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Chapter 68

EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO

F or the second time in his life, Szeth waited on the other side of a door while people decided his fate.

He wasn’t a child any longer. He didn’t hide in bed, or cry into a blanket. He stood outside the General’s door, his back straight, legs spread, hands clasped before him. Guard stance. He could hold it, motionless, longer than anyone he knew.

Inside, he trembled.

He’d stridden into battle—through smoke and fire and brine—where his plan had destroyed two ships and sent the raiders away, perhaps forever. He’d thought himself immune from fear, even quietly bragged about it in his head. Yet now? Now he had to force himself to breathe evenly so that he didn’t start hyperventilating? Now he had to struggle to keep the emotions from flooding out as tears?

What was wrong with him? He’d accepted punishment in the past. He could do so again.

Even if … even if this would be different.

It had been three days since Szeth’s operation. Forbidden his duties—or even sparring—during that time, he’d been left in misery to wait for this tribunal. Finally, Honorbearers had arrived—and now they all spoke together inside. With the General, his father, even the Farmer. Carried in by soldiers so he wouldn’t have to step on stone. All because Szeth had used his initiative in following orders.

He wished he could hear what they were saying. He could not, so he remained standing. Angry. Increasingly sick. Even the Voice was shunning him lately.

A footstep ground against the gravel walkway nearby. A normal sound to him now. He glanced that direction, wondering who would approach the General’s offices at a time like this. The answer should have been obvious.

Elid. His sister.

As an adult, Elid was still two inches taller than he was. She wore work clothing, and though she wasn’t a supervisor in the kitchens, she bore a distinctive air of authority. Maybe it was the polished stone necklace of beads, a badge of pride for a hobby no one outside the monasteries would ever enjoy. Maybe it was the way she strolled over and leaned with one shoulder against the wooden wall, one leg lazily crossing the other. Long black ponytail, keen eyes, knowing smile.

Elid navigated rules and social expectations like a fish in water. Whereas Szeth did it like a sword through entrails.

“So,” she said, “you screwed up again.”

He glanced away from her, staring through the camp at nothing in particular.

“They’re gonna kick you out, eh?”

“They can’t,” Szeth said softly. “I subtract. They can find something miserable for me to do, they can execute me, or …”

Or worse. They wouldn’t make him Truthless, would they? He hadn’t denied Truth. He was trying to protect Shinovar.

He could feel Elid’s skeptical eyes on him. That woman … “What do you want, Elid?” he snapped.

“Just to see how you’re doing,” she said. “Szeth. It’s okay to rage and lose control sometimes. But you need to find better ways to express it than in battle.”

Rage? He looked at her, confused until he sorted through that statement. “Is that what they’re saying in camp?”

“A lot of them have felt it,” she said, shrugging. “It’s why they’re here. These are the men who can’t control themselves when they fight.”

“I didn’t attack the outlanders out of rage, Elid,” he said. “I was told to defend our shores.”

“You were told,” she said, “to watch for any enemy that decided to strike inward. Why do you think the Farmer leaves offerings for them?”

“Because he’s afraid.”

“Because it works,” Elid said. “If they find easy goods, they take them and leave. They know if they burn down the fishing villages and steal all the workers, the offerings stop.”

That wasn’t what the Voice said. The Voice said that the Farmer’s offerings would only make the enemy hunger for more and more. Szeth had thought, in the General’s orders—the way Szeth had been left to his own devices on the coast these months, tasked with defensive operations—that the General had understood.

Obviously not.

Obviously, he really had screwed up again.

“I’m sorry, Elid,” he said. “For ruining your life.”

“Eh, that life was boring,” she said. “Stones Unhallowed. To think, if nothing had happened, I might be sitting out in a field somewhere today.” She shivered visibly.

“You shouldn’t swear.”

“Why not? You honestly think rock is holy?”

“Of course it is,” Szeth said. “Ask Father.”

“Szeth. Do you still not know why we lived apart from everyone else when we were young?”

He closed his eyes. He … he didn’t want to know. Life already confused him too much. That unsettled sense continued when, of all things, Elid hugged him.

This made him break his stance, put his arms to the side in surprise. She embraced him. Elid.

“Listen,” she said. “Father will work it out. Everyone knows your heart is right.”

“I don’t,” he whispered. “ I don’t know that, Elid.”

She stepped back, holding him by the arms. “Well, that’s probably why you shouldn’t trust yourself, Szeth.” She patted him on the arm, and seemed teary eyed. “Look. You’ll get through this, whatever happens.” She nodded to him encouragingly, then backed off as the door opened.

Father beckoned Szeth to enter. Szeth did so, trying to recover his composure. It was difficult. Three Honorbearers stood inside. Pozen, with his white beard and accusatory eyes. Sivi, with a smile. Vambra, who wasn’t as familiar as the other two. A woman young to be an Honorbearer, with long golden hair.

