Free Stories 2016 Page 9

  "No day pleases me," she said flatly.

  The seneschal nodded again, then gestured Innel and Pohut aside, into the foyer. His voice dropped. "You both will be sworn to the king this afternoon. Wear your best clothes, if you have any. Be certain you are tidy. Do you understand?"

  The two boys gave each other a quick, confused glance.

  "It is the oath of fealty," the seneschal said. "You offer the king your lives in service to the crown."

  "I thought our lives already belonged to the king, ser," Innel said.

  "Yes, of course they do," he said, "but to be sworn directly is a greater honor."

  "What are we swearing to, ser," asked Pohut, "if he already holds our lives?"

  The man's voice became a hiss. "You question this unparalleled honor? Where is your gratitude? Many would be elated to stand where you stand, and arguably more deserving, hero-father or not. I suggest you keep your tongue still and do as you are told."

  "Yes, ser," answered Pohut, blushing at the reprimand, ducking his head. "Still, it seems to me—"

  "I will send someone to rehearse with you so you don't bungle your oaths." The seneschal frowned. "Though, in truth, it might be a mercy for you if you did." A short exhale and he left.

  Pohut found he was shaking. The two brothers walked back into the room where their mother stood at the mantle.

  "Mother? We are to give an oath to the king. Do you know what it means?"

  She was standing against the mantle, staring distantly.

  "Mother?"

  Her fingers were buried to the second knuckles in the dirt. If they had been at home, he was sure, she would be outside, hands and feet deep in the soil.

  In his mind's eye he saw their home, their garden. It was dying from lack of care. Grief caught in his throat.

  "Mother."

  "Pewyan," she said softly to the air. "Take me home."

  Pohut had expected someone to come to explain the mysterious oath, but when the king's guards arrived, they took the brothers to a large chamber. There the king sat on huge, raised chair. Beside him stood a handful of adults wearing the royal red and black, with various chains of office around their necks and glinting rings on their fingers.

  All eyes were on the two boys.

  "Your Majesty," said the woman closest to to the king, in what seemed to Pohut a reproachful tone.

  "Lismar," the king said in a similar tone, "their tutors say they are very clever. Consider the bloodline. Even you admired General Pewyan's work."

  "Clever is not enough, sire," the large man on the king's other side said with a sour look. "One must select one's acorns with care."

  "Without nurture, Lason, even the most promising sapling becomes a dead, brittle twig. Let's see how they do when they have plenty of water and sunlight. Who knows? They might take after their father."

  A snort from the man called Lason. "Or their mother, who by all reports is…" He grimaced. "Fragile."

  "The Houses will rage at the insult," said Lismar.

  The king waved this away like a troublesome fly. "If they object, we'll return them their precious babies. There are plenty more children. They'll behave."

  Lismar chuckled.

  Pohut had no idea what this was about. Precious babies?

  He realized that these were the king's royal siblings. Lason, he was pretty sure, now glaring at the brothers as if they were a particularly unpleasant mess he had to clean up, was the Lord Commander of the king's armies. His father had mentioned Lismar before. General Lismar.

  "Also, I want a close eye kept on the girl-child," said the king. Then he gestured to a short, thickset man to the side, who had a scar jutting up and across his upper lip that made his expression seem puzzled. "Cohort Master, are you ready to induct?"

  "Yes, your majesty."

  Cohort Master? Induct?

  All at once, the pieces fell together, and Pohut understood. His breath came hard.

  The Princess's Cohort. Which he had been told was full of the children of aristos and the Houses. Not boys from a remote river valley.

  Make me proud.

  He drew himself upright. "We are honored, your majesty," he said, forcing words through a drying mouth, hearing his voice crack. "My brother and I are eager to serve you, sire."

  "You see?" the king said to everyone. "A rural education, yet behold this skillful comportment. Lismar, read them the oath."

  The general did so, from memory, pausing for the brothers to repeat each phrase.

