Becoming
Jhared had prepared for this moment for twelve years, but he never expected the hawk to enthrall him.
She soared above the valley, talons clutching the success of her hunt as a noonday sun painted her body in gold, and he followed—although he feared it was wrong. His eyes tracked her as she wheeled in an effortless arch toward the cliffs. Below, the city shrank to a grey smudge against the foothills of the Parnas Mountains. The river, silver and quick with the spring thaw, divided the dark forest like a belt.
With slow, powerful wingbeats, the hawk hovered above a rocky crag, then settled on the narrow ledge. Her chicks chirped frantic greetings from the nest, stepping over one another to claim her. A breeze swirled off the mountain crevice and fluffed their cream-colored down as the hawk bent her head to meet each open mouth.
When the sun leaned toward the death of the day, she left the nest once more. Her wings extended. Her long, strong primary feathers flirted with the mountain thermals, as if she could entice them to come to her, before she glided lower into the valley. She was magnificent; Jhared hadn’t expected that, either. From the crown of the hill, he watched the perfection of her flight and felt an answering excitement in his own body. Desire, dangerous and futile, twitched the twin scars down his back as he leaned into the buoyancy of the wind.
Riana commands that a bird of prey be slain in the prime of spring.
The temple’s order dragged his thoughts back to the ground. Despite the warmth of the spring day, a shudder took him, passing from his shoulders through his arms to his hands, which already held the bow. He stared at the weapon, as though this were a decision he could make, then turned quickly to the bird again. He knew the invisible curve she traced against the clouds and shifted his arm until he reached the necessary angle between the horizon and the sky. His breathing slowed as he anchored himself. He sought the instant of absolute stillness in the pause between heartbeats. His fingers extended; the bowstring thrummed.
The shaft hurtled upward, tearing at the sky. It knocked the hawk from her flight, penetrated her feathers, and shattered her breast. She screamed, pumping her wings as if to propel herself above the pain. Then she crumpled and began tumbling toward the ground.
Lower on the hill, Branlen threw back his head and let out a whoop of victory. Jhared stood silently, unable to look away from the plummeting bird, a dull ache starting behind his eyes. Her body somersaulted toward the river and the ancient aqueduct, then disappeared into the thicket along the bank.
“You did it!” With a sunny laugh, Jhared’s foster brother scrambled down the rocky incline, heading toward the meadow and the riverbank. The boy glanced over his shoulder to Jhared, who stood motionless, waiting to feel joy, excitement, relief, anything. So many years of waiting.
“Come on!” the boy cried. “You made the kill. Come help me find it!”
“Go ahead, Bran. I’m right behind you.” The bird was down. He would be allowed to enter the Becoming. Riana gave him this gift.
The raptor must die in the prime of spring.
Shaking his head to push away his questions before they could fully form, Jhared marked in his mind the point at which the hawk had entered the forest, then swung his bow across his back and turned to follow Branlen toward the sounds of the river.
The ground dropped out from under him. As the ache behind his eyes exploded in blue sparks, Branlen, the meadow, and the forest became pieces in a patchwork of countryside. He spied the arrow a helpless moment before it pierced his chest, felt it ripping through muscle and lodging against bone. Agony loosed an animal scream in his head. Grey cliffs, blue sky, and green trees streamed into one long tail of color as he spiraled toward oblivion.
“Jhared?”
A distant voice reached him through layers of fog. Jhared tried to answer, but couldn’t utter a sound. He couldn’t catch his breath for the pain in his chest. Heartbeats echoed faintly in his ears.
“Jhared!”
Someone tugged at his body. He let the warmth of that rare contact pull him through a fog-shrouded path until he could open his eyes. Branlen knelt beside him, gripping his shoulder. The boy’s startled blue gaze darted over his face, as if trying to determine whether this could possibly be a big brother’s joke.
“What in Cael’s darkness…?”
“I was…we were…falling.” Jhared struggled for breath. No shaft pierced his heart, yet emptiness grew within him as though something vital had ruptured. Nothing had so overwhelmed him since his mother’s death. His Teachers snapped a warning in his mind: “Weak-willed child, you must maintain control!”
“I was halfway to the river when I heard you yell.” Branlen’s hand tightened on Jhared’s shoulder. “I’ve never heard such a sound. I thought you were…I thought you were dying.”
