After the grandmaster’s quiet, passion-filled meditation on the blade, he could have asked the new recruits to march on Siu Rial itself. Instead, the old man let all momentum fall out from beneath him and began droning on about procedure, blood magic, and exacting standards.

Izak let his mind wander. Procedure tended to reveal itself in time, and he knew better than anyone what the energies of the blood could do to a man. The questions he wanted answered were when he would be allowed to get out of the rain and into some dry clothing and whether Thornfield served wine or ale with meals.

But the mundane information held captive the imaginations of the peasants and criminals. Even Penuel-Denuel stood with his mouth hanging open when the master described how the king could boil his enemies from within and close off portions of a mind as easily as slamming doors.

Everyone was eager to angle for a place at court until they considered that they could be made a drooling bag of meat and bones at the king’s merest displeasure.

“If’n he’s got such powerful strong medicine,” the loudmouthed little boy from the low street crowd wanted to know, “then how come he needs us?”

With a nod, the grandmaster acknowledged the question he’d been angling for someone to ask.

“Many of you come from backgrounds that romanticize life in a palace, but royalty, by nature, are surrounded by enemies, and none so much as the King of Night. Not only do the betrayers, the Children of Helat, seek to destroy all Children of Night, but especially the king and his household. As well, there are closer enemies who seek to steal the throne. To have the king as master is a constant battle, and it requires endless vigilance. As the old saying goes, ‘kings sleep; Thorns must not.’”

Izak rolled his eyes. From what he’d seen, the Thorns grafted to his father spent all their on-duty time herding royal children and all their off-duty time lounging, gambling, and flirting with the palace’s fairer staff. If the Royal Thorns had averted any assassinations in Izak’s lifetime, it was a well-kept secret.

More to the truth than perhaps propriety permitted the grandmaster to say, the Thorns grafted to the king were there to protect Hazerial from threats within his own household. Namely the son who’d been training for seventeen years to use the royal blood magic as effectively as the sire. Hadn’t Hazerial been about Izak’s age when he and Ahixandro killed their father and took the throne?

Hazerial’s paranoia at being betrayed in the same way must finally have gotten the better of him. Perhaps he believed that making a prince trained in the sword and not in magic next in line would extend his rule. After all, one who had received the Blood of the Strong Gods could not die by time or illness. Only violence would do it. And who could kill the divinely appointed ruler of the strong gods but their next chosen one? Even one as disgusted by the family magic as Izak might someday decide his ambition outweighed his revulsion.

Such would be the ravings of the mind of an Eketra-blessed king. The strong goddess bestowed upon her favored ones wheels within wheels of scheming, and when one was ever plotting against the world, then how could anyone in that world be anything but an enemy?

I’ve known him all my life, Izakiel, Uncle Ahixandro had said. I know the man he can be. My brother can see around corners, but he can’t see what’s right in front of him. That’s why he needs me.

Clearly, the king had not agreed.

***

The downpour picked up conviction as dawn tried to break beyond Thornfield’s thick walls. The best the newborn sun could manage was a cloudy gray that faded the ghostly green battlements above but couldn’t banish them entirely.

The scent of roast meat and hot bread slipped into the space between raindrops. Izak watched enviously as the sparrers at the far side of the bailey broke up and filtered into the keep and the surrounding low buildings.

Such was not to be the fate of the new arrivals, not while the grandmaster still had breath in his lungs.

“Anyone can learn to wield a sword, but to become a Thorn, to uphold that great and terrible responsibility to protect the king himself, requires more. The threats that face His Majesty and his family come from those who live steeped in magic. Nobles who learn to use its power from birth. Defending him will require not only steel but blood magic.

“Each of you has this magic running through your veins. Without it, you would not have been chosen to become a Thorn. Many men have aspired to join our ranks, and many have been sent to the king’s armies instead. It is a job no less honorable and no less deadly, but one that does not require any measure of blood magic.”

A murmur went through the crowd.

