11- Everything, Someday

Master Alred settled himself down on a patch of soft clover and leaned his back against a wide tree trunk. "Alright now, Soren," he said, "Let me see it."

Soren frowned. He hadn’t been expecting a test, first thing in the morning. He hadn’t quite mastered it yet. His hands were still badly blistered from the burns he’d given himself the day before, and he’d been hoping to take a small break from the fire exercise today and work on perfecting his air technique instead. But the master had woken him up before dawn, saying that he was ready to see what kind of progress he had made. "I– It’s not quite perfect yet," he admitted. "I still need to practice."

The master gave a little half-smile. "Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting you to have mastered it already. I simply want to see what you have so far."

Soren nodded. Reluctantly, he plucked a smooth green leaf from the now half-bare shrub at the edge of the clearing. He held it in his hands for a moment, the cool, moist softness of it momentarily soothing the raw flesh of his palms. Then he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and glared at it. He was concentrating so hard that his eyebrows pushed themselves together and his eyes squeezed themselves into little slits. Every muscle in his body tensed, until he was shaking all over.

And then, quite suddenly, a tower of red-orange flames burst to life in his hands. Soren shrieked as not only the leaf, but also the skin on his fingers and palms, fueled the fire. He tried to make it stop, but he couldn’t concentrate at all through the pain.

Then Master Alred reached out a hand, and just as quickly as it had sprung into existence, the fire died, leaving behind nothing but a bit of smoke in the air, a pinch of ashes, and a pair of shaking, blistering hands.

"You almost have it," the master muttered with an approving nod as he gently took one of Soren’s hands in his and held it palm-up. "You just need to learn to relax and focus your mind better."

Soren couldn’t stop the tears streaming down his face, or the violent shaking of not just his hands, but his whole body. "How can I?" he gasped, "It hurts!"

The master nodded, then bent his head over Soren’s palm, clucking like an old nursemaid. "I have to say," he said as he covered the blistering, oozing flesh with his own hand and closed his eyes, "I am very impressed with your level of self-discipline."

Soren watched his master work, feeling all of the pain in that hand fade away, the blisters pop and drain and recede, the angry redness calm and fade to a soft pink.

"Most new apprentices," Master Alred continued, "would have refused to do it until their burns had healed. Or they would have tried, but they would be unable to do it, the fear of burning too great to overcome."

Soren sighed and relaxed as the master healed his other hand as well, the burns and even the scars from the previous attempts smoothing away. "I didn’t want you to think I was a coward," he said. "I wanted you to see that I’m trying. I’m really trying."

"Of course," the master nodded knowingly as he released Soren’s hands. "You have a lot to prove, not just to me, but to yourself and everyone else." He paused for a moment, then added, "I’m sure you won’t believe me, but you really don’t need to convince me of anything. I took you on because I am confident that you will prove yourself, beyond even your own ambitions. You have more determination than anyone else I know."

Soren stared, amazed, at his hands. The skin on his palms was as perfect and smooth as a fresh-born baby. "I want to learn how to do that," he whispered, then looked up at his master’s face. "Will you teach me to heal?"

Master Alred laughed. "So you want to be a healer?" he said, "Well, first you must learn to master the basic elements. Then once you’ve completed that, I’ll show you how to mend sick and damaged plants."

"Plants?" Soren wasn’t really interested in farming. He wanted to learn how to fix people, like Master Alred had just done.

The master nodded. "Plants," he said. "And once you’ve mastered that, I’ll teach you to heal small animals. If you can manage that much, you might even be allowed to assist with the occasional ox or horse."

Soren sighed. Master Alred definitely wouldn’t be teaching him to smooth away burns anytime soon.

"Once you’ve had a few years’ experience healing animals," the master continued, "I’ll let you assist me with the healing of small injuries and minor illnesses in people. Eventually, you’ll be allowed to handle those kinds of things by yourself and, after a few more years, you might be able to help with the gravely wounded and the seriously ill. If you’re especially gifted, then perhaps you may even learn to mend injuries and ailments of the mind, or even the soul. But that would require a great deal of natural talent, as well as discipline, and that kind of ability is extremely rare."

Soren thought about that. How many years would that take? How long would he have to train, even just to be a normal healer? How many years had Master Alred trained? He wondered.

The master was staring at him. "Is that the path you’ve decided to take?" he asked. "Do you really want to be a healer?"

"I want to learn everything," Soren replied. He didn’t even need to think about it. He’d always known what his real ambition was. "I want to master every discipline there is. I want to be a healer, and a warrior, and a mind-toucher, and a shielder, and a shadow-walker, and a hunter . . . I want to do it all."

Master Alred stared at him for a moment, then laughed. Soren started to get defensive, but then he saw the kindness in his master’s eyes, and noticed the warmth behind the laugh. "You keep that thought in your head and work hard," the master told him, "and someday you just might achieve that dream . . . someday."

10- Heroes and Villains

Connall slowly turned a large pepper in his hands as he watched the men by the wall. Pater Barthis was standing just below the spot where he had last seen the sorcerer. The adventurers, as he now liked to call them, were drawing a diagram in the dirt, explaining how the new walls would keep intruders out, without endangering anyone who might need to escape, should there be a fire or some other danger within the walls. The pater listened with a serious face, then nodded and waved a hand before leaving the garden.

The pater had been unsure whether to trust these men at first, and he had never been known to waste the fraternary’s coin on unnecessary things. He had told them, truthfully, that neither this, nor any of the other local fraternaries or town sanctums in the area, had ever been victim to any kind of attack, and that he fully trusted the local land-owners to keep any would-be bandits under watch. But Frater Avrid had brought up the subject of the Witches’ Herbs, and mentioned that several handfuls had gone missing again, and Pater Barthis had been forced to reconsider his decision. He had acknowledged that it was his duty as pater of this fraternary to keep those dangerous items out of the hands of those who would misuse them, and so he had reluctantly agreed that the garden walls, at least, should be reinforced. Then he had haggled with the men until a reasonable price was agreed upon, so that the fraternary’s coffers wouldn’t be depleted over-much.

