Book 1: Chapter Five

Twelve years earlier…

Ansel sat at the heavy mahogany desk in his study, trying to figure out what to do with his sons. Among members of Larso’s nobility, it was considered somewhat dangerous to have three boys, especially when one of them was not by one’s wife. Some allowance was made for the semi-legitimate children of concubines, but by kingdom law, if his legitimate sons were to die without issue, then Corec would become his heir. A ten-year-old child wasn’t likely to be making plans to take advantage of that fact, but it had happened any number of times in the history of the kingdom. The other barons in the Black Crow region were superstitious about things like that, and nervous that Ansel hadn’t found a place for his youngest son yet—a place somewhere far away from the barony.

On top of all that, the boys’ arguments were getting to be a problem. The three of them had always had a turbulent relationship, but it had gotten worse as they grew older. Toman was fourteen, and had become moody as he’d hit his growth spurt. Branth still idolized his older brother, but there were cracks showing now that Toman no longer wished to spend time with him. Even during the times the older boys were getting along, Corec was often still excluded from their activities simply by virtue of being younger—and perhaps because he had a different mother.

That led to a third reason, which Ansel admitted only to himself. He missed Moira deeply. Isabel was a wonderful wife and mother, but the two of them had been much happier when Moira was still with them. Since she’d been gone, there was a sense of something missing between Ansel and his wife, though they tried to pretend otherwise. Every time he saw Corec, Ansel was reminded of the boy’s mother. Not that Corec took after Moira—with his dark hair, he looked more like his father—but it brought to mind the memory of Moira’s happiness once she’d finally been able to bring a child into the world. It was difficult for Ansel to be a good father when the sight of his youngest son only served to remind him of the love he’d lost.

With a sigh, he opened the seal on a note he’d just received, a response to a letter he’d sent to his cousin Jesson. The reply he’d gotten would provide him with a possible answer to his dilemma, but Isabel wouldn’t like it.

#

Corec washed his hands and face before heading to the dining hall. Branth had told him that a messenger had arrived, wearing fancy armor, and that for some reason the man would be taking his meal with them that evening.

That was unusual. They had guests at their table occasionally, but typically those were the more well-off members of the village, or Lord and Lady Tammerly and their daughter. Messengers usually ate with the servants, even the occasional messenger from the duke.

Corec joined his family in the dining room. Everyone was still standing, so he stood as well—near his brothers but not with them. Branth gave him a small nod but Toman ignored them both, biting his lip nervously. The visitor was speaking quietly with Father on the other side of the room. The man, who appeared to be just a little older than Father, no longer had on the armor Branth had mentioned. Instead, he wore clothes nearly as fine as the ones Father wore when they had guests.

So, he wasn’t a messenger, then. Corec’s tutors were prone to testing him about anything unusual that happened, so he tried to think of who the visitor might be. A rich merchant might dress in clothing like that, but was unlikely to ride alone through the mountains. Any baron besides Lord Tammerly would have brought a retinue with him. Perhaps it was the son of a baron?

Mr. Melvin came into the room then, dressed as smartly as always, and rang a small bell. “Supper is ready.”

The family and their visitor gathered around the table and took their seats while Mr. Melvin and one of the kitchen maids brought in the soup course. Father and Isa were at the head and foot of the table as usual, while the visitor had the place of honor to Father’s right.

After the soup had been served, the man stood up. “If you don’t mind, cousin?”

“By all means,” Father said.

The man clasped his hands together and bowed over the table. “I would like to dedicate this meal to the glory of Pallisur.” He sat back down as everyone else bowed their heads forward briefly, completing the prayer.

That was even more unusual. Father followed the war god, of course—everyone in the valley did—but they rarely bothered with prayers unless the village priest joined them for a meal. Was the visitor a priest? And he’d called Father cousin, though that word had many meanings among the peerage.

As they ate, Father said, “Boys, I’d like you to meet my cousin, Jesson, a knight out of Fort Hightower.”

They all looked up with interest, even Toman. Branth said excitedly, “A knight? Really?”

Jesson chuckled. “Yes, really. Our grandfather—your great grandfather—sent me to Hightower when I was your age, to learn the knightly arts.”

“Have you ever been in battle?” Branth asked.

“I fought in the North Border War, and I’ve hunted down some bandits in the mountains and the free lands.”

“But Hightower’s to the south,” Toman pointed out, unnecessarily. “Northtower guards the north.”

