The sound the arrow made going in was wetter than he expected, and duller. Francis went down in the sand with the shaft standing out of his thigh.

The boar had one of them by then and was working at him. It had come out of the gate at the far end while the men were still counting each other, and it had not stopped since. Somebody was screaming without any words in it.

The archer nocked again. He was still watching Francis when the boar came round the body and took him at the hip, and lifted him, and put him down.

Francis tried a step. His leg answered late.

One man was left, and he had a spear. He put it into the boar’s chest and leaned on it. “Bastard.” The spear plunged deeper as he leaned harder, and a satisfying crunch came from within the boar. It lay shivering. The man worked the spear free and turned, breathing hard, with nothing in his face but temper. “Now for another bastard.”

Francis had lost his sword somewhere behind him. There was a dagger in the sand a stride away, dropped by a man who had no further use for it. He bent and picked it up.

“Aim small, miss small,” he muttered.

Francis saw the man advancing and aimed at his chest. His arm bent back and he closed his eyes. He could smell the garlic on the man’s breath, he was that close. Panic rose in him. He had missed. He opened his eyes to see the man falling backwards, hands fumbling at his throat. He hit the sand, and it was over.

Francis bent and worked the dagger out of the man’s throat. He sent his thanks to Auraeth, and meant every word of it. He landed hard as his legs gave up.

One of the Order’s men ran in and helped him up.

The Arch Priest clapped. “Well done, young man. Well done.” He turned to an aide. “Take him to the training pits.”

The aide nodded and backed away, his gold gown shimmering in the light.

“Another one for the inquisitors,” he said.

The tall, dark-skinned man said, “Why do you sully yourself watching this?”

The Arch Priest smiled at Distren. “Fun.” He turned his back to leave. “We all need fun.”

 

Francis awoke on a wooden table. The arrow that had been buried in his leg before he fell lay beside him, and the wound was tended, a clean white cloth wrapped about his thigh.

“Awake, I see,” said a voice behind him.

“Down to you, I guess,” Francis said. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, boy.”

The door closed and the footsteps went away. Francis turned. There was nobody there.

He swung his legs off the table and the room tilted, so he lay back down. Vomit burned into his mouth. He rolled over, brought up something brown, then shut his eyes. The memory came with the darkness.

His parents had been arguing. His mother had said no to his father, and his father was making his feelings known with his fist and her face.

“Stop,” said Francis. “I will go. Don’t hit her.”

The inquisitors had stood by his door. “Come,” said the taller of them, dark of skin. The other was hawk-faced, and said nothing. “I am Inquisitor Vast, and this is Inquisitor Distren.”

The boy nodded and walked forward.

“Your mother, boy,” said Distren. “She has a black face.”

His father stepped into the doorway and stuck out his hand. “Bats, as promised.”

Distren fished around in his pocket. “Why hit her so, if the boy came of his own free will?”

“She’s my property, to do with as I like.”

“Brother,” said the other man.

Distren looked to the woman again. “Whom do you serve?”

“Auraeth, my lord,” she said, without blinking.

Francis’s father struck her. “Me,” he said, and looked to Distren. “Bats.”

Distren placed his hand inside his cloak and found what he was looking for.

The other man shook his head and walked off, leaving Distren and the boy.

His motion was a blur, and the man in the doorway sank to his knees, the blade buried to the hilt in his eye socket.

“Auraeth sees and knows,” said Distren.

The boy watched as Distren recovered his knife, his father still kneeling, blood and gore dripping down his face. The boy turned white.

Distren held him fast. “Auraeth sees and knows. Repeat it.”

The boy did as he was told.

Distren placed two bats on the dead man’s head and faced the woman. “Two bats for the man.”

Her mouth hung open.

He took hold of the boy’s hand and pulled him after the other inquisitor.

Francis twisted round. “Mother.” He said it again, louder, and then he was shouting it.

She did not move. She stood with her hands at her sides and let him shout. Then she stepped back and closed the door.

He could hear her crying behind it until the road turned. He had said he would go. He had meant it when his father lived.

