Chapter Seven

Supper was eaten in silence, he and his father spooning Anya’s rich stew hungrily by the ruddy light of the kitchen fire. The kitchen served as the common room. Central to the whole house, its large hearth never went cold, and there was plenty of space beyond the long trestle table of worn, well-scrubbed pine for the other members of the household to gather.

Surva, Anya’s elderly mother, worked her loom in one corner. The rhythmic clack of the shuttle was a lulling sound in the general quiet. Old Farns carved wood, the shavings curling over his big, gnarled hands. Gunder frowned over lists, grinding herbs to refill the medical supplies. Raul, the groom, had dragged in a saddle to oil it, and the aromatic scent of the leather mingled with the smell of stew and hot bread. Anya hovered with her big wooden spoon, ready to ladle out additional helpings of food, while the young scullion Tisa scrubbed copper pots with river sand and made them shine.

On the surface it looked like a content domestic scene, but although Caelan was dying to ask dozens of questions and catch up on all that had happened at the hold during his absence, he dared not break the silence. Beva did not permit chatter at mealtimes, saying it impeded digestion.

When at last Beva pushed his bowl away and shook his head at Anya’s apple pie and browly cakes, Gunder was ready to show him the herbal lists for his approval.

Caelan went on eating although it was rude to continue when his father had left the table.

“Good,” Anya whispered, slipping him a third piece of pie. “You’re too thin. You eat all you want.”

He grinned at her and munched away. Beva frowned at him, but Caelan pretended not to notice.

Finally Beva went out. Everyone seemed to relax. Caelan shoved his plate away with a feeling of satisfaction and joined Farns.

With a smile, the old watchman went on with his carving. “It is good to have all our family home and safe,” he said.

Caelan longed to pour all his troubles into the old man’s sympathetic ears, but he couldn’t here in front of everyone. “I need to talk to you,” he said softly.

Old Farns nodded wisely. “Talk. There is time while the master and Gunder are making rounds in the infirmary.”

“Not here. Alone.”

Farns sighed. “Very well.”

Putting down his carving knife and the piece of wood, he got up stiffly off his stool and stretched his low back. He and Caelan left the kitchen, with the curious eyes of the others following.

As soon as they were in the passage, safely out of earshot, Caelan gripped Farns’s sleeve. “The arms room,” he said urgently. “I need the key to it.”

Old Farns frowned and shook his head. “Now, it’s too late at night for you to start that nonsense, young master.”

“I must have the key,” Caelan insisted.

“No use for it. No Thyzarenes’ll be coming at night for to scorch us in our beds.”

“Please.”

The old man’s gaze was steady.

Caelan sighed. “This is important. I need—”

Farns raised his calloused hand. “No need for any weapons tonight, now, is there, young master?”

“But—”

“Rules are rules. I can’t give you the key. Not now.”

Frustration built inside Caelan. “I want my bow and arrow and another dagger. You said you’d keep my things safe. I—”

“Aye,” Old Farns said, glancing away. He frowned. “Not tonight.”

“But I need them. Once I tell you what happened—”

“It’s too late tonight, boy. I’m sorry, but I have to enforce the master’s rules especially when he’s home. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“So I can’t take you to the arms room now. It’s too dark to be abroad besides.”

“I’m not asking you to take me,” Caelan said impatiently. “Just give me the key. Father doesn’t have to know.”

Old Farns cocked one eyebrow. “Seems like you’ve been in more than enough trouble lately, young master, without going to look for more. Your father doesn’t want you messing about there anyway.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Caelan said in exasperation. “He never has, but I need my belongings. I took my dagger to school but I didn’t get a chance to bring it home with me.”

Old Farns made a tsking sound in his throat and shook his head. “There you are. Careless as usual.”

“It wasn’t like that. They expelled me.”

Farns blinked.

Having blurted out the confession, Caelan found himself miserably forced to go on. “Yes, I’ve been disrobed. I can’t go back.”

Sympathy filled the old man’s face. “That’s bad, young master. That’s an awful disgrace for the family.”

