Aedan stripped off the last of the bark from his twig, threw the shreds onto the coals where they twisted up and shrivelled before being consumed. “Maybe,” he said.
Osric rubbed his stubbly beard. “Perhaps I should also give you some specific training, simulate some charges. I think Dun might not put enough into the practical aspect, the real situations.”
Aedan threw the bare twig into the fire so hard that it produced a shower of sparks and sent a few coals tumbling. He glared at the pale wood. Moisture fizzed to the surface until there was none left, and then the flames had their way with the lifeless wood.
He hated this – the questions, the advice, the examination. Was he to be stripped and grilled before everyone who had seen his humiliation? The darkness beyond the camp called to him, the loneliness where he could hide, where the inhabitants of the forest would not try to mend him. They would not pierce him with their eyes or their words. They did not care.
That was the thought that stopped him from walking away. He looked at Osric and saw the honest concern, the generous hope behind his awkward and confused expression as he clearly wondered what he had said wrong.
“It’s not Dun,” Aedan said. “It’s not familiarity or practice. You can’t get me used to it because I would know it’s not real. And if it was real it would be like trying to catch five-ton boulders rolled off the top of the city wall.”
Osric stared into the coals. “Is this why you never spoke of your father?”
“There’s another reason.”
“Crime?”
Aedan was silent.
“It would go poorly for him if we were to meet,” Osric said.
Aedan shifted and glanced up. “He may have hurt me, but he stood up for me too. He was the one who taught me to track and hunt and move through the woods. He taught me better than Wildemar could ever hope to. I have lots of good memories of those days.”
After saying this, he wondered why he had. Why shield his father? He wanted to repay him. Yet somehow he felt the strangest need to defend when somebody else took up the attack.
“Any son should have those good memories,” Osric rumbled. “But no son should have the other memories he left you. I would very much like to give him some of what he gave you.”
Aedan looked away. He remembered the beatings. He remembered them well. Sometimes he still felt the creeping pain of bruises. But as he imagined his father under Osric’s blows, there was an old sadness that welled up in him. He shook his head and turned to Osric.
“I hate him, I hate him, I hate him! I’ll never forgive. Even in his grave I’ll hate him. I hate him for how he ruined me and my mother, and if I ever see him again he’ll be dead to me. But I don’t want to see him beaten – I don’t know why.”
Osric sat long in silence, the corners of his mouth pulling down and his fists clutching. When he answered, his voice was strangely thick. “I chose differently,” he said.
By the end of the week, they were ready to travel. Of the fourteen soldiers they had set out with, ten remained alive and eight were fit for service – though many of these had light wounds. The two with more serious wounds were sent back to Eastridge to rest and await reinforcements.
The party travelled slowly on account of the convalescents, taking all of three weeks to reach the foothills of the DinEilan Mountains. It was the first time Aedan had seen snow on the peaks. A month earlier the slopes and some of the hills would have been under a cold sheet of white, but now the season was shifting and the lingering caps and pockets of snow receding. As the land rose up around the travellers, it also began to change its character.
Gone were the gentle hues of beech and lime; ridges grew hooded and ravines thick with the more sombre shade of blackthorn, fir and elm. Herds of deer flecked the slopes – speckled bounders and the noble errak, tall as horses with horns like spears. The grass that now dominated was soft and furry from a distance, but tough as wire underfoot. Though it could be bent into a comfortable bed, each blade was like a miniature reed ending in a needle tip. It became increasingly difficult to find suitable grazing, something Aedan remembered from his first journey here.
The company was large enough to keep wolves at a distance, but the lonely howl, that most haunting of songs, was often to be heard on the night air.
Fergal conducted his lessons with Aedan and Liru while they rode. They were astounded by the man’s knowledge – he seemed to know more about any subject than any of the masters at the academy. They began to think he knew more than several put together. It was no wonder Culver had claimed him as a personal assistant. Whatever disappointment Aedan had experienced at being passed on to a mere clerk for tuition evaporated rapidly. Fergal showed himself fluent in each of the foreign languages Aedan and Liru had studied, and it soon became clear that he spoke a great many more. Occasionally he would even use illustrations from works in what he termed lost languages – languages no longer spoken, whose sounds were no longer known and had to be guessed when reading the words that lingered in clay tablets and fragile parchments.
Fergal set challenges that had to be solved using many fields of knowledge – languages, culture, politics, strategy, and of course, history.
He also began to coach them in something new – intentional observation – the habit of constantly noting and interpreting details. This was something Aedan was familiar with from the origins game he used to play at the Mistyvales, though he had never applied the technique broadly. He decided to test Fergal.
“Can you describe the first inn we stayed at?” he asked.
“You’ll have to be a lot more specific than that,” Fergal said, “or I’ll be talking all day.”
“Alright. Describe the cook.”
“The cook,” Fergal mumbled, “Hmm …”
Aedan smiled, preparing for a small triumph over his new master.
“I won’t bore you with the details that were of no aid,” Fergal began, “but I will mention a few that were of interest. She was the mother of the tallest serving girl –”
“How –” Aedan attempted to interrupt.
