Council Guard trainee Rain Barynd’s late nights with Tashiel under the not-so-watchful eye of her uncle had finally caught up to him. His grand dreams were finished if he didn’t win this bout. He knew it. If there really was a god, as most people in New Haven professed to believe, that vaunted being may as well have branded his forehead with failure, then sent a blunt notice to his hard-working parents and soon-to-be-lost girlfriend.
Strangely, Tashiel’s uncle approved of Rain’s pursuit of both his niece and a position in the Guard. In fact, Patron Herrick’s position on the Lower Council might be the only reason her parents tolerated him. He still wasn’t sure why the man liked him, especially given the lower social status of his rural family, but that thought wavered in a distant haze as he struggled through the late morning’s exercise with practice swords.
The sun had turned the stone-walled training yard into a shimmering furnace, and his strength evaporated at an alarming pace. His feet stumbled on the dusty, hard-packed ground as if his boots were shod with lead instead of leather. His right shoulder—his primary sword shoulder—throbbed in protest at the continuing contest. How could he be this tired? Most of the thirty-seven other trainees paired off for sparring seemed fine, and none of them kept all the curfews, either. His opponent, the wiry, smarmy-faced Garrett, also appeared relatively fresh, even though they’d been at it for what seemed like an hour.
He parried a thrust from Garrett, air escaping his lungs in a rush as he sought to reposition and drive his opponent back with a pommel punch. He missed, but it was largely intended as a feint anyway, and he succeeded in making Garrett wary of his next move. He sucked in more air as they circled each other, Garrett goading him with his usual sneering chuckle. Rain struggled to ignore it.
Though the Guard played a largely ceremonial role in this idyllic corner of the continent of Rega, its members occasionally rotated to the distant border forts manned primarily by New Haven’s northern neighbors the Istarreans, keeping watch over the nomadic barbarian tribes to the west. Hence the professed need for combat training, overseen by Master-at-Arms Ileom Mystrevan, a war hero from the east as cantankerous as a wounded bear on his best days.
With a determined grunt, Rain lunged at Garrett while swinging in a heavy arc. The thick wooden practice swords met with a thunderous clack that echoed off the smoky gray walls of the inner keep. The imposing stone rising above them in ever-lightening courses reflected the sun’s angry glare from dozens of elegant ivory towers. Rain’s opponent stumbled a bit with his parry, so he swung again, harder and lower. Garrett blocked and kicked at the same time, and Rain struggled to save his balance as he reacted. Ileom’s training had taught him it was generally foolish to be so aggressive, but he would win this fight soon or not at all. And he must win.
“Hold!” Master Ileom surveyed the scene with a dark eye from a ten-foot-high wooden platform, his usual disdainful glare falling sharply on all the recruits, but particularly Rain. Was it his form? Or could the fabled battle master tell he was fatigued and distracted—two cardinal sins for a man on Ileom’s Council Guard? It didn’t help that Rain had arrived for the morning’s session a few minutes late and wearing last year’s breeches, which threatened to rip wide at every extreme movement. Frost it, why couldn’t he have at least worn proper pants!
He took a step back, dropping both his eyes and the point of his practice sword—really just a sheaved bundle of shaped sticks. He burned with shame, more so because part of him was grateful it had ended. He should have won! It was all he could do to control the trembling in his limbs, to keep his breath from coming too fast as sweat soaked into his leather armor and steel-braced helm.
The darkly foreboding silence lengthened, and then Ileom roared again, his mighty storm unleashing on Rain. “What kind of slack-jawed maneuver was that, child?” The term boy was bad enough; child was far worse. “Overextending yourself so your opponent could break your knees or smash your skull? Have I taught you nothing?” He gagged as if he might choke on his rage, his graying black hair seeming to give off steam.
Rain almost flinched. In typical fashion, Master Ileom made it sound like his personal honor had been affronted by the ineptitude of his students. But he was bathed in holy flames today. He had fought in many battles, a rarity for any resident of New Haven, natural born or not. Rain and the other trainees often had to listen to how little Ileom thought of the fighting ability of native New Haveners—known as Sarenites for their religion. The hulking, near-mythical warrior had expressed some rare optimism in Rain before, but that fairy tale had apparently been shattered.
Rain avoided eye contact and said nothing. What could he say? His face caught fire, the heat of the sun now magnified by the displeasure of his teacher, the man he practically worshipped, whose war stories from across most of Rega he could recite by heart. Rain prided himself on being the hardest working of all the trainees, and he’d volunteered for the harsh tutoring of Ileom’s Council Guard. Most young men just wanted to be in Saren’s Legion—a joke!—with the rich ones given the officer posts.
“Well?” Master Ileom’s bellow demanded an answer.