  The king passed an ornate knife to the Lord Commander, who passed it in turn to the Cohort Master, who took Pohut's hand in his own. Pohut bit his lip as the knife pricked his palm, but made no sound. The Cohort Master's large hand squeezed three drops onto the bright blade. The king drew Pohut into an uncomfortably close, one-armed embrace. With his other hand, he touched his fingers to the blade, then put red-stained fingertips on Pohut's forehead. The king smelled of incense, iron, and sweat. Next, a wide-eyed Innel received the same treatment.

  Pohut wasn't entirely sure what he had just sworn to, but understanding came soon enough; they were taken to a small room and directed to write the oath, again and again, until they got it exactly correct, while the meaning and history of each word, phrase, and sentence was explained to them at astonishing length.

  After they had inked a final copy onto fine vellum, their thumbs were pricked and the oath was marked in blood, followed by a dire warning about the consequences of failure that left Pohut feeling ill and Innel trembling uncontrollably.

  They were escorted to their suite by a handful of king's guards.

  "A few things only," one said. "You'll be wearing the Cohort's colors, so you don't need to bring any clothes."

  His sister Cahlen wriggled when he picked her up. She had, he now saw, tugged every bit of stuffing out from her doll and carefully arranged it in a circle around the remains of fabric, which lay neatly flattened in the middle. He hugged her tightly to him, hoping to comfort her, but she squirmed silently out of his arms, went to the center of the circle, and with fierce concentration, stomped on the doll's remains, again and again, as if attempting to kill a particularly slow bug.

  Pohut looked around the room, trying to figure out what to take. Yet again he was being taken away from somewhere he knew to somewhere he didn't.

  Innel was holding himself, tightly, staring at their mother, his expression stricken. Pohut put a hand on his brother's head, forced himself to a smile.

  "We'll be fine, Brother," he said. "It'll be—fun."

  Innel did not look convinced.

  "Mother," Pohut said, trying to summon a tone like the one his father had used, when he left home, "the king has taken us into the princess's Cohort." He waited, but she did not respond. "I don't know when we'll be allowed back." A look at the Cohort guardians told him nothing. Hesitantly he reached out and touched his mother's shoulders, as he remembered his father used to do, hoping he was doing it right. "Mother?" He looked where she was looking, but there was nothing there.

  Finally he went to the mantle and touched the dirt, touched his face. He examined the items there a long moment, then took the rock. A plain rock, about the size of his fingertip to first knuckle, brownish and gray, full of messy striations that meant nothing.

  That meant home. He put it in his pocket.

  At the doorway, he paused. His mother sat at the table, as if frozen. Pohut exhaled heavily, and let the guardians lead them away, as behind him Cahlen continued her slow, silent stomping.

  "The Cohort wears the colors of dawn," the Cohort Master said as they stood outside the Boys' Quarters. He made a soft smacking sound as he spoke, the deep scar keeping his lips from meeting quite right. "This signifies your beginning in this illustrious fellowhood. While jewelry and trinkets are acceptable, to wear House colors is not permitted while under the tutelage of his gracious majesty." A sideways look at the brothers. "That will not matter for you."

  A liveried servant, a girl perhaps a few years
older than Pohut, handed the two brothers a bundle of clothes. They were light blue and pale yellow, secured with a thick cord of red and black.

  Pohut wondered what life was like for her. Had she folded these clothes? Tied the cord?

  Was her father still alive?

  "Thank you," he said to her and smiled.

  Her eyes went wide, as if she were shocked that he had seen her. She dipped her head once, cheeks reddening, and left at a near run.

  "I don't think you were supposed to do that," Innel said softly.

  "I guess not."

  The Boys' Quarters was a long, narrow room, with tens of beds lining the walls, some low and some loft, cabinets underneath or to the side. Some boys lounged on the beds, others sat in chairs, some hung off ladders. All watched as the brothers passed by.

  The Master led them to a bed where another boy, about Pohut's age, was angrily gathering game pieces and a board.

  "You don't need three beds, Mulack," said the Master.

