Time seemed to jump. It seemed to Will that the bottle was always being passed back to him, but the more he drank the less he cared—about everything. His stupefied brain registered disappointment as he reached the bottle’s last dregs. He smiled at Finn.
“Awesome!” he murmured in English.
Finn frowned, and Will felt a vague concern that none of them seemed half as drunk as he felt. Had he actually seen them drink? ‘Always have a care with whom you drink.’ His father’s serious words of advice echoed through Will’s head almost as if his father was stood behind him and had whispered the words in his ear. Suddenly, self-preservation attempted to assert itself; rational thought was far out of Will’s reach, but panic was still available, and it surged through his befuddled mind. His heart pounding, he forced himself to his feet, staggering backwards.
“Hold him!” Davlin ordered. “Get his shirt off.”
Finn and Elroy came at him. Truly frightened now, Will took a swing at them, but his fist hit nothing but air; the whiskey was playing dirty tricks with his depth perception. Hands grabbed at him and there was a violent scuffle. At close range, Will was able to connect his fists more accurately with their targets. He heard the grunts of pain, yet there seemed to be no blows in return. Maybe I’m too drunk to notice, Will thought. Yet despite his efforts, it was still two seemingly sober, strong men against one exceptionally drunk victim. They had soon torn his shirt and jacket from him and carried him to the ground, his left arm twisted almost to the breaking point behind his back as he was pushed face down into the dirt. Two men sat on him, one on his back, the other on his legs. Will struggled, trying to make them release him.
“Please, Will, do not make us hurt you more than is necessary,” Elroy’s breathless plea came from behind. His voice carried such misery that Will stopped moving, utterly confused and alarmed by the ‘more than is necessary’ comment. Why is it necessary to hurt me at all? Davlin crouched at his side, and Will pushed his head round with difficulty so he could look at him.
“You said he was going to pass out—that he would be unaware for this,” Elroy said to Davlin with an accusing tone. Terror bit deeply into him, and in desperation Will tried to pull energy to fight back. But his concentration was all over the place, his focus gone, and both his muscles and his energy refused to respond. I didn’t drink that much. A tiny spark of awareness reached through the fuzzy, disjointed chaos in his head. The aftertaste—the whiskey was laced with one of his sedatives. They drugged me with my own herbs!
“The alcohol will reduce the effectiveness of the sedative,” Will said, his words slurred but comprehensible. “Whatever you are planning to do, I am going to be conscious for it.”
“I need his right arm.” Davlin spoke with cold, lethal purpose.
Elroy and Finn moved slightly, keeping a firm grip on Will’s left arm, so that Davlin could pull Will’s right arm out from underneath him. He then quickly and professionally tied a thin piece of rough rope around his wrist, pulling his arm out and revealing his Avatar brand. With one knee on the rope, holding Will’s arm firmly down, palm up, Davlin leant across and pulled something out of the fire. His sword, Will realised, and the last several inches of it were glowing red hot. Davlin looked Will in the eyes for the first time that day, and Will saw his distress, his regret and his determination.
Then the red hot metal was pushed into his wrist, and pain rampaged through his body. Will screamed. The scorched smell of his burning flesh evaporated some of the haze of drug and drink. The red hot metal was removed and applied again, in a different area, and Will screamed again, his body’s writhing making it difficult for the men to hold him in place. The metal had cooled a little by now, so the sword needed to be held against his skin longer. When it was removed, Davlin placed it back into the fire, presumably to reheat it, and Will began to tremble in fear and shock. This torture was not yet over: they were going to keep going until they burnt all trace of his Avatar mark from his body.
“Please,” he cried, a choking sob tightening his throat. Reaching for calm, for control, Will tried again. “Please Davlin, do not do this. I have no idea what removing my mark might do. It could make the others think I am dead. Or it could stop me being able to connect with them. My right hand is my sword hand… please…”
“We are sorry for this, sorry for your pain, but we are doing as we were told,” Davlin said sadly, reaching once again for the sword.
