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Authors: Deborah Chester
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he
would ever see Caelan again. Certainly it could never again be as it was, or
with welcome and a glad heart.
Their
fates, always entwined, were now separating into two different roads of life.
Agel saw his as a path to accomplishment and success. His talent would support
his ambitions. One day his fame would surpass that of Uncle Beva’s.
As
for Caelan, his path had already grown stony and broken, heading for a life of
disappointment and hard times.
Their
childhood was finished.
Crossing
the courtyard with his escort, Caelan could feel the eyes of the assembly
burning into his back. He felt their curiosity and shock flooding over him in a
collective mass of emotion that nearly made him stagger. Somehow, he managed to
hold it off. This was no time for sevaisin to grip him.
The
wind was bitterly cold, flicking sharp little snowflakes into his face. His
breath steamed about his face, and he fought not to shiver. He intended to show
no weakness. If the masters expected remorse or doubt from him, they would not
get it.
All
he felt now was impatience to get this over with. It would have been easier on
everyone if the proctors had just handed him his cloak bag and put him through
the gate. No fuss, no assembly, no scaring the first-termers.
But,
no, they had to make a huge ordeal of this, make it bigger than it was. They’d
even had to seize one final chance to frighten him by making him think they
were going to purify him against his will.
But
soon their games would be over, as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t wait.
Reaching
the dais, Caelan halted. The proctors parted from around him. Looking straight
up into the stony eyes of Elder Sobna, Caelan felt defiance fill him like heat.
He smiled.
Twin
spots of color blazed in the Elder’s pale cheeks. The Elder’s gaze burned into
his; then the mask of severance returned like the slam of a door.
Caelan
looked away, indifferent as the Elder lifted his arms and began to speak.
Much
of it was in the old tongue, no longer used by edict of the emperor. Caelan
understood none of it, and even when the Elder switched back to Lingua, Caelan
barely listened.
With
his money taken by the soldiers, he had no chance of heading out on his own. He
would have to go home. There would be plenty of time on the journey to think of
an explanation for his father.
His
whole life suddenly spread before him, radiant with limitless possibilities.
“Caelan
E’non,” the Elder said loudly, startling him, “what is your answer?”
A
hush lay over the assembly as though everyone had held their breath to hear.
Even the bell stopped tolling. Caelan had no clue as to what the Elder had
asked him.
It
was worse than being caught daydreaming in class.
Embarrassment
flooded him. He almost started to stammer something; then he caught himself
short. This wasn’t class. He was no longer obliged to do anything these men
wanted.
Defiant
again, he looked up at the Elder and said clearly, “I have no answer to make.”
A
gasp ran behind him, and even some of the masters looked disconcerted, but the
Elder’s expression did not change. With a nod he stepped aside and gestured at
the masters.
One
by one, they approached Caelan and touched him briefly on his left shoulder.
“I
concur,” each one said.
Master
Mygar came last. Old and stooped, he limped forward, his white robes stained
and smelly. His palsied lips made him appear to be mumbling to himself, but his
rheumy eyes glittered as malevolently as ever when they met Caelan’s.
He
did not brush Caelan’s shoulder with his fingertips as had the others, but
instead gripped him hard.
“Casna ,” he whispered.
It
was the word in the old tongue for “devil.”
“You
will break the world,” the old man whispered, his eyes rolling back in his
head. “You are destruction incarnate.”
Blackness
poured into Caelan through the old master’s touch, burning him, defiling him.
Such hatred, such decay ... an evil rottenness like a stench
would ever see Caelan again. Certainly it could never again be as it was, or
with welcome and a glad heart.
Their
fates, always entwined, were now separating into two different roads of life.
Agel saw his as a path to accomplishment and success. His talent would support
his ambitions. One day his fame would surpass that of Uncle Beva’s.
As
for Caelan, his path had already grown stony and broken, heading for a life of
disappointment and hard times.
Their
childhood was finished.
Crossing
the courtyard with his escort, Caelan could feel the eyes of the assembly
burning into his back. He felt their curiosity and shock flooding over him in a
collective mass of emotion that nearly made him stagger. Somehow, he managed to
hold it off. This was no time for sevaisin to grip him.
The
wind was bitterly cold, flicking sharp little snowflakes into his face. His
breath steamed about his face, and he fought not to shiver. He intended to show
no weakness. If the masters expected remorse or doubt from him, they would not
get it.
All
he felt now was impatience to get this over with. It would have been easier on
everyone if the proctors had just handed him his cloak bag and put him through
the gate. No fuss, no assembly, no scaring the first-termers.
But,
no, they had to make a huge ordeal of this, make it bigger than it was. They’d
even had to seize one final chance to frighten him by making him think they
were going to purify him against his will.
But
soon their games would be over, as far as he was concerned. He couldn’t wait.
Reaching
the dais, Caelan halted. The proctors parted from around him. Looking straight
up into the stony eyes of Elder Sobna, Caelan felt defiance fill him like heat.
He smiled.
Twin
spots of color blazed in the Elder’s pale cheeks. The Elder’s gaze burned into
his; then the mask of severance returned like the slam of a door.
Caelan
looked away, indifferent as the Elder lifted his arms and began to speak.
Much
of it was in the old tongue, no longer used by edict of the emperor. Caelan
understood none of it, and even when the Elder switched back to Lingua, Caelan
barely listened.
With
his money taken by the soldiers, he had no chance of heading out on his own. He
would have to go home. There would be plenty of time on the journey to think of
an explanation for his father.
His
whole life suddenly spread before him, radiant with limitless possibilities.
“Caelan
E’non,” the Elder said loudly, startling him, “what is your answer?”
A
hush lay over the assembly as though everyone had held their breath to hear.
Even the bell stopped tolling. Caelan had no clue as to what the Elder had
asked him.
It
was worse than being caught daydreaming in class.
Embarrassment
flooded him. He almost started to stammer something; then he caught himself
short. This wasn’t class. He was no longer obliged to do anything these men
wanted.
Defiant
again, he looked up at the Elder and said clearly, “I have no answer to make.”
A
gasp ran behind him, and even some of the masters looked disconcerted, but the
Elder’s expression did not change. With a nod he stepped aside and gestured at
the masters.
One
by one, they approached Caelan and touched him briefly on his left shoulder.
“I
concur,” each one said.
Master
Mygar came last. Old and stooped, he limped forward, his white robes stained
and smelly. His palsied lips made him appear to be mumbling to himself, but his
rheumy eyes glittered as malevolently as ever when they met Caelan’s.
He
did not brush Caelan’s shoulder with his fingertips as had the others, but
instead gripped him hard.
“Casna ,” he whispered.
It
was the word in the old tongue for “devil.”
“You
will break the world,” the old man whispered, his eyes rolling back in his
head. “You are destruction incarnate.”
Blackness
poured into Caelan through the old master’s touch, burning him, defiling him.
Such hatred, such decay ... an evil rottenness like a stench
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