The Farmer appeared older than Szeth remembered. More white in his hair, somehow more attention-drawing than the colorful clothing. He was standing on the wooden floor beside Rit-daughter-Clutio, the head shaman of the monastery with no Blade.

The General was the last one, gazing out the window, hands clasped behind him. “We have consulted, Szeth-son-Neturo,” he said softly. “What you did was reckless, destructive, and insubordinate. Your father spoke of your good nature and your skill, which we have taken into account. In the end, however, we cannot ignore the danger you bring upon all of us. It is our inclination to send you to the mines.”

That was …

Well, that was what he’d expected.

Szeth remained in his stance.

“Son?” the Farmer said. “Do you have anything to say?”

Szeth frowned. “ Should I say something?”

The others shared glances.

“I did what I was told,” Szeth said. “If I misinterpreted so badly, then you are correct to decommission me.” Saying it brought a huge weight off his shoulders. “Maybe … maybe this is for the best.”

This seemed to concern several of them, but the Farmer—swathed in color—smiled openly.

“You are right, Szeth,” the Farmer said, his voice kindly. “I’m glad you see it. In anticipation of your willingness to cooperate, I’ve insisted that instead of hard labor, you be given a post at the high pass to watch for stonewalkers entering our lands. I sometimes go there to meet foreign traders; it is beautiful, Szeth. A lonely post, yes, but also good for solitary thinking.” He paused. “You could keep sheep, as soldiers there do for food.”

Sheep? Herding flocks again?

Oh … how incredible that would be.

He could imagine it: A quiet post, far from where he could do harm. As many sheep as he wanted, and he’d slaughter only the elderly and infirm, at the end of their lives. Quiet winds. Dancing. A blanket of stars at night.

Why had it taken so long for him to see it? His mother had suggested this years ago. Yes, it stung to know he’d failed, but it was also amazing to have direction. He found, as he looked up and met the Farmer’s eyes, that he wasn’t frightened any longer.

Well, this won’t do, the Voice said in his head. Not after you finally started proving yourself. I’m sorry for getting distracted. I nearly missed this meeting, didn’t I?

Suddenly, all three Honorbearers stood up straighter and went alert, as if they’d been slapped. Then, as if one, they focused on Szeth.

“ Out, ” Pozen said. “Everyone but Szeth.”

“Excuse me?” the Farmer said. “But—”

“ OUT, ” Pozen repeated, Honorblade appearing in his hand. He slammed it straight through the floor and into the stone. “ Right now. ”

Father, Rit, and the General hurried out. The Farmer had to wait for his soldier porters to come and pick him up off his ritual mat and carry him out beyond the stones—but he went, appearing troubled the entire time.

Szeth bore it all with a mounting sense of dread.

As soon as the door shut, Vambra—the Truthwatcher Honorbearer—walked up to Szeth. She couldn’t be much older than he was, but spoke with authority. “How long has he been talking to you?”

“I …” Szeth barely maintained his stance; his instincts said he should flee this intense scrutiny.

“How long?” Vambra repeated.

It’s all right, the Voice said. You may reveal me.

Only then did Szeth understand. “You hear it too?” He looked to the other Honorbearers. “All three of you?”

“It is very rare,” Sivi said, “for one who is not an acolyte or a shaman to be chosen. In fact, I can’t remember the last time it happened.”

“I was six years in the monastery before I heard him,” Vambra said. “Soldier, you were asked a question.”

“I heard the Voice that first day,” Szeth said, “when I killed that soldier as a child. I’ve … heard it regularly ever since.”

“This was his plan?” Pozen asked. “Burning those ships?”

Of course it was, the Voice said, and from the way they reacted, each of them had heard it. There’s no Honorbearer in this monastery or region. I work through other means here.

“Why?” Szeth whispered. “Why wouldn’t you tell them?”

It does them good, the Voice said—and this time it seemed to be only for Szeth. They need to remember that they serve me, not the other way around.

Wait.

The Honorbearers served the Voice?

“What is it?” Szeth said, unfolding his arms, breaking stance at last. “What is this Voice?”

“That,” Sivi said, sounding reluctant, “is only for the highest members of our society to know.”

“Regardless,” the elderly Pozen said, gesturing toward Szeth, “he needs training at a monastery. You’ve heard the reports of Szeth’s skill—they are true and unexaggerated. If there was an Honorbearer in this monastery, he’d have been recruited long ago.”

“A commendation for his bravery should suffice,” Vambra said. “Make a big production of it; that will explain us taking a man from another monastery.”

“Send the award after,” Pozen said. “He comes with me today.”

“But …” Szeth said, glancing between them. “What of what I did?”

“What did he say to you?” Vambra asked. “About the outlanders?”

