Chapter 57

TWENTY-THREE YEARS AGO

S zeth-son-Neturo no longer danced with the wind.

Had there been magic in his steps, in the breeze, in the music of the landscape? Or had he been a silly boy determined to make profound what was actually awkward and simple? The boys of the practice yards outside the Stoneward monastery left him with no such confusion. They lined up to prove themselves against him, and Szeth laid each one in the dust.

The latest challenger was Jormo-son-Falk. Name notwithstanding, the light-skinned youth seemed the son of a mountain. Fortunately, three years in the practice yards had taught Szeth true. Strength and reach were distinct advantages. Every advantage was also a liability, when you depended on it too much.

Jormo came in swinging, trusting in his greater weight and momentum. Szeth refused to be caught in the momentum of life, or of battle. Momentum carried those who didn’t wonder, didn’t stop to question.

Questions like “What is right?”

Or perhaps questions like “Shouldn’t I be approaching more carefully?”

Szeth barely had to shove Jormo—catching him shield-on-shield, stepping to the side to dodge a wild strike from the man’s sword—in order to trip him. Jormo ended up face-first in the dirt, dust rising from him in a puff. Laughter erupted from the watching youths—all officers in training like Szeth. Mostly children of other officers. As the Voice had said, those in the camp tended to fulfill their own expectations.

Jormo pushed himself up and spat dirt. His glance toward Szeth carried thunderous implications—toughs like him did not like to be defeated by someone smaller and younger. Jormo would come looking for Szeth later, with friends, so Szeth would have to spend another few nights sleeping on the roof in the cold. He probably should have let Jormo beat him.

No, the Voice said.

“No?” Szeth asked as Jormo got to his feet.

No, the Voice replied. You cannot run from men like Jormo forever.

Szeth wasn’t certain when the Voice had begun reading his mind. It had happened gradually over the last few years.

Hit him when he comes for you, the Voice said. Hard this time.

Jormo grabbed his shield and practice sword—iron, as they all had to get used to holding metal, but not edged—and came for Szeth again. More cautious, testing forward. Other soldiers leaned over the fence surrounding the sparring grounds, calling to him, but that cacophony became a soft buzzing to Szeth.

Time for the dance. He exchanged blows with Jormo, each trying to intercept the other’s hits with their shield, the two spinning around one another as they swung. A brutal affair, exactly as Szeth had imagined fighting to be.

Yet it was a dance. Szeth had learned the steps by brute force of practice each and every evening, while the others relaxed. He did it right. He had to do it right. Some people whispered of supernatural skill on his part, that he was too capable for a boy of fourteen. That angered him. It made luck out of sweat. He hated it when they pretended he was something special. He wasn’t.

That was the point.

Jormo left an opening, slipping his shield too low as he tried a rush. Szeth clipped him on the helmet, then dodged the youth’s follow-up blow. Szeth’s next hit went to Jormo’s side, directly where the jerkin was tied, a weak point in the armor. The blow forced the stiff leather against his ribs, causing him to huff in pain. Szeth struck the leg next, a precise hit on the thigh just above the leather greave.

Jormo went down once more, sprawling, dazed.

Hit him! the Voice demanded.

Szeth hesitated.

Jormo howled and heaved himself at Szeth’s legs, toppling him, though grappling was forbidden. Szeth had not practiced this kind of fighting. Kammar, the art of fighting with hands, was for the shamans or those who had already mastered the sword.

Jormo grabbed Szeth by the head and slammed it against the ground, shouting. The rim of Szeth’s helmet bit into his neck, and he struggled, tasting dirt and blood as Jormo again slammed him to the ground. Szeth’s fingers found something next to him. A rock, half buried in the dirt, kicked loose by the sparring. His fingers locked onto it, smooth and rough all at once, alien.

He gripped it.

Then let go.

No, he thought. Not again.

He had lost control once. Death had followed.

He would never lose control again.

NEVER.

Shouts. Jormo was pulled off Szeth, who lay disheveled on the ground, his lip bleeding where he’d bitten it, helmet askew, though it had done its job. As he shook his head and cleared his tears, he found he was largely uninjured.