“In times of war, all of Pallisur’s servants are called on,” Jesson reminded him.

Corec didn’t say anything, not wanting to be embarrassed like his brother had been.

“Let’s have no talk about war at the table, please,” Isa said.

“My apologies, Lady Isabel,” Jesson said.

Father spoke then. “Corec, Cousin Jesson has joined us today because it’s time for you to make some decisions about your future. Toman is my heir, and will take over the barony when I pass on, and Branth will be named steward when Mr. Jaks is ready for retirement. What would you like to do? I could purchase an apprenticeship for you among the tradesmen in Telfort, or Jesson has brought with him an invitation from the priests at Fort Hightower to join their order.”

Corec had never considered working in the trades before, but to become a priest? His stomach turned as he thought of the fat village priest who spent his time poking his nose in other people’s business—and who hadn’t been able to save Mother when she got sick.

“What sort of trade?” he asked.

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“You could choose one of the crafts,” Father said. “Or some of the merchant houses will take on apprentices from outside the family.”

“There is another option,” Jesson said, perhaps sensing Corec’s reluctance. “You can join the Knights of Pallisur. You’ll learn to fight—to defend the kingdom. It’s an honorable profession for a baron’s son.”

Isa stood up from her chair and left the room without speaking, her mouth set in a thin line.

Becoming a knight sounded exciting. House Tarwen’s armsmaster had begun teaching Toman and Branth swordplay. Corec hadn’t been included yet since he was too young, but he liked to watch. For his brothers, it was only a small part of their week, but a knight trainee would spend much of his time learning to fight.

“I want to be a knight!” Branth said. “I don’t want to be a steward.”

“Branth, your future has already been decided,” Father said firmly. “Today, we’re talking about your brother.”

Corec had always felt bad for Branth, having to learn accounting so he’d be able to make sure the tenants were paying their rents and taxes. It sounded tedious. And Toman didn’t have it much better—Lord Tammerly was constantly trying to foist his spinster daughter off on the future Baron of Tarwen. While Toman wasn’t old enough to marry, and the girl was ten years his senior, Father was cautiously in favor of the idea. Vena was Tammerly’s only child, which meant that if she and Toman had a son, that boy would inherit both baronies.

Being a knight would be a lot more fun.

#

“Here we are, lad,” Jesson said as they rounded a corner. “Fort Hightower, the defender of the southern border. And sometimes the east.”

Corec brought Max to a halt. The two-year-old gelding had been a parting gift from his father. He’d been thrilled about having his own horse at first, but that had only lasted until he’d spent his first full day in the saddle. While he knew how to ride, he’d never before gone farther than the five miles to the Tammerly estate. It hadn’t helped that they’d spent the first six days traversing rough mountain paths, but they’d left the mountains two days ago, and the aches and pains had finally subsided.

Their journey had started getting chilly as autumn progressed, and even as far south as Hightower, the air held a crispness signifying the coming winter.

Corec looked over the bustling town ahead of him, which was several times the size of Tarwen Village. In the center of town was a large set of stone walls laid out in a square, marking the fort itself.

“How many people live here?” he asked.

“About four hundred in the fort, though we come and go,” Jesson said. “Over twenty thousand in the town, and probably at least that many in the surrounding farms.”

“It’s huge.”

Jesson laughed. “This is nothing. Telfort has half a million people.”

“I don’t remember what a million is.” Corec knew it was a lot, but he hadn’t paid much attention to his mathematics tutor after deciding he’d never have any need for a number that large.

“A thousand-thousand. So add together twenty-five of these towns, and you’ve got the capital city.”

“Oh.” Corec wondered how that many people all lived together in one space. Wouldn’t they be forever getting in each other’s way?

“Come on, let’s get you settled. Are you absolutely certain you want to become a knight trainee? Until we get there, you can still choose the priests instead. It’s an easier life.”

“I don’t want to be a priest,” Corec said flatly.

“All right, but watch your tone. The knights are still an order of Pallisur. We’re not as strict, but if the priests decide they don’t want you among us, then you won’t be.”

Corec nodded but didn’t reply.

“Let’s head into town, lad,” Jesson said. “It looks like we made it in time for the harvest faire.”

#

Treya wandered around the compound, too miserable to play games with the other girls. She was still adjusting to life in the orphanage. She didn’t want to make friends with the others; she just wanted to go home.