Jhared took another breath and tried to summon an image of tranquility from the exercises General Nadel had taught him. He sought an explanation he could give the boy. He wished he had one for himself.
“It’s only the fast, Bran. A passing dizziness. By tomorrow, I’ll want to gobble up the remains of Neta’s winter stores.” Slowly, he sat up and tried a smile. “Maybe that’s why the Becoming is held in the spring, eh?”
Branlen returned the smile hesitantly. He knew Jhared was talking nonsense.
To give his reassurance some weight, Jhared forced himself to his feet and straightened, rubbing the center of his chest with one hand. The meadow tilted for a moment, then righted itself. Branlen kept a grip on his arm.
“I’m fine, brother. I need to find the bird. And you’ve a job to do as well.”
Bran’s face lightened. “I’ll stay and help. I’ve plenty of time to reach the temple, and Mother won’t expect me back until after the blessing.”
The raptor must die.… Of course she must. The temple ordered it.
“Jhared? Are you really all right?”
“No…” Jhared blinked. “I mean, yes, yes. You can stay.”
Together they climbed down the hill to the river. Jhared gazed across the fertile valley nestled below the foothills. The Artas blew moist and gentle from the west, carrying rain from the distant Amurian coast to drop across the knees of the Parnas Mountains. Jhared had hunted throughout the borderlands between mountain and valley, river and forest since he was old enough to draw a bow, but never a hawk, never one of the cursed. The landscape wavered in his vision. He paused to steady himself. Below him, the river ran fast and full with the spring thaw. During the Exile War nearly a century and a half ago, the valley would have looked very different: brown and dead from drought. Only blood had watered the land then: the blood of his countrymen, the blood of his ancestors. It was right to remember those deaths today.
“But Madam Trianor, what happened to the Avelune after the war? After Tumal the Just drove them out of the country?”
“They died of shame, child. Just the same as your mother would if she knew the kind of questions you ask! Back to the lesson: tell me the names of the men and women killed in the Battle of Parnas Valley.”
He had been no more than eight winters and greedy for knowledge when he’d been so careless as to ask those questions. His mother had died only months later, just as his Teacher warned. A summer fever had taken her, but Jhared had known it was a punishment for his greed. Desire in a Shorn man is death. He straightened and made his way after Branlen. Beyond the open meadow, he passed under the crumbling arches of the aqueduct. Branlen had sprawled across the soft spring grass near the riverbank to wait for him. The boy gave him an innocent grin.
Only then did Jhared realize his mistake. He had submitted to his foster brother’s begging and allowed the boy to be his witness, despite Madam Trianor’s disapproval. He was accustomed to her frowns and cautions whenever Branlen insisted on tagging along with him to the barracks or into the wilds, but now Jhared wondered if she had known something about the pain of this hunt. He wished she could have spoken of it; he would have spared Branlen the worry.
“Brother, I think it’s time for you to return to the city. The council—”
Bran leaped up, his blue-grey eyes stormy. “You think I won’t be careful. I will! A Forest Guard patrolman does whatever he’s ordered, right?”
“Bran, we’re not playing games. Not today.” Jhared gave the boy a troubled glance. As a child, he had learned not to consider alternatives to a life of service; it was part of what his kind owed. A Shorn woman, if lucky and bright, would be an elder’s scribe, a clerk, or perhaps some elder’s house servant. For a fit Shorn man, the only question was to which military division he would be assigned, and even that decision was made by the generals. It disturbed Jhared that Branlen, who by his family’s status owned the most options of any child in Avelos, wanted to follow his foster brother’s predetermined path.
“That’s not it,” he sighed. “Look at me. This is a path we cannot share. If you return quickly, you could do me the favor of telling your mother and father that I’ve downed the bird. They’ll be eager for news.”
Branlen looked doubtful, but then his eyes came to rest on Jhared’s face. “All right,” he said, shuffling a foot in the dirt with uncharacteristic shyness. “I’ll walk you to the high temple when you return.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“No debt between us,” the boy replied, his smile returning.
Oh my brother, the debt between us is greater than you understand. Jhared didn’t voice the thought; Bran’s smile was a balm. He didn’t want to lose it. He reached over and ruffled the boy’s bright hair. “I’ll meet you at home. Go on now. Don’t dawdle.”