Connall still had mixed feelings about these adventurers. On one hand, he really liked them. The night before, he had stayed up late in the travelers’ hostel listening to their stories. They had all been on such amazing adventures, fighting all kinds of monsters and villains. One even told a tale about a band of evil sorcerers that he had fought. One of the sorcerers, the man had said, had been a beautiful woman, more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen before. The man described eyes so green they seemed to glow in the moonlight, skin so pale and smooth, and a face that was so strangely mesmerizing that he’d swear she wasn’t human. Connall didn’t say anything, but he thought he knew the kind of face that the adventurer was trying to describe. He remembered the sorcerer boy, with his glowing pale blue eyes and his not-quite-human beauty. The adventurer said that the other sorcerers hadn’t looked like that, but that they had all grouped around her to defend her. He said that she must have been their leader, like a queen or a princess or something, because the evil sorcerers had all died trying to protect her. He said that once the others were all gone, she had tried to trick him, pretending to surrender, but that he had not been fooled. He said that he "gave her what she deserved, if you catch my meaning, and then I did my duty as a man of faith."

Sorcerer stories always ended that way. The hero always killed the evil sorcerer. Connall wondered if it really did always happen that way, or if sometimes the sorcerers won. He wondered if, somewhere out there, the sorcerer boy was listening to someone tell a story about a good sorcerer who killed an evil adventurer.

Connall blinked and looked around again, then put the pepper into his basket. How many was that now? Three? And how many of these peppers had Frater Willis asked for? He thought it had been something like eight. He searched one of the tall stalks until he found another large, ripe sweet pepper. He sniffed at it and made a face. Connall hated these things. He had once tried picking the smallest peppers he could find, so that there would be less of them in the food, but after the first few times, Frater Willis had caught on to his trick. Now, if the peppers weren’t big enough, the frater would send him out for more and would put twice as many in the food, making sure that Connall got more than his share of the disgusting things. And so, here he was, making certain he picked the eight biggest peppers in the whole patch.

Connall started as the first hammering began. The men had promised that the new fortifications would be done in two days. He knew now that he would probably never see that sorcerer boy again. Not after these walls were done. He wished he could tell them that not all the sorcerers that came in were bad . . . that some of them were good people, too. But then he’d have to tell his own secret, and if these adventurers decided to hunt down that boy . . . . No. He couldn’t let that happen. He would just keep quiet and hope that the nice sorcerer boy would be careful. Maybe, if Connall were really lucky, he might still see that boy again someday.

When he had finally finished picking the peppers that Frater Willis had requested, Connall was free to go. Frater Avrid, worried that a mischievous boy might cause trouble for the men working on the wall, had given him the day off from his usual chores in the garden. He wandered idly around the fraternary grounds, kicking stones and poking bugs and watching birds as he went, until finally he flopped down on the ground just inside the Travelers’ Gate.

He wondered what it would be like to be one of those adventurers. To ride a horse and carry a sword, or maybe an axe. Dayne, the big man, had been telling him all about axes, and why they’re more useful than swords. "A real man’s weapon," he had called it. Connall imagined himself traveling from town to town, seeing all the exotic places he’d heard about, maybe even crossing the sea in a big boat. There might be sea monsters, if he took a boat, and he could save the other passengers with his mighty sword (or axe). He could go to the East and maybe slay a dragon. He could fight bandits and other villains, maybe even an evil sorcerer. But he would have to make sure the sorcerer was truly evil first, of course. He could rescue some damsels, which, Frater Nicken had explained, was just another word for girls. But he liked the word damsel better than girl, because it sounded more heroic to save a damsel, and girls were stupid, anyway. But he wouldn’t just help girls. He would rescue other people, too. Old people and children and babies, and maybe even grown men, if they weren’t strong enough to save themselves. And maybe one day people would tell stories about him, like the heroes that people told stories about in the hostel.

He lay back on the soft clover that blanketed most of the fraternary grounds, daydreaming about what it would be like, wishing that this band of adventurers would take him with them when they left, so that he could experience that thrilling way of life.

9- Learning to Crawl

Soren stared at the little green leaf in his hand.  It had been an hour, and nothing had happened.  Since the first day of his practical training, Master Alred had been bringing him to this secluded little clearing and giving him these simple tasks to work on.  His first task had been to pluck a healthy green leaf and make it turn brown and dry.  It had been difficult at first, but after two days he had figured out how to draw all of the moisture from the leaf until it was dead and crisp.  His next task had also included a leaf.  He’d been told to make the leaf fly across the clearing and then come back to him without touching the ground.  That one had been considerably more difficult.  Once he’d figured out how to manipulate the air around the leaf and make it move, it had taken him several days’ hard concentration to learn how to control the movement of the air so that it carried the leaf exactly where he wanted it to go.  Master Alred had told him that it wasn’t perfect, and that he should continue to practice that particular skill, but he gave him another task anyway.  This time, he was given yet another leaf and was told to make it burst into flame and burn to ashes in his hand, without burning his skin. 

Soren wanted to learn more impressive tricks, like making the leaf grow roots and flowers, or turning a plant into a rock, or making water flow up instead of down.  He’d seen some of the more accomplished Covenant-bound do things like that, and he was eager to learn those things, and more, but the master had told him to have patience.  “Children learn to crawl before they learn to run,” he had said in that disapproving tone that he always used whenever Soren got impatient with his lessons.

