Blood Song

She turned back. “You did well this morning. I feel the other brothers and sisters learned much from your example. The sight of blood didn’t concern you? Make you feel ill or faint?”

Was she joking? “I am accustomed to the sight of blood, Aspect.”

Her gaze clouded for a second before her customary smile returned. “I cannot tell you how much it gladdens my heart to see how strong you’ve grown and that compassion is not absent from your soul. But I must know, why have you come here?”

He couldn’t lie, not to her. “I thought you might provide answers to my questions.”

“And what questions are these?”

There seemed little point in vagary. “When did my father sire a bastard? Why was I sent to the Sixth Order? Why did assassins seek my death during the Test of the Run?”

She closed her eyes, her face impassive, breathing regular and even. She stayed that way for several minutes and Vaelin wondered if she was going to speak again. Then he saw it, a single tear snaking down her cheek. Pain control techniques, he thought.

She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. “I regret I cannot answer your questions, Vaelin. Be assured that your service here is welcome. I believe you will learn much. Please report to Sister Sherin in the west wing.”

Sister Sherin was the young woman who had assisted the Aspect in the tiled room. He found her wrapping bandages around the waist of the wounded man in a room off the west wing corridor. The man’s skin had an unhealthy grey pallor and a sheen of sweat covered his flesh but his breathing seemed regular and he didn’t appear to be in any pain.

“Will he live?” Vaelin asked her.

“I expect so.” Sister Sherin secured the bandage in place with a clasp and washed her hands in a water basin. “Although, service in this Order teaches us that death can often deny our expectations. Take those.” She nodded at a pile of blood stained clothes lying in the corner. “They need to be cleaned. He’ll need something to wear when he leaves here. The laundry is in the south wing.”

“Laundry?”

“Yes.” She faced him with the smallest of smiles. Although he fought it, Vaelin found himself taking note of her form. She was slender, the dark curls of her hair tied back, her face displaying a youthful prettiness but her eyes somehow bespoke a wealth of experience well beyond her years. Her lips formed the words with precision, “The laundry.”

He was discomfited by her, preoccupied with the curve of her cheekbones and the shape of her lips, the brightness of her eyes, relishing confrontation. He quickly gathered the clothes and went to find the laundry. He was relieved to find he wasn’t required to wash the clothes himself and, after Sister Sherin’s cool reception, somewhat taken aback by the welcome he received from the brothers and sisters in the steam filled laundry room.

“Brother Vaelin!” boomed a large bear-like man, his hair covered chest beaded with sweat. His hand felt like a hammer on Vaelin’s back. “I’ve waited ten years for a brother from the Sixth to come through our doors and when we finally get one it’s their most famous son.”

“I am pleased to be here brother,” Vaelin assured him. “I have to clean these clothes…”

“Oh tosh.” The clothes were torn from his grasp and tossed into one of the large stone baths where the laundry workers laboured. “We’ll do that. Come and meet everyone.”

The big man turned out to be a master, not a brother. His name was Harin and when he wasn’t taking his turn in the laundry he taught the novices the finer points of bones. “Bones, master?”

“Yes, m’boy. Bones. How they work, how they fit together. How to mend them. I’ve snapped more arms back into sockets than I can remember. It’s all in the wrist. I’ll teach you before you leave, if I don’t break your arm first.” He laughed, the sound easily filling the cavernous chamber.

The rest of the brothers and sisters gathered round to greet Vaelin and he found himself assailed with numerous names and faces, all of whom displayed a disconcerting enthusiasm for his presence, as well a plethora of questions.

“Tell us, brother,” one brother said, a thin man named Curlis, “is it true your swords are made from star silver?”

“A myth, brother,” Vaelin told him remembering to keep Master Jestin’s secret. “Our swords are finely made, but of plain steel only.”

“Do you they really make you live in the wilds?” a young sister asked, a plump girl called Henna.

“Only for ten days. It’s one of our tests.”

“They make you leave if you fail, don’t they?”

“If you live that long.” It was Sister Sherin, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “That’s right isn’t brother? Many of your brothers die in the tests? Boys as young as eleven years old.”

“A hard life requires hard training,” Vaelin replied. “Our tests prepare us for our role in defending the Faith and the Realm.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If Master Harin doesn’t need to prolong your presence here the teaching room needs mopping.”