” Old Farns said slowly, puzzling through it. “Belike
he’ll change his mind. He’s not so harsh all the time.”
The
corner of Caelan’s mouth was still sore from where Beva had struck him. “He
means it, all right,” Caelan said. “And he won’t change his mind. Not about
this. He’s determined to make a healer of me, no matter what. I can’t make him
understand it isn’t what I want.”
“Reckon
fathers don’t much care what their sons want,” Old Farns said. “For all of time
it’s been the father’s decision to set the son’s course of life.”
“I
don’t care,” Caelan said stubbornly. “I want something different, and I’m going
to have it.”
“Stubborn
alike, you are, both of you,” Old Farns said. “You’ve clashed like bull elk in
the forest since the first. It be worse without your sainted mother to step in.”
“It’s
never going to get better. Farns, please. I have to go. As long as I’m
underage, he can make me do anything he wants. And I can’t go through a
purification. I won’t!” Caelan sighed. “I have to strike out on my own now, while
I still have a chance.”
Farns
gripped his shoulder. “The world’s no place for a young boy not grown and set.
There be wars about and hard times. It’s winter and there’s no food aside from
what honest folk have put by in storage. You can’t be going now.”
“I
have to. Don’t you see? If I hang around, he’s only going to force me—”
“Hush,”
Farns said in warning and glanced over his shoulder.
Anya
came down the passage toward them. “What are
the two of you whispering
about out here?” she asked. “Caelan, your bathwater is heated and waiting for
you. Better jump in it before it gets cold again.”
“Yes,
all right. Thank you,” Caelan said. He shot Farns a pleading look. “Just leave
the key under my door,” he whispered. “No one has to know.”
But
Farns shook his head. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but, no. It ain’t right. You
got to think this through. There’s no rush.”
But
Caelan knew he had little time. Farns’s idea of thinking things through was to
sit through the entire winter until thaw. By then it would be too late.
He
gripped Farns’s wrist. “Please. For me?”
Troubled,
Farns met his eyes for a moment, then looked down. “I got to do what’s best,”
he said with apology in his voice. “This ain’t right. You go and get your bath
now. In the morning, things will look better.”
Disappointed,
Caelan trudged away, passing Anya’s curious look without a word. In the
morning, he would have less time than ever. His father wasn’t going to relent.
As soon as Beva caught up on his work and tended the patients who had come
during his brief absence, he would begin his meditation in preparation for the
purification. Caelan figured he had three days, more or less, of grace before
he was
severed
into a compliant creature,
shuffling along to do Beva’s bidding like a simpleton.
The
idea of it made Caelan shudder. He couldn’t endure that. Just because he had a
gift didn’t mean Beva could dictate how he used it. Caelan didn’t care what
tradition said about fathers having the right to say what their sons would or
would not be. He wasn’t going to bow to this. He couldn’t.
A
nameless hope in the back of his mind sustained him during his bath. When he
was warm and clean and dry, he put the cover on the copper bathtub and hastened
along to his room in his houserobe.
No
key lay under his door.
His
hope died. Old Farns’s soft heart was usually persuadable. But not, apparently,
this time. Not even to save him from purification.
Caelan
struggled to put away hard feelings toward Old Farns. The man couldn’t help if
it he had to serve his master first. It was Beva who paid and housed him, Beva
to whom he owed his allegiance.
That
meant everything was up to Caelan himself. Without further hesitation, he took
off his houserobe and got dressed again.
He
waited until the house grew quiet and settled for the night. Crouched by the
door, with the lamp turned out so his light wouldn’t shine beneath his door,
Caelan heard his father’s footsteps go down the passage, and a few minutes
later return. His father always checked all the windows and doors last thing at
night to make sure they were all secure. When Beva’s door was shut, Caelan
forced down his impatience and made himself wait another hour in the dark.
He
yawned and grew sleepy, but angrily forced himself to stay awake. If he let
fatigue rob him of this opportunity, he would be nothing more than a fool.
He
knew his father meditated before sleep. Caelan wanted to take no risk of
getting caught. So he rubbed his face and made his plans and fought his own
weariness.
At
last it was time. He drew on his cloak and eased from his room, taking care not
to let his door hinges creak.
On
silent feet he went down the dark passage like a ghost. In the kitchen he gazed
around through the shadows until his eyes adjusted to the dim glow from the
embers on the hearth. Everything was tidied and in its place. Old Farns kept
his wood carving tools in a pinewood box beneath the wall bench.
Caelan
opened the lid and took a mallet and two stout chisels. These he tucked in his
pockets.
It
was quickest to go down the passage leading past the servants’ quarters and
exit through the door at the rear of the house. But that meant taking a risk of
being heard.
Instead,
Caelan made his way to the front of the house, walking stealthily through the
cold receiving room where guests were greeted. The room had an austere,
forbidding aspect to it. It had never been a welcoming room, not even when his
mother was alive to place fresh flowers on the table.
Double
sets of doors on either side of a tiny vestibule led outside. The inner doors
served as insulators during the cold months. Caelan grasped the bolt and tried
to slide it back as slowly and as quietly as possible.