“I know, but. . . well, it’s done now. It’s done,” Caelan said with a frown. “Anyway, now Father’s upset with me. He wants to purify me.”

“Ah, no!” Farns said, then glanced around and lowered his voice. “Not for you, my boy. That’s too harsh a way to deal with the itch of adventure in your blood.”

“I’ve got to leave before he goes through with it,” Caelan said grimly. “You understand, don’t you? You do believe me?”

“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 center... 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?

Puzzled and astonished, Caelan turned around in a small circle, unable to believe it. No wonder Old Farns hadn’t wanted to give him the key.

A host of questions filled Caelan’s mind, but he didn’t have to speculate long to guess that the room had been emptied by his father’s order. Beva disapproved of weapons. He believed utterly in pacificism, as though by keeping oneself calm and detached all the world’s problems would go away. Caelan snorted to himself. Did that make his father shortsighted or simply naive?

Scorn swept through Caelan. Angrily he blew out the lantern and hung it back on its peg. He pushed his way outside into the raging elements, gasping from the cold that took his very breath, and replaced the hinge pins. For the first time in his life he considered his father a fool. Beva’s beliefs were placing everyone in the hold in jeopardy. Even if the threat of Thyzarene raiders seemed to be over, other hazards would come along in the future. To render the hold indefensible was so unwise Caelan could not believe it. Surely his father had only had the weapons moved to some other location. Surely he hadn’t thrown them out like rubbish.

Caelan’s anger grew with every step as he struggled against the wind. He floundered, found himself blown back, then bent low and forced his way forward again.

Barely able to see, he blundered straight into a bundled figure swathed in a hood and cloak. The figure gripped him by the arms, even as he flinched back.

“Boy!” shouted the figure. “Are you mad?”

Caelan squinted at the man’s face. “Farns?”

The grip on his arms tightened. “Aye, and who’s the bigger fool to be out here, me or you? Come on back, you crazy boy!”

It was impossible to ask his questions out here in this raging blizzard. Caelan jammed his shoulder against Farns’s, and together they struggled back toward the house.

The wind was brutal, shrieking and raging around them. Within its roar, Caelan thought he heard a moaning cry. Instinctive fear crawled up his arms, but he shook it off, concentrating instead on getting to shelter before he froze.

Another shriek came, and this time he could not call it his imagination. Farns stumbled to a halt, calling out something, and Caelan looked up to see a white shape taking form in the air before them.

Swirling and reforming, it became an elongated body that ended in tatters of mist and nothing. Farns held up his hands, shouting, and Caelan stood rooted, unable to move or even think.

The wind spirit formed a face, one as white as a skull, a face that would haunt Caelan’s nightmares for the rest of his life, a face fanged and narrow like a viper’s. Eyes like red coals suddenly glowed at him. It shrieked again, and his name was somehow entangled in that hideous sound.

Reaching out with long white talons, it rushed at him and engulfed him before he could run.

It was all around him, swirling and intangible. It billowed through his clothes, slid across his skin, burning him with cold. Caelan beat at himself, wild with fear, trying to drive it away.

But how could he fight the wind? The demon had him. He felt its talons rake his shoulder, and he screamed again.

“Caelan!” Old Farns shouted and clutched his arm.

The wind raged around them. Caelan toppled over and felt himself being dragged across the ground. Then he was lifted bodily on the current of wind despite Farns’s desperate attempt to hang onto him.

Fear congealed within Caelan. He realized it was taking him, carrying him off like prey.

Its screams drowned out his own.

He fought and struggled, his flailing arms hitting Farns instead of the wind spirit.

“Help me!” Caelan cried. “Farns, get help—”

At that moment a second wind spirit came boiling into the struggle, whirling like a miniature cyclone. It caught Farns and ripped him away from Caelan. The old man’s screams rose into the night, and Caelan could not see him at all within the white, twisting column.

“No!” he cried. “No! Farns!”