The grandmaster raised a gnarled hand to quiet them. “What I’ve said is true. You may have heard otherwise, but it is not only nobles who are born with blood magic. A small portion of the common population are born with it as well, and you are part of it. Many of you do not realize what you are capable of. All your life you have believed you were luckier or more physically gifted than your magicless counterparts, when in truth you fueled your greatest feats with energies stolen from those around you.”

“How could somebody not know?” It was the dirty little runt who kept interrupting. “I knowed it my whole life, me. Just like I knowed you don’t never drink from your twin ’cuz stealing their energy makes a body weak. They take sick easy and can’t wake up if you do it too often.”

The whipmaster looked to the grandmaster for a ruling on the interruption. In Izak’s opinion a good beating might actually get through the kid’s thick skull, but the grandmaster gave a negative shake of the head.

“Nine will spend the day at scullery in the kitchen.” The old man turned blue eyes on the child. Izak wondered how many snot-nosed street urchins the grandmaster had to deal with every year. Clearly enough that they didn’t faze him. “You’ll be able to eat and rest once you’ve cleaned the pots to the cook’s liking.”

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The boy wrinkled his dirty nose. “I was helping, me. Everybody oughta know not to steal medicine from your own folks.”

“And now they do. Interrupt again, and the scourging for disrespect of a master will be enforced.”

The grandmaster waited to see if the boy would test the proclamation. No more objections or outbursts were forthcoming.

With that settled, the elderly swordsman addressed them all again. “While you are here, you will train not to rely on the blood or energies of others. You will strengthen the magic in your own veins to enhance every aspect of combat, instinct, and endurance. The blood of others is a luxury, not a necessity, and a Thorn must be capable of operating without it.”

There was a small distraction as a handful of senior students approached the thorn tree, dragging four huge copper basins between them. These were placed before the new arrivals and filled with water from the wellhouse.

“I said before that once you step into Thornfield’s bailey you have no past,” the grandmaster said. “This isn’t meaningless prattle. We keep no records here of who you were before you came to us. Your former life, titles, crimes, or triumphs are all erased.”

A fussy-looking master of middle years passed by each basin and tossed in a handful of powder.

“Of course, some of that past is harder to leave behind. If you will please strip off your old rags and wash clean, you will be allowed to enter the keep and get in out of this rain. Master Malice is waiting inside with the appropriate replacement garments.”

Izak eyed the rain plinking across the surface of the bathwaters. He wasn’t keen on bathing in cold water, but he would be glad to rid himself of the stink of wet horse. Too, looking at the most heavily encrusted members of the new recruits, he would rather be at the head of this bathing endeavor than the tail. Something told him they wouldn’t be refilling the basins after every wash, and he didn’t much fancy playing island to a bunch of drowning lice.

Before he could be edged out by someone covered in grime, Izak strode to the first basin, tossing riding leathers as he went.

Penuel-Denuel and the foreign murderer must have shared his concerns. They were the next to strip away their sodden clothing and climb into a basin. The final basin was fought over by one of the other well-dressed lads and a barrel-chested rustic. The rustic won and clambered in.

An astringent scent curled Izak’s nose hairs as he sank into the chilly water. Looking at the low street recruits, he hoped the cleanser was strong. Mites had taken over the royal residence at Siu Patanal when he was a child. Eradicating the little monsters had been such an undertaking that the court had avoided residing there for two years after.

“Oh no!” The little loudmouth—Nine—backed away, hands raised. “No, no, no. I ain’t getting in that, me.”

“One way or another, you’re going into that water,” Grandmaster Heartless promised.

Nine shook his ringworm-stricken head. “Folks get drowned in water! Miasma collects around water and gives folks the coughing sickness. Water’s bad medicine. Better not to tempt it.”

The grandmaster nodded at the whipmaster.

Izak thoroughly enjoyed the chase that followed. Nine was fast and nimble and didn’t mind stealing energy from anyone he came within drinking range of—the grandmaster included. Unfortunately for him, Master Saint Galen had the advantage of reach, especially when he added his whip to the contest.

The lash snarled around Nine’s ankle mid-step, and the boy splatted on his face in the mud.