Rain raised his eyes from the ground to meet those of his idol, throat dry as a bucket of dust. He noted the jagged scar under Ileom’s left eye pulsing with a red glow, his face a bevy of thunderclouds. His powerful hands strangled the wobbly railing of the platform. Clouds … water … Rain feared his dry mouth couldn’t form intelligible sound. “It was a poor maneuver, sir.” The words came out as a rasp. He swallowed air and lifted his chin. “I thought I could win with my quickness and athleticism, but I didn’t think it through. My mind failed my body.”
“And you disconnected the two, which I would expect from a first-year recruit, not from you.” That hurt, worse than the anger.
Ileom shifted his gaze to Rain’s opponent. “Garrett, that was commendable work. You stood up to a physically stronger and more skilled—well, allegedly more skilled—opponent and held your ground. You have some potential, boy.”
Rain glanced at Garrett and wanted to spit, though he couldn’t have gathered enough moisture for that. Ileom had complimented the obnoxious twit? Garrett’s falsely modest smile did nothing but accentuate the haughty look he cast at Rain.
“Just make sure you don’t waste it,” added Ileom, “as I know you are wont to do.”
Garrett’s smile faded at the warning, which made Rain want to grin despite the continuing shame of his clumsy debacle. Even given an obvious disdain for hard work, Garrett had an inside track of becoming a Council Guard Third Rank before turning sixteen. The bar was set lower, of course, for the sons of nobles and priests, despite Ileom’s occasional grumblings to the Council of Eight, who apparently cared little about the technical details and preferred to please the upper crust of society. Some of those elites believed linking their progeny to the famed battle master enhanced future commercial prospects. The barbarians, the Council argued, were too weak and disorganized to ever pose a threat, anyway.
Rain, on the other hand, had to toil for every scrap of progress toward the full measure of a Council Guard under a bona fide soldier like Master Ileom. It didn’t seem fair. Having turned fifteen six months ago, he didn’t have much time left to beat out Garrett. His harder life out on the farms had made him stronger, and he was bigger than most boys, in thickness as well as height, but if he couldn’t develop the mental acuity to go with strength and natural talent, that would avail him little.
Master Ileom’s face appeared to freeze for a moment in his consternation, eyes searching a far distant place, and then he announced a sudden end to sword practice for the morning. Rain shuffled on numb feet to return his bundle of sheaves to its place in an open barrel in one corner of the yard before lining up with the rest of the trainees. It was all he could do not to study the others and gauge their judgment of him. He could guess what they were thinking. He really had lost to Garrett, who was a milksop. Some of the other trainees—out of jealousy, he was certain—had recently taken to calling Rain ‘unsuited’ for the Guard, often where Ileom could overhear, and even once in the presence of Tashiel. Fury soon added to the heat of embarrassment, and his fists clenched. Oh, how he would like to hit somebody, especially phony, smug-faced Garrett … but he couldn’t get himself kicked out—he wouldn’t let them push him to that. Familiar fears of failure fanned his humiliation with fiery wings, making him question once again if a poor kid like him, born from nothing, could succeed in becoming an actual member of the Council Guard, whether the position was largely ceremonial or not.
Ileom descended the well-worn stairs of the platform and barked an order for the trainees to fall in behind. He led them through the short, arched tunnel passing further into the keep, his pace slowed by the pronounced but curiously inconsistent limp he had acquired as a young mercenary serving one of the eastern warrior kingdoms. He had never said which one, and the rumors were far more numerous than the countries, all of which made Rain’s blood tingle. Well, they usually did. Not today.
He trudged along in his place, his only consolation that the next scheduled session of the day was horse training—his favorite activity behind dinner, rest, and any time he got to see Tashiel. Thinking of her made him feel worse. Someday she would leave him; how could she not? If he wasn’t promoted to the Guard soon—even just Third Rank—she would need to find someone better and avoid embarrassing her parents further. What in the holy stars was he to do? He was not a farmer.
Across the expansive, stone-flagged Inner Courtyard of the Holy Keep of the Four Stars, graced by fancy stalls offering the best merchandise west of the Miracle Mountains, they marched in something approaching well-ordered unison in two lines. To distract himself, Rain studied the nobility wandering among the stalls, considering this or that showy trinket while maintaining an ever-vigilant eye toward other elites who might take notice. He despised them for the most part, though Tashiel and her family were fast moving up the social ladder. One day he wanted to buy Tashiel some of the fine goods always for sale in the Inner Courtyard. He also longed to present her to the Holy Priest of God’s Favor and the Council of Eight in the innermost Blessed Courtyard, with its marble statues, lush gardens, and wide stone benches for discussing philosophy and the grand issues of the world. If the Holy Priest agreed to marry them, Rain would believe in miracles. He might even offer an actual, heartfelt prayer of thanks to the mysterious ‘Father God’ and his ‘Witnesses,’ who his parents swore were real. His favorite Witnesses were those of Fire and Beasts—but only because their stories were the most interesting to him. Each season also had a Witness, as did Earth, Light, Water, Storms, Stars, Birds, the Moons, and a few others he didn’t remember. Did Air have a Witness?