  "The Cohort is supposed to be closed," the boy named Mulack muttered, glaring at Pohut and Innel.

  "His Majesty's Cohort. If he says it's open, it's open."

  Something hard hit Pohut on the back. A block of wood thudded across the floor. A dozen boys returned his look innocently.

  "Sutarnan," the Master said, not even turning around, "hitting someone in the back is considered cowardly. Is that the reputation you seek?" He turned to look directly at a smirking boy. "They don't have your advantages, child of the Houses. Give them a few hours' courtesy, at least."

  "Never seen them before," Sutarnan responded. "What's their House?"

  "No House," said the Master.

  "What family, then?" asked someone else.

  "Our father is a general," Innel said loudly.

  Pohut swallowed at the sudden pain that threatened to claw its way up through his throat into his eyes.

  "A hero of the empire," the Master added, "of whom we are all very proud."

  "A commoner general," whispered Mulack to another boy with a snort. "In a year, no one will remember his name."

  Pohut felt the Master's grip tight on his shoulder an instant before understanding settled into his stomach and face as flashes of heat.

  With a humorless smile at Mulack, the Master said, "Careful, ser House Murice, that the same is not said of you."

  Mulack, who clearly had not expected to be overheard, took a step backward and looked away.

  Scanning the faces of the assembled boys for a long moment, the Master spoke again. "Tokerae, will you help them get settled and see them through the midday meal?"

  "Yes, ser," replied a thin, tall boy, who launched himself off his loft bed, foregoing the ladder, landing easily on the floor, bounding forward. He clasped Pohut's arm and grinned. "No House? I've never met anyone without a House before."

  Tokerae led them to the meal room, where they followed him between tables of children, every one of them watching. Suddenly, someone stuck out a leg in front of Pohut, who barely avoided tripping. Tokerae turned with surprising speed and kicked the leg savagely.

  "Ow!" cried the owner of the leg. Mulack.

  "Master said to give them a few hours," Tokerae said.

  "Turdface," Mulack said. "I'll remember this."

  "Doubt it. You forget everything else." Tokerae led them forward between the tables. A girl stood from her seat to face him.

  "Move, sea-scum," he said.

  She was a big girl, even measured against Tokerae, and Pohut guessed that she was among the eldest, eight or maybe nine. She had a solidity to her that made Pohut think that she'd move only when she decided to.

  "Pestilence and pus," she said in a measured way. "Seems House Etallan has dumped their trash in our meal room."

  It took Pohut a moment to realize that this was directed at Tokerae and not the two brothers. He was still half in shock that the children of the nobility were not nearly as polite or gracious as he had imagined they would be.

  Tokerae stepped close to the girl, nearly nose to nose. She grinned, eyes flashing.

  From across the room, the Girls' Warden called out, in a bored tone. "No fighting in the meal room."

  "Come on, Taba," Tokerae said, stepping back, "let us by."

  The girl named Taba seemed to consider this, the warden, and the brothers, and she moved aside with a contemptuous snort and watched them pass.

  Tokerae's destination became clear: a nearly empty table at the far side of the room, where sat a young boy and girl, both about Innel's age. Their heads were together, laughing at a shared joke.

  Something soft but heavy hit Pohut on the back of his leg. He turned to see a clod of straw and mud splattered across the floor.

  "Pah!" called Sutarnan, "Animals have found their way into our meal room. They're tracking in dirt! Get them out, wardens!"

  "Animal, animal, animal!" shouted a small girl.

  "So ugly they hurt my eyes," said Mulack.

  "What are they?" asked a younger boy.

  "Huge worms?"

  "Wrinkled pigs?"

  "No, no," replied Sutarnan, choking on laughter. "They are street-dogs!"

  "Are you sure?" asked another girl, hair in long braids down her back. "I've seen the king's dogs. They're beautiful. These ones are clearly deformed."

  "Mongrels," said Mulack, "slipped in through a chimney or privy hole to steal food." He mimed notching an arrow to a bow, aimed at Innel. "Let's see how they die."