We are going to have to do something about this, Szeth, the Voice said. How can you defend this land if you hold back?

“That will be different,” Szeth said, standing.

Ahead of them, Sergeant Szrand berated Jormo. “If you lose control like that, you’ll end up becoming what all those people think we are!” His wave was toward the lowlands, but he didn’t need the gesture, as the phrase those people never referred to anyone else. The “sheep,” as soldiers called them.

To Szeth it did not seem a healthy relationship on either side—but he said nothing. His betters, like the Farmer and the General, must know what they were doing.

The sergeant pushed Jormo away, and Szeth thought that maybe the youth would be suitably disciplined—and therefore not seek revenge. Then again, this was the same camp that had trained the soldiers who had killed Molli … so Szeth decided he’d best sleep on the roof anyway. Discipline was getting better now that his father was the General’s aide-de-camp, but one man could only do so much.

“You,” Sergeant Szrand said, looking at Szeth. “Always causing trouble.”

Szeth froze, not liking the tone of the sergeant’s voice. He was a thick man—thick of arm, thick of thigh, thick of waist. Thick of wit. With deep brown skin and hair that puffed out when he removed his helmet.

Szeth had always thought him jovial, even if the sergeant had never been able to explain footings properly. Szeth had needed to go to some of the camp’s shaman acolytes—who trained with the Honorbearers—to learn. An odd bunch, the shamans. Holy enough to walk on stone, because they shared its divine nature. The opposite of the soldiers, yet placed alongside them.

Szrand was still glaring at him.

“… Sergeant?” Szeth asked.

“Always a problem,” the taller man said, striding up to Szeth. “Always goading people. Always acting like you’re better than they are.”

“But I am better than they are,” Szeth said. “I rarely lose a bout, and never three out of five against the same boy. I defeat people several years older than I am.”

The sergeant glared at him.

“You know it is true,” Szeth continued, his head cocked. “You know I have to go to the acolytes for proper training, as I’ve outgrown your teaching.”

“I want sixteen laps around the entire field, Szeth,” the sergeant said, pointing. “When you’re done with that, I’ll have thought of your next punishment.”

“I did nothing wrong,” Szeth said.

“Sixteen laps!”

Szeth didn’t move. Then, softly, he whispered, “Should I do it?”

What do you think? the Voice replied.

“Just tell me.”

I want to see how you decide.

Szeth gritted his teeth. He was still uncertain whether he trusted the Voice or not. He worried it might be a trickster spren, as spoken of in lore.

“Well?” Sergeant Szrand bellowed.

“No,” Szeth said. “I will not accept punishment for having done no wrong.”

“Boy,” Szrand said, stepping closer, speaking under his breath, “don’t push me. This will calm the situation for everyone.”

“Is it right?”

“Right is what I say is right.”

“If that were true,” Szeth said, “then you’d know the proper way to train your students.”

Szrand hissed softly. He walked over and seized a practice sword and shield from a watching student. Szeth sighed. So, he’d made the wrong choice.

The sergeant, to his credit, did get the first hit, but that was because Szeth initially held back. After taking a sharp blow on the arm and realizing that Szrand was not doing him the same favor, he left the man groaning on the ground and holding his leg.

Szeth stood over him wondering if an adult would act out of the same petty sense of revenge that a youth did. Maybe Szeth should sleep on someone else’s roof for a while.

So, the Voice said, you are not impossibly timid.

“Is this what you’d have done?” Szeth whispered.

For insulting me and acting above me? I’d have gone much further, Szeth. But you are young, and you are learning.

Szeth pulled off the training armor, then left it with his sword and shield on the rack. He supposed that now he had done something wrong in hurting the sergeant. Besides, he was supposed to obey orders, so he started jogging the laps. It felt good to be moving, although a sense of dread chased him. He hadn’t been in the wrong, but had he let not being wrong … well, make him wrong?

His mother stopped him halfway through the third lap. She arrived with a waterskin, waving him down as he rounded the southern tip of the encampment.

“More laps?” she said as he jogged over to her, puffing.

