10th Belara, 995 NE
“What does he want from me?” Theor asked, frowning as he dressed himself. “Thirteen. What new torment has he devised for me today, do you think?”
“Zis is just a ride in ze voods, young master,” Ginneve replied, folding his nightshirt and putting it aside neatly. “It is a celebration! You should be pleased.”
Theor had his reservations. He had no doubt Father would find some way to test him. Kasstel Morne, the tutor Father had employed to teach Theor the rudiments of wizardry, had taken the cane to his backside twice only yesterday. Doubtless the old mage’s reports would’ve reached Father’s ears by now. Last time, when he’d butchered the fire-lizard he was supposed to be skinning, Father had come to his room that night and delivered his own caning. Not at his own hand, of course, but his manservant Holos was more than equal to the task; the massive, silent thug had eagerly brought the switch down again and again. Theor had been forced to sleep on his front, and couldn’t sit down for two days.
He couldn’t help fear that this time it would be worse.
But it was his birthday, and when he left the house’s doors into the bright sunlight of the wet morning, there was no sign of displeasure on Father’s face. He, Aladros and Fentor were already mounted. Holos and a handful of other servants were standing by the stirrups, doing the final checks on the straps.
“Come, get in the saddle, Theoras!” Father said, indicating his steed with a nod of his head.
Brancados, the grey stallion. The most difficult horse Theor had ever sat astride. Never before had a creature been so appropriately named: the unicorn of legend who first bore that name was the foal of Nentheleme’s own champion, and was hardly likely to accept a rider either.
None of the servants came forward to help him. Theor could get his foot up and into the stirrup, but swinging his other leg over took several goes. It felt like a hundred goes, the stares of his elder brothers burning into his back. It was bad enough that the stallion didn’t stop prancing and tossing his neck haughtily, never mind the silent commentary.
In the end it was only Fentor’s nasal laugh that stirred the anger inside him, giving him the strength to vault up into the saddle.
“At last,” Aladros sniffed, turning his own horse easily. He was a man now, and looked the part, tall and broad-shouldered. Fentor wasn’t far behind. But Theor was still a narrow, slight little creature without a masterful bone in his body, and Brancados, beneath him, seemed to realise it. The horse broke from a walk into a trot and Theor was forced to pull back on the reins, struggling to keep the horse in line with those of the others.
The land that belonged to them wasn’t extensive. The Vernays family had ancestral domains stretching almost a hundred miles, but prices within Mund’s walls were at a premium, especially within the forests of Treetown. Nonetheless, the Lords and Ladies of the northern reaches of Treetown had an accord when it came to hunting, and those with the proper credentials were permitted to roam the twisting paths, armed with bow and spear. And of course Father always insisted on using the horses. It was a symbol of their rank and prestige, or a leftover habit from Father’s childhood, or something.
Father drank heavily from his wineskin as soon as they were out of sight of the house’s windows. Perhaps it was just that it was harder to twist an ankle while riding drunk than it was walking drunk.
The trees within the Vernays borders were oak and elm, birch and redebon. The main forest paths were reasonably well-travelled, so their route through the woods was an easy one. On a few occasions they ran into other gentlemen out for a ride or stroll, and Theor was forced to respond genially to the odd comment, it being his birthday and all. But mostly the passers-by directed their comments at Aladros and Fentor, noting their height: ‘oh my how they’ve grown, Yular; young Aladros, my Litheline is coming of age in two months – you simply must meet her…’
Theor was almost relieved when they stopped for a snack.
Holos started building up a fire, and then another servant, Gharalar, unwrapped Father’s fine yew longbow, and produced a quiver of arrows from a saddlebag.
“Come, my sons,” Father said, testing the bowstring before taking the quiver, “let us see how your training is paying off.”
With that he led them into the brush.
Aladros pierced a partridge on the wing, bringing it down better than an expert ranger. That earned him Father’s applause and approval. Fentor missed when he tried to emulate the feat, but before long he’d spotted a quail hopping about on the ground and retrieved Father’s bow in time to make the shot. Father touched him fondly on the shoulder when he returned the longbow.
Then Theor’s turn came.
Longbows were always too long for him – they were a foot taller than him – and too unyielding for his puny arms. Still, he did his best to carry it as they moved through the undergrowth, did his best to keep from banging it on trees and getting its string caught in the bushes. He could only imagine the furore that would be raised if he managed to snap it. He’d never handled Father’s best longbow before, and never would again, if he had chance.
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It wasn’t long before the time arrived. He reluctantly went to accept the arrow Aladros handed him – too reluctantly, it turned out, for his eldest brother withdrew the arrow once he reached for it, turning it into a game, almost making Theor flinch as the arrowhead ducked and danced in his direction.
“Aladros,” Father murmured, not even disapprovingly.
And Aladros handed him the arrow without further performance.
“Take aim! Good.” Father’s whisper was harsh. “That’s it… Come, boy. Now is the time! Loose!”
Theor could see the bird as though it were perched on the tip of his arrow. It was a mottled grouse, lightest in colouration at the belly, darker at the wings. Its throat was creamy, almost orange in hue and its little face and beak were pointed west, so that he looked upon it in profile, able to take in every part of the animal.
Wind ruffled its feathers, coiling in its soft down. It was a stupid-looking bird, but it had nobility. Here and now, in the moment of its impending death, it was too beautiful to die.
