Initiate’s Trial: First book of Sword of the Canon. Janny Wurts
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patched cuffs of his shirt and breeches. As if all along, he had laboured to mulch the tough stubble left after a late-season harvest. He had worked the earth here – who knew for how long – to tidy the rows of a field bedded to lie fallow for winter.
Which situation made no living sense, disconnected from all that he knew of existence.
He traced the coarse, callused skin of his palms with a shudder of stark disbelief. These cracked nails and chapped knuckles had not, in this place, ever wrought superlative music on the fret and string of any earthly instrument. Every artful line of his own refined melody deserted his cognizance, lost to him as though hurled to oblivion.
Nameless, rudderless, homeless, he wept shining tears for he knew not what – perhaps he ached for gratitude, perhaps for grief, perhaps for a talent he may never have owned, except in the fled echo of dreams.
Or maybe he cried for the merciless hurt inflicted by bewildered confusion.
The only congruity left was the scars, graven into the chapped grain of his skin. They alone marked the frightful proof of a history that some event, or someone had snatched away, then left him bereft. Beneath a brightening sky, buffeted by a southerly wind that forepromised the misery of cold rain by evening, he shook off his distress and reclaimed his feet. A resiliency he had forgotten he possessed raised his courage to survey the landscape. Ahead, a wrought-iron gateway led through the crumbled wall. The barred portal hung open. Chafed mad by confinement, he kicked clear of the furrow that mired his toes. Whether the way out was a baited trap, he welcomed the reckless risk. Though the impulsive presumption should kill him, he assayed the first bold step towards the overgrown lane, that led towards the unkempt fringe of autumn woodland beyond the gap.
No one’s hand stopped him. When no outcry arose in alarm, he tried another stride, then another. Then he stumbled headlong into a run, upon legs that felt clumsy and strange, bearing his ungainly weight.
He never sighted the lady in grey though she observed his terrified departure. Concealed in one of the tangled thickets that bounded the deserted garden, she took extreme care not to draw his attention. Motionless, she watched his panicked spurt down the carriage-way, once in antiquity paved with white gravel to welcome refined guests to an earl’s summer palace. The ancient woman relaxed her clasped hands and sighed in grateful relief.
Blessed she was, to assist the release of a spirit intact and unbroken.
For the prisoner just restored to liberty had endured an incarceration far longer than any mortal being should ever be made to withstand.
Once his flight reached the tree-line, barely moments after his lonely form vanished from sight, the crone knelt amid the browned stems of wild thorn. She opened her clenched and bloodied palms and buried the smeared fragments of shattered crystal and broken links that remained of the sigil-forged chain that had bound him. Tears of bitter anger striped her withered cheeks as she rammed cold earth overtop the unpleasant remnants. For his life’s sake, no more could be done to assist his escape without danger.
Her fugitive must be left alone on the run. To survive the long reach of his enemies, he would take the harsh road to rediscover himself. If he had been granted the most slender chance to foil the deadly pursuit of the captors who soon would be hunting him, she could not spare him from the brutal whip-lash of consequence: the obliteration of his identity provided his only protection. No friendly hand could shield him from the blow, when in due time he encountered how sorrowfully he had been sold out and betrayed.
The crone’s prayer was not empty as she turned her back on the man whose charge had encompassed her life’s work. ‘May Mother Dark’s powers lend you the strength to stand your firm course through the maelstrom.’
On the very same crisp autumn morning, already saddled with troubles that threatened a crofter’s mean livelihood, two brothers worked side by side, set at odds, as they hitched the yoked ox to the wagon shafts. Neither guessed, at the time, what that fateful market-day trip into Kelsing would bring. Except for the unusual, fierce pitch of their argument, nothing about their hard-nosed, haunted quiet seemed out of the ordinary. The bushels of apples and crates of runt poultry bound for sale had already been loaded. Square jaws clenched, their seething rage crammed into hurtful silence, Efflin and Tarens both struggled, and failed, to bury the axe resharpened by their wounded grief.
The toll taken by last summer’s outbreak of fever had been too swift, and their losses, too tragically recent. No more would their badgering nephews pull pranks. No filched lengths of garden twine, strung underfoot, tripped up the feet of the unwary. No rash little hands misdirected the buckles and entangled the harness, or exasperated them with the endearing hindrance, as hysterical poultry flapped free of mischievously unlatched crates. Never again would their chatterbox aunt pounce into the fracas, or tuck in loose shirttails with floury hands. Adult males and wild offspring alike would not wince as she scolded over their foolish laughter and larking idiocy.
Which hurt that much worse, when the shouting match over the surly bull’s fate devolved from scorched language to fisticuffs. Big men, as honest with fights as they were with the stewardship of family assets, both brothers now puffed, grazed scarlet as schoolboys, stiffly nursing the sting of scuffed knuckles.
‘Could be we’ll regret not keeping yon beef on the hoof to ease the pinch at midwinter,’ said Tarens. Tenderly, he fingered the bruise that swelled into a noxious, black eye. Not the price of his brother’s mulish punch, but from a headlong bash into a fence-post, caused by the cantankerous, four-legged creature his argument still defended.
‘Be claimed off us for our unpaid taxes, first!’ Efflin snapped, shoulders hunched, with his back turned. Leaf brown beside his younger sibling’s blond fairness, he scowled under his hat brim and waited. Since the snorting, loose bull still rampaged at large, not yet ready to settle and graze, he declared, ‘Sell that brute for a breeder, we could pay off the debt. Maybe have a little left over. A brace of coneys could set young in time for the feast over solstice.’
‘Without corn to fatten them? They’d just grow ribs.’ Tarens braced himself upright, forced to maintain a resentful stand-off while the parked wagon propped his shaky legs. ‘Shadow take the damned coin and the rabbits! We can’t brazen through a live sale since you know the randy calves by that bullock would be hell-bound to suffer abuse.’
Efflin rounded, fists cocked to strike, when their younger sister Kerelie burst, railing, out of the cottage door.
‘Leave you to yourselves, and here’s both of you, trading blows like two frothing theosophers!’ She snatched her embroidered skirt clear of the frost-rimed mud. A wet dish-cloth bunched over her stout forearm, she thrust into the fray with a raw slice of meat robbed off the hook in the pantry. The cut was too choice to succour a sibling, never mind one whose daft habit of sentiment had lately laid him out cold in the barn-yard. ‘Here’s a fine supper, wasted! Aren’t we burdened enough, without you louts bickering fit to break your necks?’
The work and the winter would not forgive the fact they were drastically short-handed. Still huffing, Kerelie tossed the chilled meat to the reeling victim. Then she laced into her unrepentant older brother, whose level good sense had flown south since their untimely inheritance placed him at the head of the household. ‘Tarens is right! ’Tis a hazard to breed that cantankerous beast, and no! You will not sell it dear for its ugly temperament! That’s cruelty. The dastards who buy such rogues use them to bait their vicious dogs for blood-sport wagers!’
Efflin tipped back the lumpish felt hat that lent him the semblance of an unsheared ram. Eyebrows raised, without sympathy for his battered younger brother, he stonewalled his sister with a stoic shrug, wiped a blood smear from his split lip, and that fast, caught the black bullock. With its nose ring roped fast to the tail-gate, the brute pawed and gored the stout slats, unaware it had wrecked its last claim to long life and a docile maturity.
The beast snorted yet when the wagon rolled out, dragging it towards the stock-yard and slaughter. The brothers perched side by side on the seat, their broad shoulders rubbed by the jounce at each bump. They winced with the same hissed breaths as the vehicle swayed to the rake of the furious animal’s capped horns. The bone-jarring journey