After passing through another short tunnel, they crossed the Yard of Petitioning, where those with grievances or requests lined up to seek audience with the Holy Priest or other High Priests among the Council of Eight. The trainees then traversed a longer passageway to enter the north stables, where the scent of straw and manure lay thick on the air. It was a good smell, a natural, invigorating aroma.
A horse’s scream arrested his daydreaming … a chilling cry that made him reach instinctively for a sword that wasn’t there. Ileom called a halt. All eyes went to the master, who turned to face his students.
“Nothing but a lame mount being put down,” he said gruffly. “And rather poorly.” He spat to the side before continuing. “Now get your tack and prepare your mounts before I get grumpy and sell the lot of you to a sheep trader.” He limped toward a stool, grumbling what sounded like threats under his breath. A groom was already preparing Ileom’s horse, so he would have plenty of time to lament his trainees until everyone was ready. Rain and the others broke formation and hustled into the large, well-appointed tack room to collect saddles and bridles, blankets and quirts.
The tack room was massive, the equipment organized among three distinct areas, with half-walls marking the boundaries. Various sizes and shapes of hooks and rings sprouted from the stout wooden walls and broad posts throughout. The area for the nobility, who rented slots in the capacious stables for their finest horses, was the largest and nearest the door. The next served the middling or rising class, those on their way up who might reach the noble class through industriousness or connections—generally connections. Tashiel’s parents had a spot there. They owned two horses in the stables, though Rain had recently discovered they were borrowing money to maintain them, a fact Tashiel didn’t seem to be aware of.
The last, smallest by far and farthest from the doorway, was left for the few people of the working or ‘shy’ class who could afford to stable a horse in the city … and for Guard trainees. The Council Guard itself, along with Saren’s Legion, occupied the smaller stables on the south side of the keep.
Rain was reaching for a worn leather bridle when something small and hard struck him in the back of the head. He spun more out of surprise than anger, then blinked as the other trainees shifted to open a wider path between him and the hurler of the object. It was Garrett, as he could have predicted, bouncing another small rock in his hand and grinning. He was flanked by his friend and protector, a mountain of a kid named Jervin, who made Rain and almost every other man in New Haven—excepting Master Ileom—look puny and insignificant.
“What’s wrong, Rain?” Garrett sneered from twenty feet away, and before Rain could respond he hurled the second rock—right at his face, in front of everyone. Rain dodged, and it glanced off the wood behind him to clatter along the floor. Rain’s heart pounded, his blood burning. He was suddenly afraid. It was two on one, and this wasn’t a training scenario. Real malice faced him, and nobody would help him, except maybe Brem—no, that wasn’t likely. He glanced to where Master Ileom normally sat on that stout stool as the trainees gathered their tack, but he wasn’t there. Of course. Privy break, probably. Rain forced himself to unclench his fists while staring back at Garrett, grasping for what to say or do.
“What? No profound words?” Garrett took two steps closer, followed by Jervin, who appeared more than ready to use his muscles and fat fists for destructive purposes.
“Quit throwing rocks at me,” Rain warned in a voice that sounded too small and timid.
“Or what? Did your ‘girlfriend’ teach you a magic trick? It better be a powerful one, ’cause that’s all you’ve got.”
“We’re supposed to be getting our tack.” Rain turned back toward the wall to retrieve the bridle, shame washing over him. This wasn’t the first time another trainee had tried to pick on him or provoke him—he was both a peasant and a big target. It also wasn’t the first time he had been afraid of actual confrontation, for various reasons. How did he ever expect to be a Council Guardsman that a hero like Ileom could be proud of if he was such a coward when it came to a real fight? And which scared him more—being blamed and punished for an ‘incident’ based on his lower social ranking, or actually losing such a fight? In this case, Jervin tilted the scales massively against his prospect of winning, so he’d probably get beaten up and officially reprimanded, further dashing his dreams. Nobody would help him, not even Brem, who sometimes acted like his friend. Rain’s confused, tired mind had no hope of finding an acceptable way out.
“Don’t turn your back on me when I’m talking to you,” growled Garrett, and Rain felt a minor tremor as the boys approached. Rain spun again, bridle in hand, and had just planted his feet and raised his fists for the expected onslaught when a bellow from the far doorway made everyone freeze.
“What the blazes is going on here!” Thank the stars Master Ileom had appeared. “Have you lame-brained fools forgotten how to pick out your tack? Am I your mother now, too? Get moving! We’ve had a change of plans. We’ll carry weapons—bows and swords—and I haven’t got all day to babysit a squawking gaggle of weak-minded young chickens.”
The next instant brought a frenzy of activity to the trainees’ small area of the tack room. Garrett looked as if he’d been spooked by a long-dead ancestor, while Jervin, despite his great bulk and his father’s influence in the tiny nation’s sham of a military, took on the semblance of a young boy caught stealing a pie from the neighbor’s house. Rain would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t dreaded Ileom’s wrath as well. As it was, he hustled like the rest.
