No one outside of the Sentinels themselves knew what exactly happened in the Ritual of Joining, when a man put himself at their mercy to see if he would be judged worthy to join them.
Gaspard spent years training for this moment. He had risen through the ranks of Swordmaster Kourick Sandranios’s select group of pupils to become, in Kourick’s own words, the best he had seen in two decades. Once, Gaspard had run fifty miles—without stopping. He hadn’t slept and had only eaten what he could forage from the trailside. His body was lean and well-muscled and, in the words of many a young Garoshmiri woman, very fine indeed.
Yet his training extended beyond the physical: he had trained his mind as well. He had apprenticed with the great architect, Light Thassoum. With him, Gaspard had built the Temple of Undiriath, now touted to be one of the greatest monuments to an apoth in the whole of Garoshmir, if not all the Accord. He had learned mathematics and natural philosophy, and had even become a novice in the Holy Order of Undiriath once the temple had been built. Though he felt he had developed a sufficient degree of humility in the Order, Gaspard knew that many considered him to be one of the greatest living specimens of man alive today.
He knew all of this, knew all of what he was capable of, and still …
Still.
The Ritual of Joining filled him with dread. In truth, it terrified him.
Great men, Gaspard knew, had attempted to join the ranks of the Sentinels in the past. Some of them had become greater still, by succeeding. The current captain of the Sentinels, Rannald Firnaleos, was one such great man. None of the others were poor soldiers either, even if they hadn’t risen to the prominence of their captain.
Many more great men, however, failed. And everyone who failed had died in the process.
That was the reason no one knew what went on in the Ritual of Joining. Those who lived did not do so to tell about it. Every Sentinel was sworn to secrecy, and in the thousands of years of the Sentinels’ existence, not one had ever violated that trust.
A small twitch had developed in Gaspard’s left cheek as he sat there, otherwise motionless. That usually happened when his nerves got the better of him. He tried to school his body to stillness, but it simply wouldn’t listen. He breathed in deeply, and exhaled.
Twitch.
He cracked open an eyelid. The food sat there, tantalizing him. Someone had come in and set down a ceramic cup full of clear water next to the wooden bowl. He hadn’t heard anyone enter or set the cup down, yet there it was. Suddenly Gaspard realized just how parched his throat was.
No. Discipline. He would not be tempted. He prided himself on how he could resist such temptations in the face of such a test. That was how he had achieved all that he had. Through discipline.
Twitch twitch.
He slapped his cheek to still it. Then he sighed and let his hand drop back into his lap, shaking his head. Foolish to give in to such a thing.
He tried to summon the courage to face this. He wouldn’t have asked to undergo the Ritual if he didn’t think he could do well, so why was he so worried? He had done everything humanly possible to prepare for this day. What did these men, these Sentinels who had survived the Ritual of Joining, have that those who failed didn’t?
Did Gaspard have it too?
He drew in another breath, this one shuddering, and blew it all out quickly. The door creaked, and he opened his eyes.
A man stood there in the flickering light of the candle that lit the tiny room. Gaspard was unsurprised to discover that the man was a Sentinel, wearing an instantly-recognizable yet rarely-seen dress uniform. Cloth-of-gold piping trimmed the angular purple jacket, along with brass buttons marching in two columns up its breast. Black trousers were tucked into knee-high leather boots which shone like obsidian. A thick gold stripe descended from each hip to disappear into a boot. And perhaps the only insignia that the Sentinels wore, a mother-of-pearl belt buckle shaped and riveted like a small shield.
The man’s freckled cheeks jutted out from beneath sunken eyes. His head had been shaved closely not long ago, and orange stubble covered it now. He wore no hat or cap and had no facial hair to speak of. Though his body was at rigid attention, he regarded Gaspard with a withering look of contempt.
“Refusing to eat?” he asked.