He nodded, accepting the waterskin. How she found him at times like this puzzled him. He settled on a rock and drank, as he knew she wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d taken a break.

Three years had passed, and it still felt wrong for his mother to not be wearing a splash of color. Father, Szeth, even Elid … they’d all taken to this life. Mother, though, seemed dull without color.

“Why do you push yourself so hard, Szeth?” she asked.

“I am here,” he said.

She looked confused by that answer. He wasn’t certain why—he was here, so he would do as the place demanded. Yes, he missed dancing. Yes, he missed the sheep, and the grass, and the solitude. But he was here, not there.

He took a long pull on the waterskin. His mother had grown thinner over the years, and her clothes didn’t fit properly anymore. She’d refused to give them up for something new. These days, the clothing on their backs was literally the only thing they had from their old life.

Not the only thing, he reminded himself, reaching down to the pouch on his rope belt where he kept the small sheep made of Molli’s fleece. He rarely brought it out, and never with the other boys around, but he did always keep it nearby.

“Some of the recruits, when they wash out, are sent away to other kinds of work,” Mother said.

“Never back to normal lives though,” Szeth said. “They’re sent to labor in the mines or things like that.”

“Would it be so bad?” his mother asked. “To have solid work again?”

“To wash out that hard, Mother,” Szeth said, “I’d have to be incompetent. ”

She didn’t reply, but turned to stare out over the valley. He didn’t often pause to gaze in that direction. Toward the past. She thought it beautiful.

“How did you know I was out?” he asked. “Did Elid tell you?” Running laps took him by the kitchens and their wide, open windows that let in the cool air. His sister was observant, although the truth was the other scullery maids knew she liked to watch for him. So one of them had probably told her, then covered for her as she went to tell his mother.

He found it odd how quickly people did things like that for Elid. She barely cared about her duties, yet everyone helped and welcomed her. Szeth was impeccable in his duty, and the others all jeered him. With more time though, he was certain he’d pick out the nuances. There were rules to every situation; he merely didn’t know these ones yet.

He soon finished, thanked her for the water, and returned to running. He probably wouldn’t see her again today, as she went to bed early … while Father usually stayed up late with his work. Szeth … had noticed that they were rarely in the same room together these days.

Eventually, he finished the laps and went to the practice yards for the second stage of his punishment. It was worse than he’d imagined: a note telling him to report to the General’s office. The few boys assigned to oil the equipment didn’t meet his eyes. He felt alone, like a mouse on a barren field, constantly looking toward the sky.

He’d never been summoned to the General’s office for discipline. Szeth slipped into the office, passing the cages of the General’s messenger parrots, and was confronted by the sight of his father behind the desk outside the General’s room.

Szeth’s father always seemed too solid to belong behind a desk. A man like Neturo should be out in the sunlight, like a stone basking in the elements. Yet here he was, going through the General’s appointment books, annotating procedures, coming up with ways to make the camp more efficient. Szeth supposed it was a high honor—people talked as though it was. Father ate meals with the General and attended his most important meetings.

“Father,” Szeth said.

“Ah, son,” Neturo said, glancing up and smiling.

Szeth let some of the tension melt from his shoulders. As long as his father could smile, maybe it wasn’t as bad as Szeth had feared.

“Just a sec,” Neturo said, quickly making a few notations in his ledger. Then he stood up and walked over to give Szeth a hug. “Hard day?”

“Yes,” Szeth whispered.

“I hear you laid Szrand on his ass,” his father said, pulling back from the hug but holding Szeth by the shoulders to inspect him.

Szeth blushed, but nodded.

“Fourteen years old,” Neturo said, “and making fools of men twice your weight. Remarkable.”

“You aren’t … mad?”

“I am a little,” Neturo admitted. “But Szrand is a buffoon. I’m working out a retirement plan for him. I think I’ll put Yago-son-Yargo in his place, but he’s getting up in age. When he retires in five years or so, we’ll need a new master of the training grounds. Someone who will listen to orders and train the new boys properly.”

“You want that to be me?” Szeth said. “Father, I don’t think the other boys would let that happen. They don’t … they don’t like me.”