The
doors rattled softly from a gust of wind outdoors. He could feel a cold draft
of air leaking in around them. It would be easier to go back to his warm bed,
but he wasn’t going to let a bitter, snowy night stop him.
A
movement whispering against his ankles made his heart shoot into his throat.
Gasping, he turned and saw the green eyes of the cat glowing up at him in
silent inquiry.
“You,”
he whispered, sagging in relief.
Purring,
the cat butted its head against his leg and rubbed. Then it stared at the door.
“Go
away,” he said. “You can’t go outside. You’ll give me away.”
The
cat didn’t budge. When he eased open the inner door, the cat shot over his leg
before he could hold it back. Cursing under his breath, Caelan groped around
the dimly illuminated vestibule, bumping his head into the collection of cloaks
hanging on pegs, and finally grasped the cat’s soft middle.
He
scooped it up, although it twisted furiously, and thrust it back into the
receiving room. It shot back into the vestibule before he could shut the door
and let out an angry meow.
“Ssh!”
Its
tail lashed back and forth angrily, and it planted itself at the outer doors.
Caelan
sighed. He was going to lose this contest of wills. Besides, there were worse
things to deal with than a cat on the prowl. He stared up at the warding key
hanging on the outer doors. It was glowing and active.
Outside,
the wind howled and shrieked against the corners of the house. Caelan shivered.
Pulling
one of the chisels from his pocket, he reached up to pry the warding key off
the door.
It
was hot enough to nearly scorch him even without touching it.
Gritting
his teeth, he touched it with the chisel. A horrible smell filled the air, and
the chisel flew from his hand. It hit the wall and fell with a clatter on the
floor.
Caelan
froze a moment, listening, but no one stirred or raised an inquiry. He bent to
pick up the chisel and saw that the thick steel blade had been melted and
twisted into a new shape. It was completely ruined.
Caelan’s
heart sank. How was he going to explain to Farns?
He
wasn’t. The chisel would be dropped down the well, never to be found. No
explanation. No lies. Nothing at all.
The
warding key had to be removed or he couldn’t get outside. If he waited for
daylight, he would be seen and his father would hear about it.
It
was like being imprisoned. Caelan was tired of the fear every night that kept
people locked indoors. He would just have to remove this key the same way he’d
done it at Rieschelhold.
But
trying to enter
severance
when he wasn’t desperate and wasn’t angry did not
seem to work. He concentrated without much luck and couldn’t find a focus
point.
Sighing,
he leaned against the wall with the cat rubbing
figure eights between his
ankles and tried to pull himself together.
It
had to be done. That was all.
Grimacing,
he shut his eyes and focused on the warding key, channeling all his thoughts,
fears, and frustrations toward it. He threw everything at it, hating it,
wanting to drown it in all that he faced. If he could just find a cente
r...
he made the warding key his
center until everything began to twist and rush through him in the altered
state of
severance.
When
he felt the coldness sear through him, he opened his eyes and reached for the
key.
When
he gripped it, the key went dark and ceased to glow. There was no heat this
time to burn his hand, yet Caelan released it almost immediately. It dropped
onto a pile of cloaks he’d thrown on the floor for the purpose, and the cloth
did not burn. Caelan knelt over it and picked up the triangular piece of metal
gingerly.
His
caution was unnecessary. The key lay quiet and cold on his palm, its spell
gone.
Hoping
he had not ruined it, Caelan tucked it in his pocket for safekeeping, then
unbolted the doors. The cat scooted outside, and then he himself stood in the
snow-lashed darkness, buffeted by a wind that howled and billowed through his
clothes.
Dismayed,
he gripped his cloak around him and instantly felt frozen through. He couldn’t
linger out in these conditions long. Squinting against the snow pelting his
face, he ran around the house and across the courtyard, floundering at times in
the drifts, hoping he didn’t lose his sense of direction.
The
arms room was really the second larder, a small stone chamber built partially
in the ground. It was usually crammed with barrels of salted meat, ice packed
in straw for
summer use, baskets of earthy potatoes, plaits of onions hanging from the
rafters. On one wall hung rows of rusty swords, a rack of javelins, and a few
longbows with broken strings and rotting quivers of arrows. The whole lot was
spun over with cobwebs and dust, neglected and falling to pieces. Every time he
was allowed inside, he begged Old Farns to let him polish the weapons and
replace the rotted leather. But Farns always refused.
Now,
however, he flung himself under the narrow overhang and tugged at the lock. It
didn’t budge. With the wind howling at his back, he pulled out the remaining
chisel and mallet and pried up the door’s hinge pins.
Pulling
open the door, he ducked inside and paused a moment to get his bearings. The
air smelled of onions, very dank and not exactly pleasant.
From
his pocket he drew out a tinderstrike and lit the lantern hanging on a peg by
the door. The light spread out around him, driving back the shadows.
The
room was empty.
Caelan’s
mouth fell open, and he stared in shock, lifting the lantern higher as though
that would change the sight of a bare room swept clean from rafters to floor.
Barrels and baskets were gone. The pegs that had once held the old weapons
jutted forth in empty rows.
“Why?”
he whispered, feeling slightly sick. “Oh, Father,
why?”
Where
had everything gone? Why had it been cleaned out?