Gaspard could barely croak a reply in the face of such a barely-concealed admonishment. “I have no need of it.” He decided not to rise to the bait, yet knowing that they had expected him to eat the food almost sent him scrabbling to the floor to shovel it into his mouth. He stayed seated with every ounce of willpower within him. He had sat here in this room for three days now, with no food or water. His own sense of discipline demanded that he continue to do so until the Ritual was over.
The expression on the Sentinel’s face, or lack thereof, did not change, yet Gaspard could sense a surge of disapproval within the man. “Suit yourself. Are you finally ready?”
Two other Sentinels had come each day to ask him the same question. Gaspard had suspected it was a part of the Ritual, a part of the trial to see if he was suitable to become one of them. He had said no both times, thinking that perhaps they expected humility to join them, but each time they had merely left him alone, taking the bowl of untouched food with them.
Though perhaps this part was not a test. Perhaps it was a genuine question. Gaspard wasn’t sure. He knew one misstep could send him to the fate that all the other failed Sentinels found.
He took another breath to calm himself, but he wasn’t sure if it had any effect. He wasn’t going to die today. If he thought he would, he wouldn’t have come at all.
“Yes.”
The Sentinel grunted. “Follow me, then.”
Chapter 22: The Test
Very few people ever saw the underhalls of the Sentinel compound, but, Gaspard noted, there was very little to see. The long hallway curving ever deeper into the ground beneath the Keep was made of the same stone bricks as the tiny chamber he had waited in as preparation for the Ritual of Joining. The only structural difference was the arched ceiling. There weren’t many doors, and all of those they did pass were closed. Pitch torches sitting in sconces flanked the hallway, occasionally popping as Gaspard and the Sentinel leading him passed. The ginger-haired man hadn’t said a word since leading him from the chamber, though Gaspard suspected that wasn’t part of the Ritual. It seemed the man just didn’t like him.
Gaspard forced himself not to care about that. It was just another challenge to overcome, a puzzle he could solve later, once Gaspard himself was a Sentinel. Someday, he would earn the respect of these men, one way or another. Now, he had other things to worry about.
Unconsciously, Gaspard rubbed at his cheek, but stopped once he realized he was doing it. At least it had stopped twitching. The last thing he wanted was to make a fool of himself in front of the Sentinels during the Ritual. Well, he thought, correcting himself, the last thing I want is to die.
The last four men to undergo the Ritual had doubtless thought the same thing. None of them survived.
Palpable dread began to build in his gut. He took a deep breath. No. I will not die today.
I will not.
Suddenly the Sentinel stopped in the light of a torch and turned to face him. Gone was the cold derision in his face, replaced by something Gaspard hadn’t expected to see. Sadness.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” the man asked. “You have a chance to turn back now. I’d take it if I were you.”
Gaspard lifted his chin. “You went through with it.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I was a fool once, just like you. Not a day goes by when I don’t regret it. Take my advice and turn back.”
Gaspard knew this was all just part of the Ritual, something to make his resolve slip. It wasn’t the first time Gaspard had heard words like this. His initiation to the Holy Order of Undiriath had been similar. The whole goal of ritual initiation was to break down an individual and reform him into something the organizat
ion could use. Gaspard knew the best way to achieve that was by having the initiate face his fears.
Gaspard took a deep breath. “I have faced death before, sir. I am not afraid of it.”
The Sentinel chuckled quietly and shook his head. There was no joy in his laughter. Without meeting Gaspard’s eyes, he asked, “You want to know what I truly fear?”
Gaspard frowned. “What?”
For a moment, he thought the man wouldn’t respond. But then he answered in a soft voice, “Fools like you.”
The Sentinel turned away and wiped at his face. With his back to Gaspard, he pointed down the hallway. “There’s the door at the end. I’ll follow you in.”
Gaspard slowly stepped past him, but the man kept his face turned away.
A large wooden door, trimmed with steel plate, stood at the end of the hallway. There were no handles, knobs, or hinges that Gaspard could see. He briefly glanced over his shoulder back at the Sentinel, who stood just beyond the light of the nearest torches. He said nothing, made no move to help. Gaspard turned back to the door. Just as well, he thought. Whose Ritual of Joining is it, anyway? Mine, or his?