“The initial resemblance was minimal until one noticed them in profile – they share a unique forward bridge of the nose and deeply sunken chin. But if the resemblance was not enough, the mother removed all doubt by her behaviour. At first I thought her sallies from the kitchen to be random or brought on by rowdiness, but she looked too purposeful for the former and the latter link was inconsistent. I soon realised that she was overseeing every time her daughter made her rounds between the soldiers. Another thing that presented itself as interesting was that on her first appearance she walked evenly, and every time she appeared after that, she limped.”
“Ah,” Liru said. “A weapon strapped to her leg. It would make sense if she was worried about her daughter.”
“I assumed just that and made sure to avoid looking at the daughter. As a result, I spent a fair amount of time examining my table – oiled pine – on which I read a dozen names and learned that Alburn will always love Fern, though I fear the giddy letters indicate powers at work other than affection.”
“Yes,” laughed Aedan. “He was probably being beaten over the head by the cook with her brass spoon while he scratched her table.”
Fergal grinned. “Good. You noticed her spoon was brass, and it did have some dents in it. She held it in her right hand and she was left handed – it was her writing that gave that away.”
“Was her left hand against the supposedly injured leg?” Aedan asked.
“Very good. It was indeed. The next thing she revealed was the existence of a back door to the kitchen when she appeared at one point with hair blown loose and spots of rain on her shoulders. I could carry on, but I think you get the idea and hopefully see the usefulness of observation. Now Aedan, seeing as I have answered your question, what do you remember of her husband?”
“Uh … He was really small, and he had a beard, and … a white shirt, no brown, no, well he had a shirt.”
>
“Green.” said Fergal.
“Well it was dirty, so you have to admit that brown is partly right.”
“It was not dirty. I have seldom observed a neater or cleaner chap in my life. Brown, I’m afraid, remains wrong.”
Liru was even worse.
Fergal began drilling them, asking them regularly what they had noticed about a clearing recently traversed or about an interaction between soldiers. Aedan found it difficult to pay attention to his surroundings while listening to Fergal’s instruction, but he improved over the weeks. Liru, after growing deliberate about it, showed herself to be something of a sponge for details.
Once Fergal was satisfied that they were on the right track, he had them study one soldier at a time without staring, observing each for potential threats and weaknesses. They learned that one was concealing something beneath his saddle, another was nursing a sore head, a third was uneasy about the soldier behind him. Aedan was also uneasy about him. It was Rork, that leering eel who still mocked with his eyes. As casual as he seemed, he never let his coat fall over the handle of his sword and showed by his reactions that he took in a lot more of his environment than his lazy eyes suggested. Aedan marked him as dangerous.
Any curiosity on the part of the soldiers was left unsatisfied, as none of the discussions were held in Thirnish. Orunean, the most common second language, was also avoided. Instead, they used Fenn, Vinthian and Sulese. Fergal began teaching them some basic words in two more languages – Lekran, to Aedan’s disgust, and Mardrae, to Liru’s delight. She was unable to hide her surprise and joy when she discovered her new master to be fluent in the language of her childhood. Soon they were singing songs, telling jokes and reciting poems together. Fergal was considerate enough to explain it all to Aedan.
These would be Aedan’s fifth and sixth foreign tongues. Lekran was compulsory, but for the sixth language, the students were given a few choices. He had been wavering between Krunish and Mardrae and leaning towards the latter, so he did not object.
He was determined to catch up to Liru as fast as he could, so every night he wrote down the new words and phrases and practiced until he spoke them in his dreams. Mardrae was a fascinating language full of rich vowel tones and soft consonants. It almost sounded dreamy.
Instead of the languages becoming jumbled, he found it easier to learn and store each subsequent one, though the boundaries were not impenetrable. There were times when a Sulese word, for example, would try to pass itself off as a native in a Vinthian sentence. Fergal was sharper than any border inspector and caught the little imposters every time. Nevertheless, he declared himself to be impressed with the effort and progress of his students.
Aedan’s application to Lekran, however, was another matter. He felt as though the words polluted his mind and he let them trickle out as fast as they reached him.
One day, during a spell between questions, Aedan changed the topic to something that had been gnawing at him for a long time.
“What’s under the academy?” he asked.
Fergal directed a long look at him. “I gave my word not to speak of it. Anyway, you would have difficulty believing me.”
“Now you are setting my curiosity alight.”
“Good. Curiosity is an excellent fuel. You will find out what is down there, but not through me.”
“How? There’s no longer an entrance.”
“Did we not cover this in your first lesson? No entrance you say?”
Aedan considered for a moment. “Are you saying there’s another entrance?”
“I am not. And I could not say so, even if I knew it to be true. I am addressing a flaw in your reasoning – a fact constructed from the material of ignorance, a brick made of air.”
“And that is all the satisfaction you are going to give me on this?”
“Very good Aedan. You are making fine progress.”