 

Vast walked along the dark corridor. This had once been his proving ground. He pressed his side where the scar was. The blade had nearly ended him, all those years ago. Not quite, thanks to Auraeth.

He pushed the door open. The young man was on the table. “Wake up.”

Francis’s eyes opened.

“Get up and come here. Don’t step in that.” He pointed at the sick. “It is offending my nose.”

Francis did as he was bade. “Master,” he said.

Vast raised his eyes at the word. “Follow.”

He turned and walked, and Francis did his best to keep up. The dizziness had not gone. Vast was practically running.

Francis fought down the sickness rising in his throat.

“Vomit and I hit you,” Vast said, and picked up the pace.

Francis held his breath and caught up. They broke out of the corridor into the open, and the fresh air hit him like a wall. He found an empty barrel and gave up. He vomited until there was nothing left.

Vast looked on at the lad.

Francis straightened and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “I am sorry,” he said.

“Sorry is for weaklings. Are you weak?”

“Compared to you, Master, yes.”

Vast moved to his side and cuffed him round the head, hard. Francis swallowed against another heave. Vast raised an eyebrow. “I am all right,” said Francis.

“Let us go,” said Vast. “We are going to get food and water. You will eat and you will drink.”

“Yes, Master.”

 

Vast sat at his table and watched the boy on the floor. The leg had healed enough to kneel on, and had taken its time about it. Francis flicked the maggot out of his food, a plate of cold gruel.

“Master,” the boy said.

Vast put down his apple. It rolled on the plate and stopped against a large wedge of cheese. “Yes?”

The boy thought, and gritted his teeth. “Nothing. Sorry to waste your time.” He bowed his head, took a big spoonful and swallowed. The bile rose again and he refused to show it. It had become almost a companion these past weeks.

Vast picked up his apple and took a bite. “You get what you deserve, and right now you deserve less than you have. So be content.”

The crunch of it made Francis look up.

“Got something to say, boy?”

Francis’s eyes darted for an answer. “The maggots add crunch, once they have turned,” he said, and took another mouthful. The first one had not been too bad, and he had convinced himself it was barley.

Vast left meat, cheese and half the apple on his plate. To a boy from the hamlets it was better food than he would see in a month.

Vast picked up the plate and came towards Francis. Francis pushed his own nearly empty plate aside.

Vast kept moving, right past him, and put the food in a waste bucket.

“Come, boy.”

Francis visibly shrank. “Master.” He got up, and put a finger in his mouth and worked half a maggot free from his teeth, and the soft sack of it came away and he spat it out, grimacing.

“You will be fighting today. No rules. Just win, and you will eat.”

Vast pushed him through an opening.

“Yes, Master.” The boy looked at the others in the courtyard. They were all bigger than him. He turned back to Vast and made to hold him round the waist. Vast shoved him off in disgust. “Fight and die like a man,” he said, with a sneer.

“You said no rules, right?” said Francis.

“Get on with it. You are boring me.”

Francis advanced on the others, and they circled one another.

Distren walked over from the corner he had been standing in. “He is clever, that one.”

“Why is that?” said Vast.

Distren looked to the empty sheath on Vast’s belt.

“The little—” said Vast.

“Clever,” said Distren, and he walked out.

Francis dropped to the floor, begging for mercy. The biggest boy strolled over. “You will be last. Don’t worry.” He spat on him. Francis screwed himself into a ball and cried.

Vast looked on. “You clever little shit.”

The boys fought, and the bigger boy was the last one standing. Boys were reeling all over the floor, arms bent at impossible angles, a leg twisted almost backwards, and one lad lay dead with his neck broken.

“Your turn,” said the bigger boy.

“No. Please don’t,” said Francis, begging. He put a hand out and it was slapped away. The bigger boy bent down and pulled him upright, ready to throttle him.

The dagger found its mark.

As Francis came up it came out, and went into the big lad’s chest, and it took all his strength to bury it deep.

He had never had to force one into a man. That was hard.

The bigger boy staggered back, his eyes asking questions his mouth refused. His hands went to the blade and he made to pull it out, and his hand slipped in the blood.

Vast came across the training ground and slit the boy’s throat, then pulled his dagger free. “That was well played. You eat better tomorrow. Now go and clean up.” He motioned with the blade to a water trough.