So there he sat, with a little leaf slowly wilting in his hand as he tried to think about all of the theories and concepts that he had learned over the years concerning fire.  The leaf wasn’t even getting warm.  The master had left him alone in the small clearing and had gone back to take care of his regular duties.

According to Master Alred, every high-ranking Covenant-bound had their own personal space, away from the main camp, where they went to practice new skills, to meditate on whatever problems they faced, to clear their minds of the day’s worries, and to train their apprentices.  This quiet little spot in the middle of the forest was one such place, and belonged to Master Alred.  And Soren was getting very weary of seeing it every day.  Many nights he had even slept here, too tired from the day’s work to make the trek back to the master’s tent.

Not that he could sleep soundly, even in his own bed.  Ever since his Binding, Soren had been having strange dreams about the boy from the Paters’ garden.  At first, he had thought that he was simply dreaming about that night in the garden, perhaps because of his guilt over lying to the master or maybe because he worried so much about how the curse would manifest.  But then he began to notice that the dreams differed greatly from his memory.  In his dreams, he watched as the boy crept around the Paters’ camp, climbed trees in the garden, talked to the horses in the stables.  Sometimes he saw the boy talking to other people, going into buildings that Soren had never seen before, saying words that Soren didn’t know, like fraternary and sanctum.  It was strange and unsettling, and he wished that he could talk to someone about it, but the only person he could think to tell was Master Alred, and he was too afraid of what the master might think if he mentioned it to him.

And it wasn’t just the dreams.  When he was awake, Soren felt constantly distracted and out-of-place.  He often got the feeling that he was forgetting something, or that he had left something behind, but when he thought about it, he couldn’t figure out what he might be missing.  He had so much trouble concentrating, that sometimes when Master Alred spoke to him, Soren couldn’t even remember afterward what the master had said. 

But when he’d told the master about how distracted and displaced he’d been feeling, Master Alred had given a very simple explanation.  “Everyone has some trouble adjusting after a Binding,” he had said, “And everyone reacts to it differently.  But don’t worry, Soren.  It will soon pass.  Just try not to let it interfere with your studies.”

But that was the problem.  It was interfering with his studies.  He could never get enough sleep because those dreams wouldn’t let him rest, and he couldn’t concentrate on these little tasks with the leaves because he was constantly feeling uneasy.

Soren looked back down at the leaf in his hand.  How long had he been thinking about all of this?  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  Fire.  Heat.  Light.  Friction.  Energy.  Burning.  Consuming.  Flame.  Spark.  He opened his eyes.  Did the leaf feel a little warmer?  He couldn’t tell.

Suddenly he felt like he was supposed to be somewhere else.  He thought about it.  Had the master told him to meet him somewhere?  Had he been given some other task to perform today?  Perhaps he had been distracted and was only just now remembering.  Where was he supposed to go?  And when was he expected to be there?  Soren frowned as he struggled to remember.  No.  He distinctly remembered Master Alred telling him to stay in the clearing until he mastered this skill.  So why did he feel like he was in the wrong place?  Soren grumbled at himself and shook his head, trying to clear the strange feeling away.  It was just more of that same foggy-headedness that he’d had ever since his Binding.

Perhaps all of this was only the beginning.  Perhaps he was just noticing the first few signs of the curse changing him.  Perhaps the curse was slowly making him lose his sanity.  Perhaps, eventually, he would be no more than a witless, raving lunatic– a burden to his people.

No, he wouldn’t think about that.  If indeed, that were the case, then he didn’t want to know.  Soren looked down at the leaf in his hand again.  It was still cold.  Frustrated, he let out a shout and sent it blowing across the clearing.  He glared at it angrily as he watched it flutter around until, just before it landed, the tiny leaf burst into flame and dropped to the ground as a pinch of smoking ashes.

He was excited for just a moment, until he realized that he would still have to figure out how he had done it, so he could duplicate the trick for Master Alred.  Sighing, he plucked yet another leaf and sat down to concentrate again.

8- A Band of Heroes

Connall ran to greet the riders as they entered.  He had finished all of the daily work that Frater Avrid had given him that morning, and had been lucky enough to slip away before the frater could assign him anything more.  He had planned to play in the creek for a bit, and then maybe sneak some bread into the dormitory and have a little nap.  Connall had started taking short naps during the day to keep his energy up, so that he could go to the garden at night.  He still held out hope that the sorcerer would come back there, and that he would get the chance to talk to him again.  But those plans had all been set aside when Connall saw the group of men approaching the Travelers’ Gate.

There were five of them, all on horseback.  Large, beautiful, healthy-looking horses.  They even had an extra horse with no rider, just carrying packs.  Most people would have used a mule or an ox for a task like that, but these travelers had given the job to a horse that was just as amazing as the ones they rode.  The men were even more impressive than their mounts.  They were big, strong-looking men with several days’ growth on their faces and hair that fell into their eyes and flapped in the wind as they rode.  They all wore thick leather armor that looked as if it had been repaired more than a few times, and a few of them even wore bits of ring mail here and there.  As Connall came closer, he saw that they all wore weapons, too– swords and daggers of all shapes and sizes.  One man even had a strange-looking axe strapped to his back, which Connall was fairly certain hadn’t been made for splitting firewood.

A few novices were rushing down the hill behind him, but Connall got to them first.  “Welcome to the Fraternary of Saint Covell!” he called out.

One of the travelers rode to the front of the group and leapt down from his horse, landing lightly on his feet, and flashed Connall a bright smile.  The others dismounted behind him.  This man was slightly thinner than the others, but a little taller, too, with honey-gold hair and sparkling green eyes.  “Good day to you, boy, and thank you,” he answered cheerfully, then he stooped down to Connall’s eye-level and ruffled Connall’s hair with one hand.  “I have some business with your pater.  I’m hoping you can take me to him?”