With relief and regret he watched Branlen turn and trot into the thicket, then set himself to the task of finding the hawk, searching the reeds and brush near the riverbank, where he knew the creature had tumbled. As he worked, his thoughts rushed along as rapidly as the swollen tributary beside him. His Teaching was nearly complete. Slaying the bird was the final task before he entered the Becoming, the rite that would bind him to Avelos. Tomorrow, if Riana willed it, he would take his place among the people.
His place. His stomach churned with all that implied: Service. Duty. Reparation. Jhared stretched one arm over his shoulder, recoiling when he touched his scars. Why must the bird be downed in early spring? Nesting time. Not only had he slain the hawk, but he had left a nest of orphaned chicks calling helplessly to the sky. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, not about a creature Riana cursed. He hadn’t expected to care about anything besides completing the task set for him. Now he wondered on the purpose of it.
With a sharp breath, Jhared caught himself and hastily blanked his mind of his faithless thoughts, but it was too late; the Teachers within him had already heard them.
“Twelve years of Teaching and you think you know something the elders don’t? Arrogant, insolent boy! You don’t have the right! Not traitor-born as you are.”
A memory caught him: Elder Trianor sprawled on the floor gasping in pain; Jhared aghast, the sword still in his hand. He had lost control of his destructive urges that day. His Teachers ripped through the memory and made the pain his own: “It is that easy for you to cause harm, boy. It is that easy for you to harm those who love you. To harm Avelos. Desire in a Shorn man is death.”
Jhared gritted his teeth and bore the consequences of his failure. He shouldn’t need reminders. His Avelune ancestors forfeited his right to question when they betrayed Avelos. His place was to repay the debt. Whatever Riana and Avelos required of him, he would provide. He would prove that to them all today.
He made a spiral to the goddess, hoping to balance his error. He couldn’t afford to misstep. Three initiates had already failed the Becoming this spring. The wolves feasted on their bodies. No one would remember their names.
He found the hawk enclosed in a leafy bush. The branches curved around her as though she had nested there. Carefully, Jhared pushed aside the brush and lifted her out. As he cradled the lifeless body, other memories rose unbidden: a dove rescued from the cat’s jaws; Madam Trianor’s fury when she discovered he had healed a cursed creature; the sensation of the warm, soft neck snapping between his fingers as Elder and Madam Trianor watched to be certain of it. He had been too old to cry, but Tierzen had recognized his grief as he cupped the limp body in his palms.
“No, Jhared, you mustn’t,” the elder had warned. “Your kind cannot afford sympathy for what is cursed. You must reject such things if you hope to resist the flaws in your own blood.”
Cool forest air fanned Jhared’s face. He took deep breaths and tamped down the recollection. Raising his head to the sky, he murmured a single word, a prayer: “Forgive.”
He laid the hawk’s body on the ground and cut the arrow shaft close to her breast. Arrows were dear, but he couldn’t force himself to further defile the creature by pulling the head free. A gift to Riana should be given intact, he reasoned. He placed the body in the leather pouch slung behind his back, then turned southwest for the journey home. He would enter the high temple before sundown. The judges would be waiting.
He jogged across the wooded hills toward the settlements at the skirts of the city. Even now, the run felt good, burning away some of his restiveness and allowing him to regain control of himself. His body reached for the wind as he negotiated a twisted path through the trees along the borders of the estates that belonged to guild masters and elders. A dog barked at him from the edge of one grand park. He quickened his pace. Soon the forest began to thin, offering a clear view of the walls.
Velantar. It meant Heart’s Hold in the ancient tongue. From this distance, Riana’s city still dazzled Jhared with its majesty. Although he had traveled throughout Avelos during his training, he had seen no other creation of man that could match its size or energy: not Makri with its purple vineyards or glimmering Lake Linde or the wooden keep of Clan Ontera. The dome of the high temple and the grand tower of the high chieftain’s palace sparkled from atop the crown of Travitar Hill, standing sentinel over the two sisters: Rianala Hill to the north and Cirolan Hill to the south. Even the Circles of the Lost looked graceful from here; the grey stone turned rosy in the afternoon sun.
Jhared left the forest where the path met the road to Alende’s Gate, joining a handful of village clansmen and city folk seeking protection before sundown. As he hurried along with them, his thoughts still twisted over what he had suffered in the meadow. A scout must understand his inner world before he can understand the outer one, General Nadel would say.