“The Voice told me … that if I hit them hard enough, they would be too frightened to return. It said to send survivors back, when my plan had been to sink all three ships.”

“Well, there you are,” Vambra said. “He’s rarely wrong. You did well, Szeth. Sorry for the confusion and hubbub.”

“This is actually perfect,” Pozen said. “You should see my current crop of acolytes—not a standout among them. But this boy … If there’s a solution to the Tuko problem, this might very well be it.”

Szeth felt his freedom evaporating. Rainwater disappearing under the sun. His stomach churned, like during the first weeks after coming to the monastery, when he’d started eating meat every day.

“Do I need to do this?” Szeth whispered. “ Must I?”

Yes, Szeth, you must, the Voice said. It is right.

Vambra clapped him on the shoulder as Pozen dismissed his Blade and composed himself, all three of them adopting more serious airs. They called out, and Szeth’s father opened the door for the General, who hesitantly entered.

“We have something to tell you,” Pozen said with a stern voice. “The young man is in fact a hero.”

“ What? ” the General said. “But—”

“He was working on higher orders,” Pozen said. “His attack three days ago was a trial of his abilities and leadership skill. Today’s conversation was a test to see if he would take punishment with grace, which he did. We’re moving him to my monastery to begin training as a shaman acolyte.”

Szeth was glad to see the stunned look in the General’s eyes. For once, someone else was as confused as Szeth was.

Neturo nodded slowly. “I’ll help him gather his things.”

“No need,” Pozen said. “Once you become an acolyte, you must burn everything you own.”

Szeth put his hand to the pouch at his belt. “Everything?”

“Today, you become someone new, Szeth,” Pozen said. “Neither one who adds nor one who subtracts—but someone holy, someone greater. You come alone, as every child is born alone.”

“A … alone?” Szeth said, his voice small.

“No,” Neturo said.

Szeth glanced to his father.

“No child is ‘born alone,’” Neturo said. “He is born to a family. If Szeth is to go, we go with him.”

“There will be no place for you in the monastery,” Pozen said. “You can’t—”

“Pardon,” Sivi said, “but there is a city outside your monastery, Pozen. Weren’t you saying you needed a new administrator for it?”

Pozen hesitated.

“I will gather my family and my things,” Neturo said. “Assuming we don’t need to burn away our old lives like Szeth.”

Pozen eventually waved for Neturo to do so.

Neturo left, and though it might not have been correct to leave without being dismissed, Szeth followed. “Father,” he said outside, gripping his father by the arm. “You don’t need to do this.”

Neturo put his hand on Szeth’s, holding it. “Son. Of course I do. I won’t let them take you away from us.”

The next part passed in a daze. An announcement in the camp: a commendation for Szeth. Szeth didn’t get to see the expression on Jormo’s face as he was placed on a horse, and the servants of the Honorbearers gathered to begin their caravan home. Nearby, the Farmer stood on ritual carpet on a box, on top of soil carried and placed here. A pillar of color in the otherwise drab camp. He looked concerned as the ribbons tied to his robes fluttered in the wind.

Neturo came with a large pack on his back, and Elid followed. Szeth glanced away from her as she stepped up to his horse. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding?” Elid said. “Have you heard how great the cities are around active monasteries? This is going to be wonderful.”

Should he think that way? Instead he felt sick. Even a little angry. So he looked up behind him and he saw what he’d been expecting. What he’d been anticipating. His stomach turned over.

His mother stood there, and she bore no pack.

“Zeenid,” Neturo said, walking to her. “We must—”

“I’m not going, Neturo,” she said. “I’m not letting you do this to me again.”

“I …” Neturo said. “I didn’t—”

“I’m going back to my old life,” she said. “I’m told, with cleansing and penance, I can return as if nothing had happened—because I never subtracted. You never subtracted, Neturo. We didn’t need to do this.”

“Zeenid,” Neturo said, “we can’t leave him.”

“He’s an adult, Neturo,” Zeenid said. “Nineteen years old. Let go. For both of your good.”

The Honorbearers chose that moment to start the caravan. Horses and porters began descending the long set of switchbacks. Szeth held his horse back, looking to his parents. To Neturo, who glanced at Szeth, then at Zeenid, who averted her eyes.

“Wait,” Elid said from beside Szeth’s horse. “Wait. Mom’s not coming? That isn’t what … I mean …”

Mother spun and walked back toward camp. She didn’t say goodbye. Neturo whispered to Elid, asking if she wanted to stay with Mother—telling her it was a valid decision. She shook her head with tears in her eyes, so he turned her away from the sight.

Together, the three of them started after the caravan. Szeth hung his head. Though he knew deep down that they hadn’t been a family for years now, it still hurt. Because this break, last of all, seemed final.

THE END OF

Day Five

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