The other boys left a gap for him.

“Well done,” said one.

“Pull that shit on me and it will end different,” said another.

Francis cleaned his hands. He could still see the surprised look on the boy’s face. His father had taught him to throw — daggers, swords, maces — for an act they meant to take round the towns, hitting targets for coin to keep the family. There had been no feeling in it. None in the sand either; that man had carried anger in his face, and the blade had left Francis’s hand and that had been the whole of it. He didn’t even have his eyes open for it. This one, though. This one had been different. He had felt the blade bite, had pushed it deeper, watched the grip loosen and the colour leave the boy’s face.

 

The stool was more comfortable than the floor had been. He was not quite at the main table with his master yet, but his food was on the up. He had bread now, and he ate it slowly. The past weeks had seen the leg heal. What had felt on the day like the end of his life had proved to be a flesh wound.

“So have I got more tasks before I can wear the star?” he asked.

Vast snorted. “No. You have to learn scripture and herbs, hunting, stars, reading, writing. The list is long. You will be many years older before you are one of us.”

Francis looked at the chair.

“You will sit here long before you have the star.”

The boy smiled.

“We do not smile,” said Vast.

“Can I have my head shaved?”

“No,” said Vast. “You are not an initiate yet.” He sliced an apple and offered a small slice. “Once you have passed our tests and proved worthy you will be allowed to shave your head. A stripe will be added, and you will be given a black set of clothes to mark you as one of us.” He prodded his own dark cloak. “You then start the real learning.”

They ate in silence until the food was gone.

“Today’s test is hard. Remember, though. Auraeth sees and knows. Rely on your faith and follow what you are told.”

The boy eyed the water skin.

“Drink,” said the older man. “And do not forget, I do not like you, but I do not want to start again, so get this right.”

 

The room was dark. There was chanting, and no telling where from.

“Who is there?” asked Francis.

The chanting stopped. The candle flame flickered, and Francis’s eyes found a piece of paper.

He crossed to it and picked it up. On it was a picture: a knife, a pouch of coins, and a figure on a cross shaped in the form of an X. Next to where it had lain was a dagger in a jewelled sheath.

His eyes went round the room, panic rising. The chanting started again, and a new shaft of light appeared as a small curtain dropped. It showed a figure on an X, shackled, hooded and still.

Francis swallowed hard. He turned the paper over to see if there was more. Holding it up to the light, he saw the figure on the cross had a dagger sticking out of its stomach.

Do what you are told.

Sweat beaded on his head, and the chanting banged in his brain. He took the knife with a shaking hand and stabbed at the figure’s stomach. The blade cut, slipped free and clattered to the floor. Blood spread beneath the cross. The figure thrashed, but no sound came.

Francis headed for the door, then stopped and checked the paper again. The blade in the picture was still in the stomach, not lying on the floor.

He went back, picked up the knife and drove it in again. It would not stay. Panic rising, he tore the clothing aside and rammed the point into bare flesh. A low moan came from beneath the hood. The chanting stopped.

The smell of human waste hit him. Francis dragged the blade free and stabbed again, harder, then again, until only the hilt showed.

The body writhed. Blood covered his hands and boots. He backed towards the door, rubbing his palms on his breeches.

The body was still moving. He had not killed it. Was he supposed to have?

The paper was more red than white. The room was still. No chanting, only the muffled moaning. The dagger sat where he remembered it in the picture.

Then — what was the pouch of coins for?

A thief. Of course it was a thief. He was here to carry out the Order’s justice. This was the test. A thief needed to die. You could not steal from the Order.

He walked back, more sure now, almost happy with his decision. What he was doing was good. He pulled the dagger free and opened the figure’s belly. Guts spilled from the wound. Francis put the dagger back where the picture had shown it and walked to the door, certain he had done right.

The door opened and a hand pulled him forward. Darkness was his reward, as a hood was placed over his head.

 

The light hurt his eyes.

“You killed him,” came the voice. “Why?”

Francis looked for the voice but found he could not turn his head. It was tied to the chair.