“It wouldn’t be for some time yet,” Father said. “Those boys training with you now, well, they will be assigned to other locations by then. The old guard will retire, and the new guard will take their spots. I think … I think I can make a real home for us here, son. A place your mother can enjoy.”

“Does this have to do with why she often leaves the room when you enter?” Szeth blurted the words, but felt stupid for saying them. Like pointing out a stain on someone’s shirt.

Neturo glanced away. “Maybe, maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway, you’d like a permanent post here, wouldn’t you? At the training grounds?”

“I wouldn’t have to go fight,” Szeth whispered. “I wouldn’t have to kill …”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” Father asked, suddenly seeming concerned.

“Wonderful,” Szeth whispered.

Father bobbed his head eagerly. “Come on.” He led the way, but not into the General’s chambers. Out of the building.

“Father?” Szeth said. “Didn’t the General send for me? To discipline me for fighting earlier?”

“That? Oh, that wasn’t your fault. The General doesn’t know about it. I sent for you myself—something important is happening today. It doesn’t directly involve you, but I wanted you to be there to watch.”

Neturo led the way out onto the path that wound along the cliff face up toward the old monastery. Szeth followed, curious. The monastery was maintained by shamans and their acolytes, but there was no Honorbearer in attendance. Theirs was the Stoneward monastery, dedicated to the lost Herald.

Szeth was thus surprised when they joined a group of people standing with the General near the gates into the monastery. General Kinal was a wide, quiet man, with darker skin and grey streaking his beard. Szeth had always seen him as stoic, even dangerous, but today he was nodding enthusiastically to his companion—his eyes wide with excitement, looking like nothing so much as a young recruit taking his first advice.

“I’m pleased at the changes in your camp,” one of the newcomers was saying. “Pleased indeed, General Kinal.”

The speaker was a short, older man, light skinned with a long drooping beard and mustaches. Bald, wearing brilliant light blue robes, indicating a high-ranking shaman—or in this case, the highest. For he held a brilliant Honorblade in front of him, point down, one hand on the hilt and the tip sunken six inches or so into the stone of the pathway. Szeth had heard that the Honorbearers often kept their swords out when visiting—as a reminder. A display of the trust placed in the Shin people, and the Truth they silently bore. The knowledge that someday the enemy would return, and someone would need to be ready to fight.

It was his first time seeing one of the Blades—this one wide like a weapon meant to slay horses, with a hooked end and sweeping ridges. Szeth was mesmerized. It was to the dull iron sword he’d used earlier what a beautiful white pelt was to a muddy washrag.

Do you want to hold one? the Voice asked.

“Yes,” Szeth whispered. “ Yes. ”

Good. The time is not right. Perhaps it never will be. But I am watching you.

The General waved toward Szeth’s father. “Here he is, honor-nimi. The one I mentioned to you!”

The aged Honorbearer took Neturo in, measuring him. “You are the secretary who has been overseeing discipline and work routines?”

“Yes, honor-nimi,” Neturo said.

“I am Pozen-son-Nash, and I find myself impressed with you. The men of your camp are happier, yet do their work more willingly. The shamans report impressive changes in morale. This has long been a difficult camp, watched over by several of us, but with no Honorbearer of its own—and with a Farmer who is far too kindly. Tell me, secretary, where did you learn the ways of leading men and inspiring them?”

“Well,” Neturo said, “people are a lot like sheep, honor-nimi.”

The Honorbearer looked shocked by that. Szeth, of course, understood. Sheep were caring, and communal, and smart. But in large groups, you at times needed a firm hand. His father explained basically this same idea, though Szeth wasn’t listening much. His eyes were on that beautiful relic.

Fighting and killing isn’t bad, Szeth thought. If it were, God wouldn’t have given us swords. We’re needed. Killing, sometimes, is needed.

In this, he was a sheep himself. He knew that what they did was right, but he would have loved a firmer hand. Direction.

Perhaps the man in front of him would finally be someone who could give it. Szeth, over the last few years, felt he’d matured. He could grasp that different people saw things differently from him. That a soup with a lot of pepper could be right for one person, but wrong for another. Some questions didn’t actually have right answers.

