“I am glad,” I said. “I would not have enjoyed leaving Haert.”
Vashet raised an eyebrow at that. “I daresay you would not.” She gestured at the lute case that hung over my shoulder. “Leave that here, or people will talk. Leave your bag too. You can take them back to your room later.”
She looked at me speculatively. “But bring the cloak. I will show you how to fight while wearing it. Such things can be useful, but only if you can avoid tripping over them.”
I went back to my training almost as if nothing had happened. Vashet showed me how to avoid tripping over my own cloak. How it could be used to bind a weapon or disarm the unwary. She commented on it being very fine, strong, and durable, but never seemed to note anything unusual about it.
Days passed. I continued to spar with Celean and eventually learned to protect my precious manhood from all forms of uncouth attack. Slowly, I grew skilled enough that we were nearly even in our bouts, trading victories back and forth.
There were even a handful of conversations with Penthe at mealtimes, and I was glad to have one other person willing to occasionally smile in my direction.
But I was no longer at my ease in Haert. I had come too close to disaster. Whenever I spoke to Vashet I thought twice about every word. Some words I thought about three times.
And while Vashet seemed to return to her familiar wry and smiling self, I would catch her watching me from time to time, her face grim, her eyes intent.
As the days passed, the tension between us gradually wore away, fading as slowly as the bruises on my face. I like to think eventually it would have disappeared entirely. But we were not given enough time for that.
It came like lightning from the clear blue sky.
Vashet opened her door to my knock. But instead of coming outside, she stood in the doorway. “Tomorrow is your test,” she said.
For a second, I didn’t understand what she was talking about. I had been focusing so intently on my sword practice, my sparring with Celean, the language, the Lethani. I had almost forgotten the purpose of it all.
I felt a rush of excitement in my chest, followed by a chill knot in my stomach. “Tomorrow?” I said stupidly.
She nodded, smiling faintly at my expression.
Her subdued response did little to set me at my ease. “So soon?”
“Shehyn feels it would be best. If we wait another month, there could be early snow, keeping you from going freely on your way.”
I hesitated, then said, “You aren’t telling me the whole truth, Vashet.”
Another faint smile and a small shrug. “You’re right in that, though Shehyn does think waiting is unwise. You are charming, in your clumsy barbarian way. The longer you are here, the more folk will come to feel kindly toward you. . . .”
I felt the chill settle deeper into my gut. “And if I am to be mutilated, it would be better if it were done before more folk realize I’m actually a real person and not some faceless barbarian,” I said harshly, though not as harshly as I wanted to.
Vashet looked down, then nodded. “You would not have heard. But Penthe blackened Carceret’s eye two days ago in an argument about you. Celean too, has grown fond of you, and talks to the other children. They watch you from the trees while you train.” She was still for a moment. “And there are others.”
I knew enough after all this time to read Vashet’s small silence for what it really meant. Suddenly her muted mood, her stillness made much better sense.
“Shehyn must attend to the best interests of the school,” Vashet said. “She must decide according to what is right. She cannot allow herself to be swayed by the fact that some few are fond of you. At the same time, if she makes a correct decision and many in the school resent it, that is not good either.” Another shrug. “So.”
“Am I ready?”
Vashet was quiet for a long time. “That’s not an easy question,” she said. “Being invited to the school isn’t merely a matter of skill. It is a test of fit, of suitability. If one of us fails, we can try again. Tempi took his test four times before he was admitted. For you there will only be one chance.” She looked up at me. “And ready or not, it is time.”
CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE
The Spinning Leaf
The next morning Vashet came to collect me just as I was finishing my breakfast. “Come,” she said. “Carceret has been praying for a storm all night, but it’s only gusting.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but I didn’t feel like asking either. I returned my wooden plate and turned around to find Penthe standing there, a slight yellowing bruise along her jawline.
Penthe didn’t say anything, merely gripped my arms in an open show of support. Then she hugged me tightly. I was surprised when her head only came up to my chest. I’d forgotten how small she was. The dining room was even more quiet than normal, and while no one was staring, everyone was watching.
Vashet walked me to the tiny park where we had first met and began our usual limbering stretch. The routine of it relaxed me, lulling my anxiety to a dull rumble. When we were finished, Vashet led me down into the hidden valley of the sword tree. I wasn’t surprised. Where else would the test take place?
There were a dozen people scattered in the open field around the tree. Most of them were dressed in mercenary reds, but I saw three wearing lighter clothes. I guessed they were important members of the community, or perhaps retired mercenaries still involved with the school.
Vashet pointed toward the tree. At first I thought she was drawing my attention to the motion of it. It was, as she had said, a rather blustery day, and the branches lashed wildly at the empty air. Then I saw a glint of metal against its trunk. Looking more closely, I could see a sword there, tied to the trunk of the tree.
I thought of Celean dancing among the sharp leaves to slap the trunk of the tree. Of course.
“There are several items around the base of the tree,” Vashet said. “Your test is to go in, choose one, and bring it out again.”
“This is the test?” I demanded. It came out a little sharper than I’d planned. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Why didn’t you ask?” she countered dryly, then laid her hand gently on my arm. “I would have,” she said. “Eventually. But I knew if I told you too soon, you would try your hand at it and hurt yourself.”
“Well thank God we saved that for today,” I said, then sighed. Resigned apology. “What happens if I go in there and get cut to ribbons?”
“Getting cut is usually a given,” she said and pulled aside the neck of her shirt, revealing a pair of familiar pale, thin scars on her shoulder. “The question is how much, and where, and how you behave.” She shrugged her shirt back into place. “The leaves will not cut deep, but be careful of your face and neck. The places where vessels and tendons are close to the surface. A cut on your chest or arm can be mended easily. Less so a severed ear.”
I watched the tree as it caught a gust of wind, branches flailing madly. “What keeps a person from crawling there on hands and knees?”
“Pride,” she said, her eyes searching my face. “Will you be known as the one who crawled during his test?”
I nodded. This was an issue for me especially. As a barbarian, I had twice as much to prove.
I looked at the tree again. It was thirty feet from the edge of the lashing branches to the trunk. I thought back to the scars I’d seen on Tempi’s body, on Carceret’s face. “So this is a test of nerve,” I said. “A test of pride.”
“It is a test of many things,” Vashet said. “Your behavior signifies a great deal. You could throw your arms over your face and rush ahead. The straightest line is quickest, after all. But what does that reveal of you? Are you a bull that charges blindly? Are you an animal without subtlety or grace?” She shook her head, frowning. “I expect better from a student of mine.”