“Who told you to do this to me?” Will asked, horrified.
“Lady Eleanor,” Davlin said softly, holding Will’s look as he pushed the heated metal against his skin once more.
Pain was the air he breathed, the world he saw through rolling eyes darkened by it, every strained heartbeat struggling under it. Will no longer had energy to fight; even screaming his agony required more effort than he could give. Elroy and Finn had released him a while ago and now crouched a little distance away. They flinched at every sizzling hiss of hot metal on flesh and every whimpering sob Will made. Eventually Davlin seemed satisfied with the damage he had caused, and the immediate pain ceased. Will found that he was left with a charred, blistered, bleeding, weeping agony of burns that ran the length of his arm, over his shoulder, up the side of his neck and across the right side of his jaw. Beyond this suffering was the truth he could not reconcile. Eleanor had told them to do this to him. Eleanor had inflicted this on him. Why? Slowly, shock settled in, his body chilled, and as the rain started to fall in heavy pounding drops, the darkness swept him away.
Training
The throbbing torment reached through the layers of darkness and pulled Will into the weak grey light of day. Opening his eyes, he found Elroy kneeing at his side, looking concerned and upset. Remembering only agony and fear, Will felt panic rip through him and tried to scramble out of the way, putting pressure on his right arm as he did so. It collapsed underneath him and he crumpled into the blanket he was lying on with a whimpering cry. An incredible hurt caused an explosion of dancing black dots across his vision; his whole body felt like it was burning.
“Please, Will, do not move,” Elroy begged, standing and moving towards him. “You do not need to be afraid.”
Will’s confused, pain-soaked brain was still reacting on instinct. Fear controlled him, and he kicked out, his foot connecting hard with something. Elroy gave a shriek, grasping at his knee as he toppled to the ground. Finn rushed over, but seemed unsure of how he could assist. Being able to fight back reduced Will’s panic and made rational cognitive processes a must. His brain helpfully began to supply this, although there was still a sluggish, drug-hampered feel to what passed through his mind.
“He was trying to help you,” Davlin said from behind him. Will turned his head and tried to get the tall, dark-haired man into focus. Black eyes met his anger with blank calm.
“Help me how?” Will hissed, pulling back, trying to ignore the pain as he forced his body to sit.
“He did not sleep last night. He watched over you, tending your wounds as Lady Eleanor directed,” Davlin said. Will felt murderous rage crawl into his heart.
“Eleanor told you how to treat my burns? I assume she also gave you the sedative you drugged me with?”
Davlin nodded. You used knowledge I gave you to betray me, to hurt me. Eleanor, how could you?
“What a shame,” Will continued with cold bitterness, “that she did not pay more attention to my lesson on the effects of mixing my sedatives with alcohol.”
“That was my mistake, Will,” Davlin said. “For which you have my apologies. I thought putting the sedative in brubick would make it easier to get you to drink it.”
“Why was any of this necessary?” Will asked, aware of just how much fury sat behind the words. “I have makeup to hide my brand.”
“Protectors are not stupid,” Davlin said. “Thinking them so would be an error. You could not have hidden your Avatar brand forever; removing it was safer for you.”
“And Conlan agreed to this?” Will asked,
as rage circled his thoughts.
“No,” Davlin admitted. “In open council the king forbade us from taking this action.”
“But you did it anyway,” Will finished in disgust.
“And Lady Eleanor and I will pay the price for this disobedience when the king discovers it,” Davlin said.
“Will…?” Elroy said, limping forward, uncertain and fearful. “Please, can I apply more of the healing paste to your arm?”
Having problems holding his thoughts together under the barrage of pain signals his body was sending him, Will nodded curtly. Elroy hobbled closer.
“How is the knee?” Will asked with a sneer, then immediately felt bad. This was not Elroy’s fault. He was following orders, as good soldiers do—following Eleanor’s orders.