But some had to have right answers. So Szeth asked, “May I be allowed to speak, General-nimi, honor-nimi?”

All eyes turned to him, as if he were a bright splash of color on the wrong person. Szeth stifled a blush and tried to stand tall, as he’d been trained.

“And who is this?” the Honorbearer asked.

“My son,” Father said, placing his hand on Szeth’s shoulder. “As good a son as a man could want, honor-nimi, and one full of curious questions.”

Perhaps a soldier should not care what a father said. But Neturo’s praise made Szeth swell.

“He is one of our most promising young officers,” the General said. “Likely will follow his father into administration before too long.”

“And in so doing,” the Honorbearer said, focusing on Szeth, “deny us yet another talented leader for the field. But I will not interfere with your management. Young man, what is your question?”

Szeth swallowed, and—feeling like a fool for having the same stupid question every time—forced himself to speak. “Honor-nimi, how do you know what is right?”

The older man cocked his head, then dismissed his Blade, frowning. He glanced at Szeth’s father, who shrugged, as if to say, I told you he was a curious type.

“We have all been taught right and wrong since childhood,” the Honorbearer said. “You have, by all accounts, a wonderful father. He did not explain this to you?”

Szeth squirmed; the Honorbearer sounded almost offended by the question. Still, his father nodded encouragingly, so he continued. “Honor-nimi, I was taught. But as I grow, I see that truth seems … different for different people. Is there one truth, or many? How do I know which one to follow?”

“Listen to your superiors,” the Honorbearer said. “Follow the chain of command.”

“I trust in the General and the monasteries,” Szeth said. “But how do you know what is right?”

“Our chain of command,” the Honorbearer said, “ends at the Heralds, who serve the Lifebrother—spren of soil—and the spren of mountains, sun, and moons. They, in turn, report to God himself. Do you question these?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Then follow what you’re told, young man,” the Honorbearer said, “and count yourself lucky to be one who defends Truth.”

Szeth nodded, bowing his head.

“Is there a particular moral question you’re having trouble with?” someone else asked. A woman’s voice.

Szeth looked up, confused at who was speaking. It was one of the Honorbearer’s attendants, another high-ranking shaman, in violet robes. She had short dark hair of a style he’d never seen before, parts of it made to stick out as if on purpose. It seemed a flagrant way to draw attention to oneself.

“We do not want to trouble you, honor-nimi,” the General said to the woman, paying her deference.

“It is no trouble,” she replied.

Honor-nimi? A second Honorbearer?

She watched him, her eyes a deep shade of violet, hands clasped before her. She looked young for an Honorbearer, though what did he know?

“I …” Szeth said, searching. “I have trouble hurting people, honor-nimi. Even in training, when it would be correct. It feels wrong.”

“It is not so terrible,” the woman said. “I do not see this as a flaw.”

“Nonsense,” the older Honorbearer said. “Sivi, if he is to be a soldier, he cannot afford to hesitate—it could mean the lives of his companions if he does.”

She considered. “An unfortunate truth, but this one is destined for administration.”

“Which is a problem in itself,” the older Honorbearer said. “We consistently promote the ones who are levelheaded out of battle, yet we complain about ‘incident’ after ‘incident.’” He focused on Szeth. “Young man, what do you want to do?”

“What is right,” Szeth said immediately.

“Then do this.” The older man pointed at Szeth. “Each week, take at least one shift at the camp slaughterhouse. Accustom yourself to death, little sheepherder.”

The idea horrified Szeth. Which … might be good?

“General,” Pozen continued, “when the next raid happens, assign this one to the defense.”

“He’s a little young yet.”

“He wants to know how to fight, doesn’t he? How to hurt? Don’t put him at the front, of course; let him be in the rear guard. These are lessons you learn only by experience.” He met Szeth’s eyes. “Will you do it? Follow my orders to the best of your understanding?”

“Is it right?” Szeth asked.

“I say that it is. Do you believe me?”

What else could he say? He was glad that for once, someone seemed willing to be firm.

So he nodded.

And was sent to learn how to kill.