“Of course!” Connall replied.

At that point, the novices arrived, all out of breath from running.  “Our greetings to you,” one of them gasped, “Welcome to the Fraternary of Saint Covell.”  He looked around at the travelers, then added, “We’d be pleased to take your horses to our stables, where they will be well cared-for . . . and . . . um, w-we have a secure store-room where your . . . ah . . . armaments will be kept safe during your stay.”

One of the travelers, the big man with the axe on his back, began to grumble angrily, but stopped when the leader raised his hand.  “That will be much appreciated,” he said, turning his bright smile toward the novice who had spoken.  He made a show of removing his own sword-belt and handing it over, then he turned and clapped the axeman on the shoulder and added, “We all understand the rules here.  It’s not a problem.”

The large man looked at him for a moment, then sighed heavily and, grumbling under his breath, unstrapped the giant axe from his back and placed it in the arms of one of the novices, who dropped it immediately.  Connall was afraid that the man would be angry, but instead he laughed.  “Aren’t you Fraters supposed to work hard all day doing the Gods’ work?” he asked in a booming voice, “I thought you’d be stronger.”

The leader laughed with him.  “I guess the Gods’ work doesn’t include lifting heavy axes,” he quipped, then added, “Perhaps you can help them take it to their storage room?”  He turned back to Connall.  “Now, I believe this young man was going to take me to see your pater.”

He led the man to the sanctum, then to the small room off the side, where Pater Barthis had his office.  Connall tapped at the door.  “Pater Barthis?” he called out, “Are you in?  There’s a man here to see you.”

He heard some movement, and then the door opened.  The pater peered at the traveler for a moment, then smiled warmly.  “How may I help you, my son?”

The traveler grinned.  “Actually, I’ve come on the business of helping you, Pater.  May I come in?”

The two of them went into the office and closed the door, leaving Connall alone in the sanctum.  He didn’t bother listening at the door.  He’d tried to do that a few times before, and had never been able to make out any words through that thick wooden door and stone walls.  So instead, he skipped back to the travelers’ hostel, hoping to talk to the man’s companions.

Connall found them all standing outside the hostel, talking among themselves and waiting for their leader to return.  As he made his way toward them, one of the novices called out to him, and he stopped to see what he wanted.  “I don’t think those are the sort of travelers you want to talk to, Connall,” he warned.  “They seem dangerous.”

Connall rolled his eyes.  Just because a man carried a weapon while he was on the road, didn’t mean he was a bad person.  Good people carried weapons, too.  “They don’t seem all that bad to me,” he argued.

“No, I mean it,” the novice insisted, then whispered,  “I think they might be mercenaries.”

“What’s that?”

“Soldiers for hire.  They’ll fight and kill for anyone, just for money.”

Connall put his hands on his hips and stared at him.  “And what makes you so sure these guys are mercenaries?”

“Just a feeling I get from them,” he shrugged.  “I wouldn’t be alone with them, if I were you.”

So that was it.  He was just scared.  Connall thought about it for a minute.  No, their leader had said they had business with the pater.  Pater Barthis wouldn’t do business with bad people.  This novice only thought they were bad because they were armed.  “I’ll be careful,” he promised, then he skipped down toward the hostel.

“You, there!” one of the men shouted when Connall came near, “Weren’t you taking our friend to meet your pater?”

“Yes, sir,” Connall replied.

“Well, are they done, yet?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.  “They went into Pater Barthis’s office to talk.”

The man rolled his eyes.  “Allard is talking,” he said as he sat down on the ground.  “This could take hours.”

Another man laughed and sat with him.  “You get that fellow talking,” he explained, “and he never stops.”

Soon all four men were sitting on the ground outside the hostel, swapping jokes about their leader.  Some of them made Connall laugh, but most of them he didn’t really understand.

After a while, one of them looked at Connall.  “What about you, boy?” he asked, “You look a bit too young to be a novice.  Do you live here?”

“I do,” Connall replied.  “I was left here by some travelers when I was a fresh-born baby.”  He’d told this story so many times now, that he’d begun quoting this same explanation, word-for-word, every time.  “Been here ever since.”

“Now, that’s a sad tale,” said the big man who had carried the axe.

Connall stared at the man for a moment, then asked, “Are you mercenaries?”

This set all of them laughing again.  “What questions come from the mouths of children!” one of them exclaimed.

Another man leaned forward.  “I guess you could say we’re a sort of mercenary.  We do offer our services in exchange for payment.”

Connall’s eyes widened.  So the novice had been right, after all.  “Why?” he asked.

The axeman smiled at him.  “When you’re a soldier,” he explained, “you fight for whatever lord you’re born working for.  Whether you like him or not.  But men like us, we get to choose who we fight for.  If we don’t like a man, we don’t work for him.  And those we do like, they pay us in coin to do whatever needs doing, and then we go on our way.”  He sat back and looked around at his friends.  “It’s about freedom.”

“Oh.”  Connall thought about that.  That didn’t sound so bad.  Actually, it sounded like the perfect kind of life to him.  “So what are you going to do for Pater Barthis?”

A shorter man with a red-brown beard answered him.  “We’ve been going around to different sanctums and fraternaries.  We take a look around, inspect the defenses, then we help make them stronger, so little orphan boys like yourself can be safer inside these walls.”

“Oh, I’m sure the pater will like that,” Connall told them.  “And I know a few fraters and novices who would like that, too.”

The men laughed again, and this time Connall laughed with them.

But he was thinking about the sorcerer boy.  If these mercenaries made the fraternary walls bigger, would the sorcerer ever be able to come back again?