  Instinctively, Pohut put himself between his brother and Mulack as they followed Tokerae to the table.

  One of the children barked, doglike. Then another. In a flash, the room was a cacophony of barking and howling. Innel put his hands over his ears.

  An ear-piercing whistle cut through the din. The room went silent.

  "Enough," said the Cohort Master, standing in the doorway. "Beyond enough. The rest of the meal without voices."

  "What? That's not fair," called out the small boy at the table at which they now stood. "I made no sound at all, Master."

  "Nor I," said the small girl next to him primly. "I am innocent of all offense."

  "Mulack and Sutarnan, you both heard me say a few hours of courtesy. So now everyone will eat in silence except the newcomers and their table. Be thankful I let you eat at all. I may be less generous at dinner, so try to summon a hint of the excellent manners your parents assured his majesty you had in such abundance."

  Angry glares fell on the brothers, as if this were their fault.

  Tokerae introduced the boy and girl at the table. "Putar of House Kincel," he said. The boy reached out and clasped Pohut's arm in greeting, then Innel's. The girl did likewise. "Malrin, House Eschelatine."

  Putar and Malrin seemed wary, but curious. Which, after their general reception, seemed a great improvement.

  "Are you from a House, too?" Innel asked Tokerae.

  "House Etallan," Tokerae replied. "Most of us are from the Great Houses. Some from the Lessers. A few from the families." A tilt of his head, a smirk. "Then there's you."

  Pohut could not tell if this was meant in a friendly way or not. He understood every word spoken, but somehow felt as if it were a different language.

  What were they doing here?

  That night, returning from the evening meal, the brothers found their lower bed covered with a bucketful of muddy straw and a bloody bone lying in the middle.

  "Welcome, mutts!" someone shouted. He wasn't sure who. Sutarnan? Mulack? Ilmach? Dil? He was learning names and Houses as fast as he could. Not fast enough.

  Innel was staring at the bed, his mouth slack with shock.

  "Pah," Pohut said to him, rubbing his head reassuringly. "It's nothing. Room for us both up top." He pressed his brother toward the ladder.

  Once they were both in the loft, Innel toward the wall and away from the edge, Pohut listened to the mutterings and creakings of the room. He felt his brother begin to shake with sobs and rolled him around so he could see his face and whisper
in his ear.

  "Very quietly, little brother. Show it only to me. Never them."

  "What are we going to do?"

  It was the same question Pohut asked himself. So many unspoken rules. They were not merely outsiders from a strange river valley where everything was done differently. More like mice in an open field, the cry of hawks above.

  What were they going to do?

  Study hard.

  "We will study." His answer felt inadequate. "And we will— " Make their father proud, he almost said.

  No. Their father was gone. And their mother nearly so.

  He gently put his hands on either side of his brother's face and looked into his eyes. "We will study and work hard. We will make each other proud. Together. Always. Understand?"

  Under his fingertips, he felt his brother nod. "Always."

  They stood in Oak hall, the Cohort's main study. A girl stood next to Pohut, a little older than he was. He drew from his memory of the lengthy introductions.

  Sachare of House Nital. He was almost sure.

  "Her Highness enters last," Sachare whispered to them, out of the blue, as Cern entered. "She is surrounded by guards. Don't ever go up to her uninvited. Also, you only need to bow your head this much, because we are the Cohort. It is the fifth obeisance. You know the forms, yes?"

  "No," Pohut said, feeling lost.

  "Just dip your head."

  "Thank you," Pohut said gratefully.

  "Why are you helping us?" Innel whispered. His brother's charming smile, still thick with baby fat, somehow made the question right.

  Sachare sighed. "His Majesty, in his great wisdom, put you here. It is my duty to crown and king to loyally honor his decisions with everything I do."

  Again, Pohut understood the words but not the meaning. Was this some new form of mockery? He thought not: she seemed sincere. Studying her face for understanding, Pohut did not notice the princess until Innel hit him urgently. The brothers dipped their heads.

  "You are the new ones," Cern said to the brothers.