He put both hands to the door and gently pushed.
To Gaspard’s surprise, the door didn’t swing in to the left or right. It slid backwards, gliding without noise or friction, into a room untouched by the light of the torches, a room blacker than anything Gaspard had ever seen. There was no floor that he could see. No walls, no ceiling … nothing. Nothing but that door sliding forever backward into inky darkness.
A sensation like little shards of ice pricking him formed beneath his skin. With a thump so deep it was felt more than heard, the door stopped moving, frozen in a tableau of eternal night.
Gaspard stared, disbelieving. He couldn’t move his feet. Where would he put them, anyway? There was no floor beyond the threshold. Just … nothingness.
He heard the Sentinel step close to him, and heard his voice, whispered close to Gaspard’s ear. “The time for turning back has passed,” he said. “Don’t make me draw my sword.”
Gaspard took a sharp breath and forced his mind to work. The Sentinel behind him had no doubt done the same thing, gone through the same experience. He had seen this same blackness, stepped into it, and lived. Gaspard suddenly realized he didn’t know the man’s name.
He turned. The Sentinel’s face betrayed no emotion, was as hard as the stone wall behind it. “What’s your name?” Gaspard asked.
“Arrion Metsfurth.”
Gaspard closed his eyes. Major Metsfurth, second in command only to Rannald Firnaleos in the ranks of the Sentinels. There were only a few men with the same facial features and hair coloring in the Sentinels, and Gaspard would have guessed him for any of them before the Major. Gaspard cursed his own impertinence. He would do better, and he would make this man proud.
“Major Metsfurth,” he said. “There is no need to draw your sword. I … I just need a moment.”
“Fear is not generous,” said Metsfurth. “It never gives you what you need, least of all time.”
Gaspard nodded at this. Do it. Just do it.
He lifted his bare foot, leaned forward, and stepped.
The impact of his foot against something solid startled him. He still couldn’t see anything beneath his foot, just that shapeless blackness, but there was something solid there nonetheless. It was smooth and cold. If he didn’t know any better, Gaspard would have assumed the floor to made of obsidian, but even that would reflect light. He took two more steps into the room and then turned around to smile at the Major.
The hallway was gone.
Gaspard stared at where the hallway had been. It had vanished soundlessly. Completely.
There was only Gaspard and the door.
He sank to his knees, fear enveloping him. He felt as if he had been swallowed into a nightmare, a dark dream of infinite loneliness and meaninglessness. He was completely and utterly cut off from the world which he knew; he was far away from home, never to return. He was as good as dead.
No, no, no. It’s just an illusion. You’re still in the Sentinel compound. The ground is there. See? You can feel it beneath you. You’re not alone, you’re not alone, you’re not alone.
He fought back a cry. He fought, and he won. He stood. Still, he had to stifle the quivering in his gut.
To his left, a small orb of icy blue light appeared as if from nowhere, revealing the hints of a human form behind it. The orb, Gaspard realized, had been drawn from the figure’s pocket and was now held in its hand. The figure was standing on the same black nothingness that Gaspard stood on, but was doing so as if such an act were a normal occurrence. The figure felt no fear that Gaspard could see.
As expected. The figure standing there, holding the orb of light, was a Sentinel.
The orb’s light rose in intensity, casting its glow farther to reveal dozens of other figures standing in a circle around Gaspard, yet no light touched the floor they stood on, nor the ceiling—if there even was one.
Though Gaspard recognized the men around him as Sentinels, it was only because of their purple and gold coloring. The uniforms were completely alien to him, not at all like the dress uniform that the Major was wearing, and nothing at all like the armor they normally wore. From the neck down to the toes was a dark purple cloak, trimmed in cloth-of-gold embroidery so elaborate and complex he couldn’t stare at it for more than a couple of moments without his head spinning and his stomach turning, even in the weak blue light of the orb. Their steel helmets were nearly as unsettling, looking like a gallery of terrors, each one sporting a number of protuberances that reminded Gaspard of insect heads.