“The paper. It showed a pouch of coins, a dagger, and a person with the dagger in them.”

“It did,” said the voice.

“Did it show them with their guts all over the floor?” said another, which he knew for Vast’s.

“No, but—”

The coin pouch hit the table with a jangle. “Yours,” said the voice. “Or it would have been, had you done as requested. And now an innocent man is dead, because you misread the signs.”

“But— but I didn’t know.”

“The paper was clear enough, if you read it right.”

“I can’t read,” said Francis.

“I can’t read,” mocked the voice.

“Enough,” said Vast.

“I am sorry,” said the boy.

“Do not be sorry. You made a choice. It is yours.”

“I don’t understand,” he cried. “Did I do wrong, or right?”

“It depends on your point of view,” said Vast. “The man with his guts hanging out is probably not overly happy with your choice. Auraeth sees all, though. So perhaps you were guided to kill him, for some divine reason.”

“Relax. This is not a pass or a fail,” the other voice piped up. “He’s pissed himself.”

“I can smell,” said Vast.

“Am I going to die?” asked Francis.

“Not today, boy. It is as it is.”

 

The stool felt miles away from the chair Vast sat in. As usual they were alone in the eating room. There was no talk. For days Francis had been left alone with the question Vast would not answer: had he done right, or wrong?

Vast broke the silence. “I like you, boy. You have balls.” He turned his cup on the table, then pushed the chair opposite out with his foot. “Get this one behind you and you can eat up here. I am tired of talking down at you. Later today you have another round to go. It is a simple test of loyalty. You will be asked to do something. My suggestion is that you do it without thinking.”

“Will I get words this time, or more scribblings?” the boy asked, much harder than his station allowed.

Vast ignored it. “You are hurting. Trust me.”

“I am not sure I trust anyone right now,” said Francis.

Vast stood and pushed back his chair. “Eat up. We are leaving.”

The boy shoved the last piece of bread into his mouth and chewed hard.

 

Vast walked him to an opening and did not enter. “Remember,” he called back. “Don’t think, just do.”

Francis walked into a small antechamber. No door here, just a round room with a box in the middle, and a man dressed all in black, his hood up, a big star on his chest. He gestured to the box.

“Tap the box thrice,” said the man. “Then put your hand in. Do not look.”

Francis held back a moment.

“One last time. Tap the box thrice and place your hand in. Do not look.”

Francis knelt at the box, and winced as the pressure caught the old wound at just the right point to hurt. He held the box with both hands and tapped it once, twice, and a third time, the knocks ringing out.

A hiss came from within.

The boy jerked back. He put his hand to the edge of the box and waited. “How far in?” he asked.

No reply came. The hiss grew louder.

Behind him, a black-clad figure stepped out from the wall, a small sand timer in his hand, the last few grains going down.

Francis did not feel the knife open his throat. The first thing he felt was the blood running down his chest. He looked at it and did not understand.

The figure stepped round in front of him and opened the box. Inside, it was divided in two, one half walled off from the other. One half held a snake. The other held nothing at all. Francis looked into the empty side for as long as he had left, and understood it.

The hiss stopped. The figure set the empty timer down on the floor.

He was still kneeling when his eyes clouded over. Then he went across the box.

Distren pushed back his hood. “Vast will be annoyed.”

“He will,” said the other man, sheathing his dagger.

“Aldric. So many fail. It is as though we set it up to happen.”

“We only set it in motion. The act is theirs to choose, as ours was.”

Distren bowed his head. “I am not so sure.”

They walked out of the room, leaving the boy slumped over the box and the pool of blood gathering size.

 

Distren’s cloak had no sign on it. It was brown, and it was dirty, and he had come a long way in it.

He stopped at the top of the street and checked the way he had come. A monk came up the other side with his hands in his sleeves, and Distren stepped back into a doorway and waited until he had gone.

There was a knock at the door. An older lady opened it to a dark-skinned man in a plain brown cloak. He checked the street once more, then held out his hand. She raised hers to meet it, and he dropped two bats into her open palm.

“He is with Auraeth now.”

He turned and walked away. She closed the door. It was the only thing she could think to do.

 

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