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Authors: Deborah Chester
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in the soul.
Caelan
jerked free of the old man’s grasp. Shocked, he stood shuddering and blinking.
A clammy sweat broke out across him, and for a moment he thought he would be
sick.
He
stared at Master Mygar. As the black worm of Mygar’s emotions continued to
twist through Caelan’s veins, he saw the old man’s flesh melt away. A bleached
white skull stared back at him, and darkness—a living, horrible darkness—
writhed and pulsed within the plates of bone, flickering at the edges of the
eye sockets.
Appalled
by what his inadvertent sevaisin had brought him, Caelan sought desperately inside
himself for the patterns of good and harmony. He tried to weave them around the
worm of blackness until it stopped twisting inside him and lay still, cocooned
in what he had spun around it. Then it faded and was gone, like ashes in his
soul.
Still
sweating, his knees weak as though they would let him drop at any moment,
Caelan managed to regain his breath.
Watching
him, Mygar widened his gaze. “Casna” he whispered again, then drew back. “I concur,” he
said loudly for the assembly to hear.
Elder
Sobna stood in front of Caelan once more. His lingers brushed Caelan’s right
shoulder, and this time Caelan flinched. No more emotions came to him, however.
“And
I concur,” the Elder intoned. “You are no longer eligible to be trained for the
healing arts here or in any part of the empire.”
Caelan
blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected such sweeping finality. Still, he didn’t
believe they could enforce it. The masters here might be renowned, but they
didn’t run the world.
“You
are no longer to wear the blue colors of our training. You may never return
through our gates. You will never practice the arts which you have learned
here. Our ways and our privileges are henceforth forever denied to you.”
The
Elder raised his hands. “Kneel for the disrobing.”
Two
proctors reached out to push Caelan to his knees.
“No!”
he cried, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. “I’ll never kneel to you,
any of you! Here.” He yanked off the novice robe and flung it on the ground at
the Elder’s feet. “I have disrobed myself. Now let me go from this place.”
Despite
the rule of silence, murmurs ran through the assembly. The masters looked
shocked, and even the Elder lost his severance to fresh anger.
Blinking
hard, his mouth clamped tight, the Elder pointed at the main gates in silence.
They swung open.
The
gathered proctors moved aside and Caelan strode out, breathing hard, barely
restraining his eagerness.
The
bell began to toll again, its dark tone lifting over the countryside.
Head
high, Caelan walked through the gates and paused to glance back. He would have
liked to have said goodbye to Agel. But the gates slammed behind him with a
mighty thud, and the Ouon Bell stopped ringing. For Rieschelhold, he had ceased
to exist.
Lightness
filled him. Caelan flung his arms to the sky with a shout of relief. Crowing
with laughter, he danced in a small circle, kicking up snow. He felt as though
he could fly.
“I’m
free. I’m free!” he said over and over. Right then it didn’t matter that he had
no money, no cloak, and no traveling boots. If he got himself into trouble
again out here, no one would come to his rescue. But he didn’t care.
Scooping
up a double handful of snow, he flung it into the air and let it rain down on
him. “I’m free!”
“Caelan.”
Startled
by that quiet word, Caelan lowered his arms and spun around.
A
man cloaked in white fur stepped forward from the bushes. He led two white,
shaggy mountain ponies by their reins. A pole with a healer’s globed lantern
was attached to one saddle.
The
man was tall and handsome, with a fringe of straight brown hair showing across
his forehead beneath his fur hood. His face held no expression at all, but his
gray eyes were dark with the bleakest disappointment Caelan had ever seen.
For
a second, everything in this man’s
Caelan
jerked free of the old man’s grasp. Shocked, he stood shuddering and blinking.
A clammy sweat broke out across him, and for a moment he thought he would be
sick.
He
stared at Master Mygar. As the black worm of Mygar’s emotions continued to
twist through Caelan’s veins, he saw the old man’s flesh melt away. A bleached
white skull stared back at him, and darkness—a living, horrible darkness—
writhed and pulsed within the plates of bone, flickering at the edges of the
eye sockets.
Appalled
by what his inadvertent sevaisin had brought him, Caelan sought desperately inside
himself for the patterns of good and harmony. He tried to weave them around the
worm of blackness until it stopped twisting inside him and lay still, cocooned
in what he had spun around it. Then it faded and was gone, like ashes in his
soul.
Still
sweating, his knees weak as though they would let him drop at any moment,
Caelan managed to regain his breath.
Watching
him, Mygar widened his gaze. “Casna” he whispered again, then drew back. “I concur,” he
said loudly for the assembly to hear.
Elder
Sobna stood in front of Caelan once more. His lingers brushed Caelan’s right
shoulder, and this time Caelan flinched. No more emotions came to him, however.
“And
I concur,” the Elder intoned. “You are no longer eligible to be trained for the
healing arts here or in any part of the empire.”
Caelan
blinked in surprise. He hadn’t expected such sweeping finality. Still, he didn’t
believe they could enforce it. The masters here might be renowned, but they
didn’t run the world.
“You
are no longer to wear the blue colors of our training. You may never return
through our gates. You will never practice the arts which you have learned
here. Our ways and our privileges are henceforth forever denied to you.”
The
Elder raised his hands. “Kneel for the disrobing.”
Two
proctors reached out to push Caelan to his knees.
“No!”
he cried, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. “I’ll never kneel to you,
any of you! Here.” He yanked off the novice robe and flung it on the ground at
the Elder’s feet. “I have disrobed myself. Now let me go from this place.”
Despite
the rule of silence, murmurs ran through the assembly. The masters looked
shocked, and even the Elder lost his severance to fresh anger.
Blinking
hard, his mouth clamped tight, the Elder pointed at the main gates in silence.
They swung open.
The
gathered proctors moved aside and Caelan strode out, breathing hard, barely
restraining his eagerness.
The
bell began to toll again, its dark tone lifting over the countryside.
Head
high, Caelan walked through the gates and paused to glance back. He would have
liked to have said goodbye to Agel. But the gates slammed behind him with a
mighty thud, and the Ouon Bell stopped ringing. For Rieschelhold, he had ceased
to exist.
Lightness
filled him. Caelan flung his arms to the sky with a shout of relief. Crowing
with laughter, he danced in a small circle, kicking up snow. He felt as though
he could fly.
“I’m
free. I’m free!” he said over and over. Right then it didn’t matter that he had
no money, no cloak, and no traveling boots. If he got himself into trouble
again out here, no one would come to his rescue. But he didn’t care.
Scooping
up a double handful of snow, he flung it into the air and let it rain down on
him. “I’m free!”
“Caelan.”
Startled
by that quiet word, Caelan lowered his arms and spun around.
A
man cloaked in white fur stepped forward from the bushes. He led two white,
shaggy mountain ponies by their reins. A pole with a healer’s globed lantern
was attached to one saddle.
The
man was tall and handsome, with a fringe of straight brown hair showing across
his forehead beneath his fur hood. His face held no expression at all, but his
gray eyes were dark with the bleakest disappointment Caelan had ever seen.
For
a second, everything in this man’s
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