And Theor’s fingers on the string wouldn’t move. His muscles were tightening; he had held this pose too long but was too scared to let the arrow fly and too scared to lower the bow. He was trapped in his indecision.
The marksman who’d taught Aladros and Fentor was now Theor’s tutor, and he’d told the boy to imagine the arrowhead in the target, see it happening even before he released the shaft. But he couldn’t imagine it happening. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, see it.
“Can’t kill it, but wouldn’t say no to eating it,” Father growled. “Aladros! Forward!”
Within three seconds his eldest brother had the bow off him, the arrow nocked – and within another three the grouse was pierced at the left wing.
It descended from its branch, screaming in pain, trying and failing to fly.
“If you can’t shoot it, you can at least wring its neck.” Father pointed. “Go.”
Numbly, Theor advanced into the foliage, his feet moving automatically at Father’s command, requiring little input from Theor’s own will.
He saw it, writhing amidst the thorns. He saw it now, not as a noble thing, something beautiful – it was just a sad bundle of feathers thrashing in its final moments.
All the horror of death was encapsulated in its frantic motions.
If he weren’t putting it out of its misery there’d be no chance he’d have ever been able to just snap its neck. But as things stood – did he really have any other choice?
This is how we all go, the boy thought, and shivered. One day, this will happen to me. Somehow. Some way.
And as he knelt by the bird’s side, putting out his hand, he felt something within him.
It didn’t start at his fingertips, where he pressed his hand softly into the feathers. Instead, it felt like it started in the soles of his feet, travelling rapidly up his legs and torso; only then did it shoot down his extended arm.
It was almost like a shudder of nervousness, or the feeling of falling – and it flooded out of him, a hurricane of power that weakened him in its passage.
Suddenly the arrow was free, tumbling clear into the thorns.
The grouse looked at him in no less shock than he felt, and cawed what could only be translated as, “Y-you should g-get out of here!” before lifting off through the trees with startling speed.
Theor stood up with the arrow, looking blankly back at the others.
What in the… what…
“It… it fell out,” he called lamely.
Father, Aladros and Fentor no longer bothered keeping quiet as they stomped towards him.
“What do you mean, ‘fell out’?” Aladros asked. “Do you know so little?”
“You removed it, boy?” Father roared.
Fentor had folded his arms across his chest. He was smirking, shaking his head ruefully.
“I knew you were… I knew… but I…” Father seemed unable to complete a sentence; he took a long draught from his wineskin before continuing. “You think this is the proper way to behave? How dare you waste your brother’s shot!” His voice raised to an almost shrill pitch: “If you were a servant I would have you beaten for your temerity! In fact,” he took another long swig and smacked his lips, “Aladros… I’ll return to camp ahead of you.”
Father strode off, shouting for Holos before lifting his wineskin once again.
Aladros and Fentor didn’t move and Theor stood before them, cringing, paralysed, feeling suddenly exhausted by whatever happened between himself and the bird, knowing that he didn’t have the energy to run or strength to resist. He nervously twisted the arrow he’d retrieved in his hands.
“Well, let’s see – what would Father want us to do with him, little brother?” Aladros said, leaning casually on the longbow, looking across at Fentor. “Come up with a good idea and I’ll give you credit.”
“We could always –” Fentor withdrew an arrow from the quiver “– take a pound of flesh from him instead.”
He lunged forwards suddenly, and if Theor thought he was frozen in place before he truly was now, with the unwavering arrowhead just an inch from his eyes.
“Or perhaps a tasteful scar – somewhere no one else would see it…”
Theor felt himself melting, fading, as though he no longer existed – it was like he was watching it all play out inside the bounds of a glyphstone, a recording of events that happened to someone else. He heard himself whimpering, as if from a great distance.
He had only the vaguest impression of the sensation as he let the arrow in his own hands fall to the carpet of twigs at his feet. Even less when they scored him with the edge of the arrowhead beneath his clothes – he just stood there, enduring it all, a blubbering statue with tears in its eyes.
They made him march in front of them as the trio returned to the camp, following the scent of cooking meat. They prodded him in the neck and back of the head with the arrow-tip whenever his strides failed to outstrip their longer-legged pace.
Father stood at the edge of the clearing, hands on hips, awaiting them. Behind him Holos was turning cuts of bird on a spit over the flames. Holos grinned as he looked upon Theor’s quivering stance, but Father just looked cold.
“Well, you fool boy… Have you learned your lesson? Or shall further instruction be required?”
“I…” Theor wanted to look back at Aladros and Fentor behind him but the memory of the arrowhead striking him made him reconsider. “I am, hm, much chastised, Father.”
“Good. Now sit down in silence while we eat.”
Theor felt hungry as he watched Father and his brothers tearing into the food. For the first time he noticed the servants’ eyes, like his, trying not to watch. They too hungered. They too were on the outside.
But while everyone was distracted he surreptitiously checked his wounds.
As he’d expected from the lack of actual pain, the worst of the cuts was no deeper than a nick, and most hadn’t left more than a surface-scratch. Little blood.
He did his best and managed to keep his calm as his brain processed the information.
So, I’m an archmage. An arch-druid.
He managed to hold back the tears.
Father would never approve.
* * *