Looking miserable and forlorn, Elroy ignored the comment and dropped painfully beside him, pulling a pot of Will’s own burn salve out of his pocket. With extreme care, Elroy removed the linen bandages, and Will inspected the injuries with a practiced eye. Not as bad as it could’ve been. Mostly first- and second-degree burns… a miracle in itself. But this was Davlin’s work; no miracle, just a man who had most likely done this to others before. The burns were already starting to blister and heal, but it was still a mass of raw flesh, and with his slower healing abilities, it would remain so for some time. With gentle, hesitant strokes Elroy applied another layer of the thick golden liquid to the injuries, filling the air with the smell of honey and lavender.
“The burns are not too deep,” Will commented, raising his head to look at Davlin’s black eyes. “But you did not intend them to be. I am assuming you expect me to recover full use of my sword arm?”
Davlin nodded. “We did this to help you become a Protector, not to hinder you.”
“My brand covers a tiny area on the inside of my wrist. Why have you burnt half my arm and my face?” Will asked, still inspecting the damage.
Davlin gave him a humourless smile. “Protectors are suspicious by nature. They are all well aware of what an Avatar brand looks like and where to look for it. Having an ‘accidental burn’ in just the right place would be as dangerous as having the brand itself. And this fits with the story we are building for you.”
“So now I can be a better Protector. What about my being an Avatar?” Will asked with a snarl. “What if burning my brand off has made it impossible to contact the others? What about the plan then?”
“Burning your brand off has had no effect on your Avatar abilities,” Davlin replied with certainty.
“You cannot possibly know that,” Will retorted.
“You believe Lady Eleanor would have inflicted this on you without being sure?” Davlin asked, his anger surfacing through his words for the first time.
Under Davlin’s pointed glare, Will thought it through. To be certain, Eleanor would have had to test it. And to test it… she would have had to have burned the brand off of another Avatar, and then waited to see what effects it had.
“You burnt her brand from her to test the outcome,” Will said in horror.
Davlin nodded. “She had the benefit of lepdrac and a strong, working sedative, so that the king was not alerted to her pain, but it was… unpleasant, for both of us. Lady Eleanor has done you a great service. One day you will thank her for it.”
They stayed at their camp until Will was able to hold and swing a sword again. And when Davlin was satisfied that the next stage of their training could be carried out, their journey to the Central Tower resumed. As part of the story they were building for Will, Davlin asked him to pick a new name, something he would recognise and respond to immediately. Will chose his surname, ‘Harper’, and was not surprised when all three of his travelling companions immediately began calling him this exclusively. More importantly, Davlin and Finn treated Harper very differently from the way they treated Will. Harper was pushed, constantly. Forced, brutally if necessary, to find ways to cope with the weaknesses they perceived in him. The training quickly became less theory and more practice. They would hunt him, chasing him through the wilderness, and if they caught him before sunset he would not eat that day. Harper learnt to take the punishments for his failures as his due. There were days when he felt nothing but a black, seething hatred for Davlin and Finn, but he discovered there was power in this that he could use. Harper was fitter and tougher than Will had ever been. The exhaustion and headaches caused by a lack of Avatar energy still hampered him, but Harper was not an Avatar. Harper was a man who carried a past; a past that weighed him down on occasion and made him irritable, but a past that he fought every day to escape. Yet he was also a man with a future. This difference in viewpoints leant him a strength that Will did not possess, a strength that seemed to come from somewhere outside of him. Eventually the person Will had been before leaked out, and the new, more resilient, more proficient persona—Harper—took over.
Over the subsequent weeks of travel, Harper worked constantly to learn the skills he would need in order to be a spy and, if necessary, an assassin. He was surprised to find that many of these abilities could be summed up as ‘intelligent observation’: how to spot a liar and yet lie convincingly, learning a room, reading people and their intentions. Harper did well in situations that required mental dexterity, manipulation and control of the situation; it was the physical steps of murder at which he failed.