7- Acolyte

Soren woke to the sound of low voices.  He lay there with his eyes closed for a few more minutes, listening to them.  He couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he thought he could recognize them.  Master Alred was one.  And there was Uncle Rudan’s deep voice.  And Elder Maebys was there too.  What were they all doing here?  He tried to clear the sleep fog from his mind and think, but his head was still full of the dream he’d been having.  He’d had so many strange dreams.

He opened his eyes and propped himself up on his elbows.  His uncle and the elder and the master all rushed to his side when they saw he was awake.  Soren looked up into Master Alred’s kind green eyes and asked, “What does ale taste like?”

His uncle laughed.  Master Alred suppressed a smile and exchanged a glance with Elder Maebys.  “Where did you hear about that?” the master asked him.

Soren frowned as he thought about that.  Where had he heard about it?  His people didn’t really drink ale, though he supposed he might have heard someone mention it after coming back from a trip or something.  But it had been in his dream.  He had smelled it.

Uncle Rudan sat down on the edge of Soren’s bed.  “What I’m more interested in,” he said, “is how you’re feeling.  Can you sit up?”

Soren blinked.  “The Binding!” he shouted.  Somehow he had almost forgotten about that.  Had it worked?  What had happened afterward?  How long had he been asleep?  He tossed his blanket aside and threw himself into a sitting position.  He looked at his uncle, then at Master Alred, then at Elder Maebys, trying to decide which question to ask first, and whom to ask.

But if it hadn’t worked . . .  Was he ready to hear that kind of news?  He watched the elder’s expression, trying to find some clue to prepare him for the answer before he asked.  But her face was the same as it always was.  Soren swallowed the fluttering heart that suddenly seemed to be trapped in his throat and took a deep breath.  “Am I . . . bound . . . ?” he asked her quietly.

Elder Maebys exchanged a glance with Master Alred.  “You are,” she replied, but something about the way she said it made Soren worry.

“But?” he asked.

The elder looked uncomfortable, or confused, or both.  “Well,” she said, “your Binding was . . .”

“Unusual,” Master Alred finished for her.

“But it worked!” his uncle put in cheerfully.  Too cheerfully.

Soren stared at the master.  “Tell me,” he insisted.

Uncle Rudan sat beside him, gently patting his shoulder while the master and the elder explained everything to him in turns.  Apparently his Binding had been a little different from what they had expected, and no one was quite certain what it would mean for him.  Normally, after the ritual was performed, an initiate would appear to glow with a soft light for a few moments, and they would feel a slight prickling and a warm heat that was slightly uncomfortable, but it only ever lasted for a minute or so, and then the newly-bound acolyte would be exhausted and would need to sleep through the next day.  But after Soren’s ritual was completed, his entire body had shone with a blinding whiteness for several minutes, and he had screamed and writhed in on the ground for almost an hour, oblivious to everyone’s efforts to help him, and then he had passed out and remained unconscious for nearly three days. 

“We can’t really be sure yet why this happened,” the elder told him.  “There are many opinions.  Some say that it was simply because the spirits had difficulty breaking through your fae-blessed body to bind your soul– which is nothing but speculation because no one really knows exactly how we become bound after our binding rituals.  Then there are those who think that it was some sort of punishment for asking to be bound when your parents were already bound before you.”  She paused a moment, then added, “And there are also a few who believe that it means your gifts will be more . . . potent than those of the other Covenant-bound.”  She smiled kindly at him.  “But we can’t be certain if it even means anything at all.  We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Soren knew what it was.  It was the curse.  It was the first taste of his life of misery.  The ill-luck that would follow him for the rest of his life, until an early death claimed him.  But he couldn’t tell them about that.  What would they think of him?

Master Alred clapped his hands together.  “Well I, for one, am eager find out!” he said.  “We’ll get you settled into my home today, and then tomorrow we’ll start your training!”

Soren grinned.  Of course.  He was an acolyte now, and Master Alred was his mentor.  He would live with the master and learn to use and control the gifts of the Covenant-bound until his mentor decided he was ready to move on.  Soren had been waiting all his life for this.  Curse or no curse, he planned to make the most of his time as an acolyte.

It took less than an hour to move Soren into Master Alred’s tent.  Soren’s uncle offered to let him bring along the bed that he’d always slept in, and Elder Maebys insisted that he wear his new acolyte’s clothes before he left his uncle’s tent.  It was a cloth jerkin in acolyte blue and a new pair of brown breeches.  Normally an acolyte’s mother would make a blue tunic or jerkin for wearing after the Binding, but since Soren’s mother had died and his uncle hadn’t yet taken a wife, the elder had been kind enough to find something suitable for him.  The jerkin had belonged to another acolyte who had grown too big for it, but it fit Soren well and was in good condition.  It had no sleeves, but Soren felt warmer than usual today anyway, so he didn’t bother wearing his old threadbare tunic under it.

After he was properly dressed and he and Master Alred had carried the small cot and mattress to the master’s tent, Soren felt like a real acolyte for the first time.  He felt the eyes of everyone he passed.  All of them stole glances at the fae-blessed boy in the blue acolyte’s clothes.  Soren Twice-Blessed, moving into the home of his mentor.  It felt good, and for once he enjoyed the attention.

The master had prepared a separate room in his tent, divided from the main part by a thin wooden partition and a cloth door.  That was where they placed Soren’s bed.  After they had everything set up, mentor and acolyte sat on the edge of the cot and shared a small loaf of bread.

“For today, I’ll let you rest and get your strength up,” the master told him, “but tomorrow, we’ll start your training.”

Soren grinned.  “I feel fine right now,” he said.  “Why wait until tomorrow?”

“Well, I’m glad you’re eager to begin,” Master Alred replied, “But your mentor hasn’t slept in three days.  I would like a rest.”