Seeing that he’d lost, Nine decided to fall on his own sword. Rather than let the approaching whipmaster grab him, he scramble-galloped on hands and knees the final few yards through the mud and splashed fully clothed into the basin with Penuel-Denuel.

With an incredulous cry, the bastard tried throwing the runt out. That didn’t work, so he vacated the basin himself and left the sloshing waters to the boy and his various low street parasites.

Chuckling, Izak ducked under his own bathwater, gave his thick hair a cursory scrub, then climbed out. A few of his peers acted awkwardly about being naked—maybe they were concerned the cold didn’t show them to best advantage—but Izak had never been shy, whether in public or private. He strode confidently to the keep, hoping to find the aforementioned master waiting with dry linens and warm clothing.

The narrow stairs dipped in the center from centuries of foot traffic, but no loose stone rocked beneath Izak’s feet. Inside, he paused to sheet the water from his chilled skin. Limewashed plaster coated the walls, holding the ocean winds at bay. The narrow entryway ceiling soared twenty feet above his head, pocked with murder holes. Neither these nor the farthest, darkest corners had been left to cobwebs. Even the soot looked as if it were regularly scrubbed from behind the flickering sconces.

Thornfield wasn’t pretty, but it was well-maintained.

Spotting no master in the immediate vicinity handing out dry clothing, Izak followed the warm glow and noise coming from the far end of the choke-point corridor.

A grand hall opened before him, alight with torches and a massive fireplace. Scores of boys and young men filled long trestle tables, eating and talking. More than a few were pointing and guffawing at the new arrivals—Penuel-Denuel and the foreign probable murderer had beat Izak inside. Izak gave his spectators a bow and dimpled grin before looking around for the promised outfitter.

The high table at the front held the masters. Izak wondered how many were former Thorns. They certainly had the simmering intensity he associated with his father’s guard. Could there truly be that many who’d been released from service to live out their days in peace? In all his life, Izak couldn’t recall hearing of a single Royal Thorn who had been retired by the king, but perhaps lords were less stingy with their grafted swordsmen.

Vorino had the seat of honor at the masters’ table and was deep in conversation with the other men. He looked more animated than Izak had ever seen him. He even laughed. This night was becoming more surreal all the time.

“First-years, over here!” a deep voice called.

Izak turned to find a stocky, muscular master with skin so dark brown that it was almost black. Around his thick neck hung a strand of pale pink shells. He must have hailed originally from the Coffee Islands.

Izak had now seen as many foreigners in one day as he saw at court in a season. Of course, he encountered a good number more in the whoring houses. That recreation was popular regardless of where one was born.

He joined the Coffee Islander and the pair of dressing recruits.

“Master Malice?” Izak guessed. He gave the master a courtly half-bow. It never hurt to get on the good side of one’s tailors. Especially when one paid tabs as rarely as royalty did.

The dark master replied in kind, then asked, “Number?”

“Four.”

“Ah.” As in, Ah, the prince has arrived.

Master Malice sized Izak up for a moment—head to foot, then shoulder to shoulder—then dug into the stacks of folded clothing and came out with hose, trousers, a belt, a padded jacket, and a roughspun shirt. Peasant clothing. No silk robes or cloths of state to be found.

“These should fit.”

Izak dressed, eyeing Penuel-Denuel and the foreigner for hints at how to adjust the laces on the trousers. Those were new to him. As were the ties on the shirt’s long sleeves. He cinched the cuffs back to his forearms so they wouldn’t drag in the food that would hopefully be served before his stomach chewed through his spine.

“—so’s I took and gutted him and tripped his pals up with that rope sausage that fell outta him.” Nine’s high-pitched voice cut through the chaos of conversation. The boy was still fully clothed and drenching the stone floor with every step, but this didn’t seem to bother him. He chattered away at the naked rustic beside him as they entered the hall.

Master Malice waved the boys over, then tossed Izak a pair of boots. Sturdy construction, but they wouldn’t turn any heads at court.

“You lot take a seat,” the clothing master told Izak, the bastard, and the foreigner. “On the coming night, you’ll start your serving tasks, but since it’s your first day, it’s traditional for last year’s crop to bring you dinner.”