Davlin encouraged him to use his healing knowledge when planning their theoretical assassinations. At first Harper resisted—using his healing knowledge to kill felt wrong. But painful lesson after painful lesson, he realised that to survive he was going to need to use every advantage he had when delivering death. Knowing how the human body worked would give him an edge in many situations. As Harper gradually moved away from his old morals and views, his less rigid attitude moved into prominence, and he found that the punishments all but ceased as he met—and in some cases, exceeded—Davlin and Finn’s expectations.
At night, however, Harper had less control. His demons stalked his vulnerable, resting mind. The bleak terror of what lay before him had him quivering at the thought of death, like a mouse before the lambent eyes of the cat. During the day this ever-present feeling of heightened anxiety, this fear, could be locked deep down inside him. But sleep unlocked those doors, and he would awake from nightmares, his heart pounding, breath wheezing, grasping his blanket as if it were a lifeline, sheathed in cold sweat. Worse still was the recurring dream he had of Amelia. He gathered her into his arms, showering her with desperate, fiery kisses and taking her with such a strong passion that she gasped in shock. In that moment all he wanted was to bury himself in her forever, warm and protected, but he raised his face to hers to find instead only tears and pain. Horrified that he might have hurt her, his desire vanished and he tried to withdraw. But Amelia pulled him close and whispered in his ear, her voice achingly poignant.
“Silly Bear, I weep for you, because I can feel your dread.”
Harper would wake from these dreams with wet cheeks and an ocean of loneliness inside him. Knowing this was not a weakness he could afford where he was going, he put a huge effort into suffocating these feelings, into burying Will so deep he would no longer be that person even in his sleep, any more than he was in his waking hours.
In the later stages of their training, as they approached the Central Tower, Finn and Davlin took Harper out at night into the villages and towns they were passing. They set him challenges to test his lock-picking and cat-burgling skills: challenges such as stealing food from the house of a rich merchant or bringing back the sword belonging to the captain of the town’s Protectors. Harper enjoyed these adventures. It was exciting and fun, requiring the use of all his physical and mental talents, and he found that the level of risk gave his exploits an edge that was almost sweet.
The soaring tops of the Central Tower had made their presence felt in Harper’s dreams as much as they dominated his waking hours. It had taken them almost three months, but at last they could see the Tower growing larger on
the horizon with each passing day. And as the Tower grew, Harper felt a strange sense of anticipation growing along with it. His training was nearly over and he was very aware that his knowledge and skills were now a match for anything Davlin possessed. He took the hard, cold pride he felt in this achievement and nurtured it. They would reach the Central Tower in two days, and Davlin had said there would be one last test. When that test came, Harper was determined to prove his mastery of what they had taught him.
“Harper, how many Protectors are there in this room?” Davlin asked, his eyes on the small knife he was using to pick dirt out from under his fingernails. They sat across from each other, nursing watered-down ales at a filthy table in the corner of a raucous, hot, smoke-filled tavern. His back to the room, Harper replied without hesitation or a need to look.
“Eight.”
“Pick one,” Davlin said. Doing a quick mental assessment of the Protectors he knew were sat around him, and having some suspicion as to why this selection was necessary, Harper made his choice.
“Large, ugly, sat on the table to the right of the fireplace, missing a little finger on his left hand,” Harper said, identifying the man. A slight curl of Davlin’s lips let Harper know he had chosen well.
“Why him?” Davlin asked.
“Does it matter?” Harper replied.
“For the purposes of this test, no,” Davlin said, his dark gaze rising to Harper’s face. “But I am curious.”
“He has groped the serving girl four times,” Harper said. “The last time he got his hand under her skirts. She did not like the experience.” Davlin raised an eyebrow at this explanation, and Harper knew more was expected. “He has taken two bribes since sitting at that table,” he continued. “He cheats at cards, the recent loss of his little finger speaks of dealings with the criminal underworld, and he eats like a pig—but mostly, it is about the girl.”
Will (Book 2) Page 55