6- Night Mischief

Connall had skipped going to Evening Songs so that he could talk with the travelers for a while before bed.  He did that sometimes.  Most of the fraters considered it wrong but Pater Barthis never scolded him for it, so he figured it must not be such a really bad wrong.  He sat near one of the windows, watching a big man with a beard take a long gulp from a large waterskin.  The traveler noticed him watching and stopped for a moment.  “Want a taste?” he offered.

Connall took the skin and sniffed at it.  Ale.  He wrinkled his nose.  “No, but thank you for offering,” he said politely as he handed it back to the man.

“No?” the traveler grinned.  “What kind of man turns down my best brew?”

“I’m sorry,” Connall replied, “I don’t like the taste of ale.”

The big man burst out laughing.  Connall could never quite understand what was so entertaining about offering him drinks, but lots of travelers liked to do it.  Normally, Connall would take a sip or two, just to oblige them, but then anyone else with a bit of drink would start offering him some.  Sometimes he exaggerated his disgust because they all thought it was so funny when he didn’t like it.  And he really didn’t, mostly.  He couldn’t stand the taste of ale or beer, but a little hot mead was alright on a cold night, and once he had tasted a sweet wine that was actually pretty good.  Tonight, though, he wouldn’t be amusing the travelers that way.  There were a lot of men here with flasks and skins at their belts, and all that drink would only make him sleepy.

Connall couldn’t allow himself to get sleepy.  He had plans tonight.

Just then, as if he had willed them there with his thoughts, four fraters came shuffling through the hostel doors.  The traveler beside Connall quickly corked his wineskin and tucked it into his pack.  He thought about telling the man that the fraters really wouldn’t have a problem with his drink, but he knew it would be no use.  Travelers always seemed to think the fraters would judge them harshly for even the slightest wrongs. 

Connall watched as the fraters began adding kindling to the fires and stoking them up, then pulling the grates in front of the hearths to darken the room.  The travelers all seemed to understand that this was the signal to go to sleep, and they quietly separated themselves into their own little parties and settled onto their cots and mats as if the fraters had cast a sleeping spell over them.  Frater Torence raised an eyebrow at Connall as he smothered the candle in a nearby lantern.  It was a look he often got from Frater Torence– it usually meant something like, I’ll pretend I didn’t see you doing wrong if you stop right now.  Connall grinned at the frater and hurried to the dormitory.

He kept all of his clothes on as he climbed into his bed and pulled his blanket up to his chin.  The novices he shared the dormitory with wouldn’t notice, but the frater who came to check on them in a few minutes would definitely know Connall was up to mischief if he saw his clothes.  He had taken his shoes off though.  It wasn’t really cold outside, and shoes would only make more noise sneaking in and out.

After a while, when the novices had all settled down in their beds, the door opened and Frater Nicken’s head poked into the room.  Connall kept one eye open and watched as the frater counted everyone and then peered suspiciously at Connall for a minute.  Apparently satisfied, the frater closed the door again and left to find his own bed.  Connall waited a long time after that, until everything was dark and the room was filled with the noises of thirty-or-so sleeping youths.

Carefully, he rolled out of his bed and landed softly on the floor beside it.  Then he felt along the side of his mattress until he found the hole, reached in, and pulled out the neatly folded strip of yellow cloth that the sorcerer had given him.  He tucked it out of sight under the drawstring of his breeches, just in case, and then silently slipped out the door.

Connall kept to the darkest shadows as he scurried toward the garden gate.  Once he was inside the garden, he checked to make certain no one was around, and then he pulled the cloth from his waist.  He sniffed it.  It now smelled a little like the straw from his mattress, but when he unfolded it he could still catch the scents of the forest, and the scent of magic.

He climbed a tree and sat on one of the high branches so that he could see the whole fence.  He wondered if the sorcerer would be coming back tonight.  Connall had done this for the past four nights since he had first met the wild boy.  He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he hoped the sorcerer would come back, and if he did, Connall wanted to be there to see him.

This time he wouldn’t waste all the whole night just watching.  This time he would talk to him more.  Connall had so many questions.  Like How does magic work?  And What is your home like?  And What do you use those stupid purple flowers for?  And You don’t really eat babies, do you?  Connall was fairly certain that last one was just a myth, but he wanted to be sure.

Connall waited for hours, but the boy never came.  Finally he was too tired to wait any longer, and he stole back to his bed to get some sleep before Morning Songs.  Maybe the sorcerer boy would come tomorrow.

5- A Sacred Oath

Soren tied off the end of the little doll’s first leg and began weaving the other one.  It was tradition for prospective acolytes to weave their sacred herbs into the form of a little man, to symbolize the source of his power being alive, or something like that.  Over the centuries, the meanings behind many of their older traditions had been lost.  But Master Alred said it was something along those lines.

Soren’s people had once kept books in which all of their ancient secrets were kept, and anyone who wanted to know could read about their history, about the Covenant their ancestors had made with the spirits from the other side, about the meanings behind all of their sacred traditions.  But those books had all been destroyed when the Paters had come.  When his people had gone into hiding, they were in small groups, with maybe only one or two Covenant-bound among them, and all that remained of their history now was what those few Covenant-bound refugees had managed to remember and pass on.  Somehow in the generations since then, many of their ways had changed– no one was sure anymore which of their traditions were the sacred ways of their ancient ancestors and which of their traditions had been twisted by poor memories and misguided efforts to adapt to a new way of life.  But even so, they had still somehow managed to keep the sacred Covenant of their ancestors.

Soren sighed, stopping a moment to stare at his half-finished herb doll.  What was he doing?  This Binding would ruin him.  If it turned out as he’d always feared and he didn’t have the potential after all, he would have to live with that shame for the rest of his life.  But now, even if he did have the potential– even if he could be bound– with that boy still alive, he was only giving himself up to a life of wretchedness and pain.  And for what?  To prove to everyone that he could?