He struggled with all his might, yet the spirit that had him could not be touched. One of Caelan’s flailing hands struck something hard ... a post. Realizing he was near the stables and had rolled into the railing where horses were tied for grooming, Caelan gripped the post with all his might, while the spirit buffeted and clawed him.

“Caaaaeeelaaaannnnn!” the spirit screamed.

It shrieked his name at him again and again, filling his mind, driving his consciousness down, hammering at him.

Sobbing with fear, Caelan hung onto the post, but his strength was failing fast. The wind yanked at him hard enough to break his grip. Dragged bodily, he went bouncing across the cobblestones, and heard something clang beneath him.

It was the warding key, still in his pocket.

Twisting around despite the wind that clawed him, he dug into his pocket and pulled out the key.

It was still cold and lifeless. Dismay rose in him. Why didn’t it activate! Why didn’t its spell work like it was supposed to?

“Caaaaeelaaannnn!”

The wind spirit lifted him off the ground. He found himself flying, his cloak sailing away, his clothes shredding and whipping in the wind, his hair blowing back and forth as though it would be yanked out by the roots. The demon’s face reformed right in front of his, just inches away, close enough for him to inhale the frosty, lethal vapors it breathed out.

He choked, gagging on his own fear. His heart was hammering so fast he thought it would burst in his chest.

The spirit shrieked in triumph. Its eyes glowed red, and it opened its mouth wider and wider, until all Caelan could see was a whirling maelstrom. And he was being sucked straight into it.

Panic filled him. He held up the key with shaking hands and remembered that he’d severed it. Crying out to the gods for mercy, Caelan instinctively used sevaisin, the joining. He poured back all its fire and heat, all its fearsome power.

The key ignited with heat and light, an immediate response that shone across the wind spirit.

The spirit squalled and dropped Caelan.

He hit the ground with a jolting thud and dropped the key. The sound of metal hitting stone cobbles rang out loud and clear, cutting off the wind spirit’s shrieks. It drew back, shredding into mist, then vanishing in a swirl of snow.

The key was shining now, bright enough to illuminate the courtyard. It drew on Caelan, fed on him.

He could feel the tremendous charge of its power. It was like inhaling fire. He was burning up with it, dying from it as though exploding from the inside out. No mortal was meant to feel such things.

Even as he arched his back, screaming, he heard Farns’s feeble cry for help.

Consumed with heat, Caelan twisted about on the ground and saw the second wind spirit still raging several yards away. Dimly he remembered Farns, who had been captured by it.

Caelan knew he must somehow save the old man. It was his fault Farns was out here. His fault... his fault.

Groaning, Caelan reached out and picked up the key. The pain seared his hand and up his arm, shooting into his heart with a jolt that seemed to break him apart.

Barely conscious, he somehow hung onto the key and scrambled to his feet. Staggering forward, he drove himself into a weaving, unsteady run, holding the key ahead of him, and thrust it straight into the midst of the white cyclone.

The second wind spirit shrieked in an agony unbearable to hear. It vanished as though it had never been, and suddenly the courtyard was absolutely still and calm. Only a few snowflakes drifted down, sparkling in the radiant golden light of the warding key that Caelan still held aloft.

He could not drop it, could not separate himself. Sevaisin was complete. He was melting, becoming heat, radiating ...

With one last desperate try, he reached for severance. Cold met heat in a collision that burst and flowed over him. He felt himself flung aside, falling, falling; then he heard the key hit the ground with a clatter. It broke into pieces. Caelan landed in a heap of snow, the blessedly cool snow, too weak to even lift his head or care.

People surrounded him, their voices a babble.

Then strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and lifted him. “My son,” a voice said clearly.

Caelan could not see him. The world remained a swirl of color, light, and shadow. Pain was everywhere, seeping into his awareness at first, then rushing over him.

“Farns,” he whispered, his voice a broken, feeble sound. Guilt filled him, riding the pain. “Old Farns—”

“Caelan,” his father said urgently. “My son, answer me. Caelan!”

But the darkness came, extinguishing even the light from the torches and lanterns. Caelan faded into it without a struggle.