The faces were the worst, though. Mother-of-pearl masks, expressionless, glimmering coldly in the blue light of the orb. The light didn’t reach the eyes hiding behind the masks.
The one holding the orb was tall and broad-shouldered. This one stepped forward.
“Many people despise fear.” His voice was deep and carried well. Gaspard knew this voice, famous as it was. It belonged to none other than Rannald Firnaleos, Captain of the Sentinels. “Many even fear it. They see it as a weakness, a vice. And indeed, it can be such, but only so long as it is not understood. Fear often obscures the truth of the world around us, causing confusion and doubt. But it can tell us a great many things about ourselves. About the limits of our endurance.”
Rannald began to pace in a circle around Gaspard, its unsettling eyeless gaze upon him. Gaspard looked straight ahead. “All of us assembled here today have seen the limits of our endurance,” said Rannald. “All of us have touched the void beyond it. All of us of have survived the ordeal.”
Rannald completed his circuit and halted directly in front of Gaspard. “And all of us wish we had chosen death instead.”
He lifted the orb closer to Gaspard’s face. The light was near blinding, but Gaspard didn’t flinch or close his eyes. Soon, all he could see was the icy light of the orb; all of the looming figures had vanished beyond his sight, the bright light obliterating everything else.
“Why,” came Rannald’s voice, “do you wish to join our ranks?”
Gaspard had done his research. Everyone said that whenever someone was in dire need of help, the Sentinels were there, no matter the jurisdiction or the laws at play. Rumor had it that a Councilor of the Wall had even been cut down by a Sentinel for attacking his servant. It was this that defined the Sentinels in the public eye, and it was this that Gaspard admired the most about them. “I wish to protect the weak against the strong.”
“Hmph. The weak. The strong.” Rannald’s voice was filled with scorn. “I’m strong. Am I a villain?”
“No. Of course not.”
A pause. Then suddenly the light vanished, leaving only the memory of its glow burnt into Gaspard’s eyes. He heard two quick steps and felt two large hands grip his arms. Rannald’s masked face leaned close to Gaspard’s ear.
“Evil itself is a weakness in the hearts of men. Do you wish to defend evil a
gainst me, boy?”
“I—” What could he say? Didn’t he want to be a defender of the weak? He had always thought so, but Rannald’s words had the ring of truth to them. Even more importantly, Gaspard didn’t want to upset him any more than he already had. “No,” he said, lamely.
Rannald stepped away from him. “At least you have the sense to know when you are wrong. We do not care for such things as strength and weakness. They are meaningless in the moral realm. Sometimes good men are strong, sometimes they are not. The same is true of the wicked. We strive to defend, not the weak, but the innocent. Because sometimes the innocent may be strong, but not strong enough.”
He produced the orb from within his cloak again and knelt down to set it into a recess in the floor. Blue light spiderwebbed out from the orb across the inky black floor, illuminating the rest of the Sentinels in detail, traveling in a flowing, script-like design. Gaspard realized that it was more than a design.
It was a Pattern.
Rannald regarded him. “I see you recognize what this is, if not its purpose. Let me tell you of that purpose. The Ritual of Joining has two parts. The first part is the test, and it is by use of this Pattern that we can perform it. The second part of the Ritual is the oath. Everyone survives the first part. Very few survive the second. Why that is will be made clear to you if you choose to undergo the Ritual.”
“Choose to … you mean, I can back out now? I can still leave?”
Rannald nodded to his left. Another Sentinel stepped forward and drew his sword, then spun it to offer the hilt to Gaspard.
Rannald said, “No. You cannot leave. You know too many of our secrets. But you can choose to forgo the test.” He gestured to the sword. “By taking your own life first.”
They were simply trying to scare him. Or were they? What did he mean by, very few survive the second? What was so dangerous about taking an oath? Gaspard shook his head. “No. I have no reason to kill myself before having even tried.”
Shoreseeker Page 13