No, he couldn’t back out now.  He had been trying to prove his potential to everyone for the past ten years.  To suddenly change his mind at the last second . . . It would kill his pride.  No one would understand.  He would just be seen as a coward.

If only he’d had the courage to tell Master Alred the truth.  He would have known what to do.

But when Soren had returned from the Paters’ camp, the master had been waiting to inspect the herbs he’d gathered.  Of course he’d noticed the blood right away.  “What happened?” the master had asked.

“There was a Paters’ boy in the garden,” Soren had mumbled, “He saw me, and . . . ” He hadn’t been able to finish the sentence.  And what?  I accidentally cut him and then apologized and left him there, alive?  He wondered what the master would have thought of that.  And of course he couldn’t lie to a Covenant-bound master.  So what could he have said?

But the master had assumed the rest of the story.  Master Alred had wrapped him up in a warm hug and told him not to think too hard about it.  “You did what you had to do,” the master had assured him.  “We’ve all been forced to make these hard decisions from time to time.  Just be glad that, because you did what had to be done, you were able to come back to us safely.”

What could he have said after that?  The master had said that it was clever and resourceful of him to use the boy’s blood on the herbs.  That Soren had been brave and strong and very mature about the whole incident.  The master had been proud of him.  How could he have corrected him at that point?

Even now, he couldn’t say anything.  Soren continued weaving the second leg of his little doll.  No, he had to go through with the Binding.  Perhaps something would go wrong and Soren would just die halfway through the ritual.  What did it say about him, that a sudden death was the best possible outcome he could hope for tonight?

Soren shook his head at that thought.  He had to stop thinking about such things.  He was supposed to be concentrating on all of his hopes and wishes for the future while he wove his herbs together. 

Soren thought about all of his old dreams.  He wanted to be a hero to his people.  He wanted to somehow make all of the Paters go back to where they came from and restore all of his people to their ancient cities and rebuild the sacred places.  He wanted to learn how to communicate with the spirits like his ancient ancestors used to do, and get them to tell him all of his people’s lost secrets so he could write them down in new books for future generations.

He knew that with a cursed Binding like his was sure to be, he would never grow old enough to become an elder, but he hoped to at least be able to achieve the rank of master, and possibly teach children about the Covenant like Master Alred did.  He also thought it would be nice to one day be surrounded by family and friends who loved him and believed in him.

Suddenly his mind’s eye was filled with the image of that boy from the garden.  Wide, innocent brown eyes, round rosy cheeks, soft yellow hair cropped short like a Pater’s.  No, Soren would never get to realize any of those dreams.  People whose lives were cursed didn’t get to see their wishes come true.  He wondered if that boy would ever come to understand just how much Soren had given up, just so that he could have a life. 

Probably not.

Soren tied off the last end of his herb doll and looked at it.  It was ugly.  He remembered when he was eleven years old, and Master Alred had taught him how to weave a doll like this.  He had practiced with the grasses and vines that grew in the forest.  Those dolls had always looked neat and pretty.  Green and yellow and evenly woven . . . and clean.  This doll was rough, with thorns and rough stalks woven into it.  It was uneven and lumpy.  Worst of all, it was caked through with dried blood.  Every leaf and stalk in it had at least a few spots of dark brown stain.  And the bloodiest bits were the little purple flowers.  The blood had turned the tiny blossoms into a bunch of black, shriveled, ominous-looking things.  He supposed this was what these dolls always ended up like.  The herbs were always sprinkled with blood before they were woven together.  And it was always these same herbs, so of course the dolls would always end up a bit thorny and mangled-looking.  But for Soren it felt like some evil portent– an indication that some disaster was about to claim him.

Soren took a deep breath and looked around.  The sun was low in the sky; it was getting late.  He wrapped his herb doll tightly in a clean cloth and handed it to the master.  He had spent the day in silence, to prepare himself for his Binding, so he did all of this wordlessly.  Master Alred accepted Soren’s doll with a proud smile, but said nothing.

With that done, Soren gathered up his Binding robe and walked down to the creek to wash.  His father had worn this same robe when he was bound.  Soren’s grandmother had made it for his father when he was just a boy his age.  Soren had heard of people sometimes wearing a grandparent’s robe or a great-grandparent’s robe, but he would be the first initiate to ever wear his own father’s Binding robe.  It was strange.

He made sure to wash himself well in the cold creek water.  He felt like he was breaking so many rules, so many traditions.  Being fae-blessed and yet still trying to be bound.  Using blood from a person who was still alive.  He didn’t want to be dirty too, on top of everything else.  He scrubbed the oil and sweat from his hair, and scraped the dirt from under the nails on his fingers and toes.  He rubbed himself down from head to toe with the sand from the creek bed, and then he laid himself down in the deepest part of the creek and let the cold water run over him, rinsing off all of the sand and dirt and sweat until he was pink and raw and goose-fleshed all over.

Soren sat on an old tree stump to let himself dry off a little as the sun began to sink into the horizon.  He thought about all of the possibilities that this night might bring as he leaned over to wring the water from his long, dark brown curls.  Maybe everything would turn out alright.  Maybe the whole idea of being cursed for using a live person’s blood was just a silly superstition.  Or maybe it had some small seed of truth but it had been twisted out of proportion over the generations.  Who knew?  Maybe he’d been worrying and brooding all day over nothing. After several minutes, he got up and pulled on his father’s robe.

His father had been a lot bigger than he was.