The Three Orders chapter house that had taken her in was located in Four Roads, but it was the first time she’d ever been to the town. Her father had always gone alone when he needed to purchase supplies or sell his crops and pelts. Treya and Mama had stayed on the farm while he was gone, or visited friends at one of the other farms nearby. But the farm was gone now, so there was nowhere to go back to. She’d heard the neighbors’ farms were gone, too.

The Sisters were kind and understanding, but they also made her do chores and take classes. The worst part was learning to read. It was hard, and she didn’t know why they made her do it. She’d never needed to read at the farm—they didn’t even have any books there.

Mother Yewen and the Sisters talked a lot about the girls’ futures, but Treya didn’t understand much about what they said. They’d told her that the three orders were the Order of Scholars, the Order of Mystics, and the Order of Concubines. The scholars had something to do with reading, but nobody had explained what the other two were.

One of the Sisters rang the bell indicating that play time was over, so the other girls headed back into the building. Instead of following them, Treya hid behind a woodpile. She didn’t want to learn any more reading that afternoon. She waited nervously for a while, but when nobody came out to fetch her, she relaxed. Whoever was teaching the next class must not have realized she was supposed to be in it.

While she sat quietly, thinking about her parents, a woman she’d never seen before came out to the yard. Instead of a dress like the other Sisters wore, this woman had on a loose gray tunic belted over a pair of pants. Strangely, she was barefoot.

The woman couldn’t have missed Treya sitting there, but she didn’t say anything. Instead, she sat cross-legged on the grass about twenty feet away, closing her eyes and resting her hands on her knees. She stayed that way for so long that Treya thought she’d fallen asleep. Then, suddenly, the woman rolled forward out of her pose into a handstand. Treya’s eyes grew wide. She hadn’t even known it was possible for someone to hold themselves up like that. She watched as the woman carefully took one hand off the ground and placed it behind her back, balancing on the other.

“You don’t want to be here, do you, young miss?” the woman asked, still upside down.

“I want to go home,” Treya replied.

“So do I, sometimes.” The woman didn’t ask about her family, for which Treya was grateful.

“What are you doing?” Treya asked.

“Practicing.”

“Practicing what?”

“Practicing being.” The woman dropped out of her handstand in a smooth roll, ending up standing on her feet.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m Sister Shana,” the woman said, taking a seat on the woodpile. “What’s your name?”

“Treya.”

“That’s a pretty name. How old are you?”

“Six and a half.”

“I was seven when I came here. Well, not here, but to the Three Orders. I grew up down south—this chapter house is much smaller than I’m used to.”

“What were you doing?” Treya asked again, pointing to the spot of ground where Shana had been standing on her hands.

“Hmm, that’s difficult to explain. You know how if you concentrate on something, it’s easier to learn?”

Treya shrugged. She understood the concept, but she couldn’t remember concentrating on anything other than learning to read, and that didn’t seem like it was getting any easier.

“Well,” Shana said, “what if you concentrate really, really hard on one thing, and ignore all the other distractions? Focus all your willpower on learning one thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either. Maybe it’s not possible, but I’ll keep trying.”

“What do you want to learn?”

“Who am I?”

Treya was puzzled. “You’re Sister Shana.”

“And maybe that’s the answer,” Shana said with a grin. “Or maybe there’s more to it than that. I’m not sure the answer is even the important part, but I’ve learned a lot along the way.”

“Like what?”

“How to think. How to move. How to fight.”

“But you’re a girl. Girls can’t fight.”

Shana laughed. “They can’t, huh? Well, I guess you would know, being the expert and all. It’s a shame, though, seeing as that’s why Mother Yewen asked me to come here.”

Treya frowned. She thought the woman was teasing her, but it didn’t sound like she was doing it to be mean.

“Why did you come?” Treya asked.

“It seems there’s a group of bandits attacking isolated farms. The town council hired a pair of mercenaries to track them down, but when they didn’t return, Mother Yewen asked me to take care of things.”

Treya’s blood ran cold as she flashed back to two weeks earlier, when she was hiding behind another woodpile, trying to ignore the sound of the screams and the roar of the fire. She stared at Sister Shana without saying anything.

Shana smiled sadly at her, then stood up and walked away, heading toward the gate that led out of the compound. She was still barefoot, and carried nothing other than the clothes she was wearing.

Treya silently hoped that Shana could fight, after all.