Aedan huffed for a while, but soon thought of another question. “This one you might not like,” he said, “but I need to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“Are you teaching us because Malik’s father – or mother, in reality – told Culver not to?”
Fergal looked up at the clouds, apparently dreaming. When he turned around to Aedan there was a hint of amusement in his eye. “Then this is why you were so surly to begin with.”
Aedan dropped his eyes.
“Yes, I suspected your little pre-departure conference with Malik might have run along those lines. It is true that his mother has great influence, and also true that such a demand was made, but even if it had not been, Culver would not have taught you. You will learn to forgive him once you understand him. The chancellor is a man who keeps himself apart. He is someone very few people understand, but perhaps you will learn something of him before we return.”
It still sounded like academic snobbery to Aedan, but he didn’t really care. Fergal was proving to be the best tutor he had ever known. Liru said the same. If Malik had known this assistant better, he would have included him in the veto against teaching.
Camp was usually made during early afternoon, allowing time for the two apprentices to train with weapons. They never trained within view of the soldiers, and leather sleeves kept the noise of weapons down. Even Aedan was sworn to secrecy as he began to work with Liru.
Osric and Tyne acted as their instructors. Though he had known Osric for many years, Aedan had never actually trained with him. The oversized general was not capable of shifting as quickly as his smaller opponents, but the depth of each movement easily made up for this, and the speed of his arms was devastating. The blade would move so quickly and with such weight that he could parry and cut before anyone realised the offensive had shifted.
Tyne, though she was taller than most women, drifted over the grass as lightly as a summer breeze. She slipped around lunges and darted in with a fluid grace that sometimes even put Osric on the retreat. Aedan and Liru watched with dropping jaws. It was poetry.
Aedan had begun to like Tyne as he had grown to understand her. She was not the domineering, starchy woman he had first thought. She could command if needed, and she was strong, no mistake. But behind it all was a shy lady who smiled with the most endearing dimples, coloured slightly when complimented, and who was always quick to soothe any bruise. Whatever ill will she had borne Aedan was long gone, and she laughed with him as freely as with the others.
Once, as he watched her stepping and leaping around Osric, her long copper braid sweeping behind her and a half smile always tugging at her mouth, he leaned over to Liru and whispered, “They make good dancing partners.”
He would say nothing when Osric and Tyne demanded to know what all the whispering was about. It was not the last such comment that passed between the youngsters. Aedan had never seen the general smile so often – and there was no doubt as to the cause. Sword-sparring was usually marked by glittering steel and ringing strikes; Tyne’s bouts with Osric were marked by glittering eyes and ringing laughter.
The teaching and training covered unarmed combat, knives, swords, clubs, and quarterstaves. They alternated partners, fought in pairs, and then all fought Osric. Then they fought Osric with one hand tied behind his back. Then Tyne suggested they tie his arms and legs, put a bag over his head and give him Aedan’s cheese knife to hold between his boots.
Thormar, the steady, silent commander was always to be seen around the camp, thick white smoke curling up from his pipe, and his heavy glance bringing instant order to any disturbance. His constant presence allowed Osric to move around freely.
Merter would hunt on most days. When Aedan was able to get off he would join him, slipping easily into the patient silence of the trail. Merter tolerated nobody else near him, saying the rest of them breathed through trumpets and stamped on every branch the ground had to offer.
One afternoon, following a gruelling weapons session, Aedan was stretching out in front of the camp fire, watching a deer haunch sizzle while beans and maize simmered in half-a-
dozen blackened pots. He was cooking a roll of stick bread – dough wrapped around a stick – which he would stuff with beans and strips of meat. The idea was to pack it away for tomorrow’s lunch, but the steam rising from the bread was tickling his nose, and he was beginning to doubt quite seriously that the bread would survive the evening.
His contemplations were interrupted when Thormar sat down beside him, his ever-present pipe belching spicy clouds. Aedan was too intimidated to cough. He’d seen this big commander smashing his way through the Fenn attack, producing almost as much devastation as the general.
“Osric tells me you are from the Mistyvales,” Thormar said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d prefer you to drop the ‘sir’ unless it’s in front of the soldiers.”
“Yes …” Aedan caught himself in time.
“I remember the Mistyvales dimly. How well did you know Glenting?”
“I only visited there once when my father went to buy a mule.”
“Would that have been at old Ainsley’s stable? By the river, just under the mill?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Glenting was my home … is my home. You know what it’s like being northern – there’s that song, something about how the blood seems ever to sing in our veins of going home.”
Aedan smiled. He had heard the song and knew the longing, but in his case returning would be more complicated. “Do you think you will go back?” he asked.
“I have another three years to complete in the army and then I’ll be discharged, free to stay or leave. What would you do?”
Aedan began to answer and then realised he had no idea what to say. As he thought of faithful Thomas and Dara, the other memories rushed back – the slander and accusations, the way in which he would perhaps even now be remembered. Perhaps charges had been laid against him.
“Ah, you have some attachment in Castath,” said Thormar, elbowing him. “A young lass that holds you back?”
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 56