For the thousandth time, he cursed his pathetic, skinny, bony body and trudged off toward the altar that the master had prepared for him.  Maybe it would have been a good idea to do a little more manual labor, or maybe to eat a little more, while he was studying over the past few years.  Now that he was about to be naked in front of everyone he knew, he would have liked to have at least a little muscle, somewhere on his body.  Oh, well.  It was too late to think about those things now.  Maybe the spirits would take pity on him for being so puny and decide to just skip on the whole curse thing.

Soren was both relieved and disappointed to find the place nearly empty.  Usually the whole community showed up for these rituals, but most of them seemed to think that Soren’s wasn’t going to be a real Binding, so it was a waste of time to attend.  Still, he’d thought more people would at least be curious.  His uncle was there, and Elder Maebys, and three of the higher-ranking Covenant-bound, and an acolyte who had studied with Soren until her Binding the year before, and of course Master Alred and his two remaining pupils.  The master always made his pupils watch the Bindings, as a way of preparing them for their own.  And there, hanging back by the edge of the clearing, were Cowan and his friends, probably waiting eagerly to see Soren fail.

Soren wrapped the big, loose robe tighter around himself and stepped into the clearing.  Master Alred cleared his throat and lifted up a torch, and everyone fell silent.  “We have among us one of our sons,” the master began as he gestured for Soren to approach the altar, “who wishes to take upon himself a heavy burden.”

Soren stepped inside the ring of stones that the master had prepared.  “Soren the Twice-Blessed, son of the Master Eldan and the Guardian Corvys, comes before us as an initiate, ready to take up the Covenant of our ancestors, and to be bound by that Covenant for all time.”

The master touched his torch to the giant mound of kindling that was piled on top of the little knee-high clay altar that he had prepared.  Soren shook nervously even as the fire behind him warmed his back and dried his still-damp hair.  As the fire burned, the master brought out a large basin full of sweet-smelling, flowery water and a long, beautiful knife– one of the few sacred objects his people had been able to bring with them when they’d fled the great cities all those generations ago.

Soren removed his father’s Binding robe and handed it to Master Alred, trying to ignore the derisive snickering he heard from the boys at the edge of the clearing.  Soren then spread his arms out wide as the master took the basin of water and slowly poured it over his whole body.  “He has been cleansed!” the master announced.

Soren closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the master led him by both hands up onto the altar to stand in the center of the pyre.  Master Alred had kindly prepared a cleared space in the middle, just big enough for Soren’s feet, where there was no kindling.  Still, the clay of the altar was hot, and he could feel the flames on his skin, scorching the little hairs on his legs, and the blazing embers that surrounded his feet poked out to burn at his ankles and toes.  But Soren endured it proudly, grateful that no one had decided to make him sit or lie down in the fire.  Finally Master Alred shouted out, “He has been purified!” and led him back down to the cool, damp earth inside the little ring of stones.

The master then took a few handfuls of hot ash from the edge of the altar and smeared them across Soren’s chest and back, calling out, “He has been sanctified!”

Then Master Alred held out the knife and asked him, “Are you prepared to make this sacred oath and bind yourself to the Covenant of your ancestors for all time?”

“I am,” Soren replied as he took the knife from the master.

“I, Soren, present myself to those who bound my ancestors who came before me,” he recited.  “I come humbled and naked, with nothing to my name, to bind myself with this sacred oath for the duration of my life, and for all time after.”  He held out his right hand and sliced open the center of his palm.  “I open my flesh, that the strength that filled the hands of my ancestors, may fill my hands also.”  Soren looked down at his bloody hand.  The wound sort of reminded him of the cut he’d given the boy in the garden.  Then he opened his left hand and, without even thinking about it, he carved himself an exact replica of the boy’s wound.  With both his hands bleeding, he held out the knife for the master to take it.  “I spill out my life’s blood, for my life and my blood are no longer my own.”

The master then held out the little bundle that contained Soren’s herb doll.  Soren opened the cloth wrapping and lifted out the little doll.  It could easily have fit in the palm of one hand, but Soren cupped it in both hands as if it were a real little person.  Soren continued reciting his oath as he held the bloodstained herbs carefully in his wounded hands.  “I hereby swear, by the terms of the sacred Covenant of my people, to revere, obey, and protect the source from which I draw my strength, my life, and my power, and to do so with every part of my mind, my body, and my soul, until the end of my life and beyond my death, for all eternity.  I also swear, by the terms of the sacred Covenant of my people, to have no higher loyalty to any other person, object, or entity, than the loyalty which I have for that sacred source which I serve.”

Soren touched the herb doll, which was now wet with his own blood, to the fire on the altar.  When the head and arms began to smoulder, he lifted it high above his head.  “I call upon those who bound my ancestors who came before me,” he shouted out, “I call upon them to uphold the Covenant that they made with my people, so that I may have the strength I shall need, to keep this sacred oath which I have now sworn!”  And with that, Soren shoved the entire doll into his mouth and ate it.  It tasted awful and it burned the inside of his mouth, but he managed to keep a straight face as he choked it down.

After he swallowed the last of it, Master Alred brought his father’s robe and draped it over his shoulders.  Everyone who had gathered in the clearing was watching intently, waiting to see what would happen next.  Soren stood there nervously, wondering whether or not he was crazy for having done this but knowing he could never take it back now.

Suddenly the air came alive with a thick crackling noise, and Soren felt a prickling on his spine, and a tingling on his scalp, and then his entire body began twitching uncontrollably, and then suddenly he felt as if he had been set on fire.  He looked down and saw that there were no flames– nothing was touching him– but even so, he could feel himself burning.  The pain was worse than anything he had ever experienced– he didn’t know what to do– and all the while the heat was growing stronger and hotter, until finally it was so bad that Soren couldn’t even scream anymore.  He couldn’t breathe, and everything was spinning and tilting.

The last thing he was aware of was Master Alred’s strong arms wrapping around him as Elder Maebys leaned over him.