If the general were here now, he would, in fact, be ticking off the possibilities about the strange vision he experienced: a result of Jhared’s fast, a sign of fever, the touch of disorder. Jhared shied away from that last, letting his mind wander back to an old lesson from the general. The company had camped for the night north of the Jewel River, not far from the Laebeki border. They had encountered a band of raiders that day, but after a brief skirmish and a long chase, they had ended with one of their own injured and no capture. Around the fire in the cold forest, the soldiers had cursed the raiders and told stories of the blood offerings to demons that made them so cunning. Jhared found himself, as ever, outside the circle of discussion. General Nadel had noticed his detachment and approached him on the opposite side of the fire.
“You have not joined the conversation, Patrolman. Do you consider yourself above mixing with my coarse clansmen?”
Jhared looked up, startled. “No, sir. I’m privileged to be among them.”
“But?”
But it’s wiser for a Shorn man to keep quiet when tempers are hot, he thought. “But I learn more from listening,” he told the general, a safer truth.
General Nadel seemed to consider this, stroking a hand over his neat golden beard. “You’d best be wary how you interpret what you hear.”
Jhared knew a stir of apprehension. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“All that we see, hear, and touch is veiled by what we wish, what we need, what we’ve been told by others. Have you not heard stories of soldiers lost in the Barren? Those who survive describe fantastic specters of lush plum trees and blue lakes that disappear just as their refuge is sought. A scout cannot afford such misperceptions. We must test and question, or the veil of our longing may lead us down the trail of our enemy, when we believe we are tracking a friend.”
The general nodded toward the patrol. “The men are frustrated with their failure tonight. Their arguments are distorted by emotion. But my men know better than to act on such notions.” He picked up a long stick from a pile of firewood. “Close your eyes, boy.”
Jhared obeyed, baffled. He heard the general scraping the stick against the dusty ground.
“Open your eyes. Look down. What do you see?”
Firelight flickered over the markings on the ground, a sketch of a simple goblet. “A cup, sir.”
“Ah, a cup.” The general lifted the stick to point toward the soldiers who were passing wine around their circle and pouring it carelessly. “Lots of cups around, eh?”
“Well, yes, sir,” Jhared said, growing more uncomfortable. The men had been drinking for some time. Arguments were likely to be backed by fists soon.
General Nadel gestured again with the stick. “In fact, you’re seeing a cup in this picture because you noticed those cups around the fire. They’re on your mind.”
“As you say, sir.”
“Now tell me: what are you really thinking about the men?”
There was a silence. Jhared held his breath. This was the kind of lesson Madam Trianor preferred; she knew so many ways to expose his flaws. He didn’t expect it from the general. He swallowed. “They’re true-hearted Forest Guard, sir. I’m lucky to serve with them.”
General Nadel tilted his head back and roared out a long laugh. A few of the men glanced over to see what the Shorn boy had done to so amuse their general. Nadel folded his arms over his chest, his expression growing sharper.
“Luck,” he said to Jhared, “has nothing to do with it. Not with your presence in this company and not with anything that happened today. We failed. Now another dangerous band of raiders is loose in Avelos. What of that, soldier? Tell me your mind and not some Teacher’s rhetoric.”
Jhared sucked a breath. This command was not simply unexpected; it was dangerous. Yet he could do nothing but answer. Despite everything, he discovered that he wanted to answer.
“I believe we needn’t have failed. We could have had the raiders.”
“Go on, then.”
“We left a gap when we tried to close on them. Where the river split the forest. We assumed the spring flood would keep them from daring the water, but we should have covered it.”
General Nadel watched Jhared closely.
“The men blame our failure on some preternatural strength of our enemy, but no one has bothered to consider our own errors!” He stopped, dismayed by his outburst. Deep within him, his Teachers fumed. He would pay for it later.
“Look at the picture,” the general commanded, tapping the ground with his stick. “What do you see now?”
Jhared glanced at the ground and blinked. The goblet was gone; in its place lay the silhouette of two warriors confronting one another in a challenge. “Angry men, sir.”
“Ahhh. Angry men? Like the anger you’re feeling toward the patrol, perhaps?” General Nadel snapped the branch in half and tossed it away as he stood. “To everything there’s more than one interpretation, and each is shadowed by the veils a man brings to the situation. Do not let your veils prevent you from understanding or keep you from acting. I won’t have it, soldier.”
The general looked down and met Jhared’s gaze. In that moment, Jhared had realized he had been wrong: the general would never trick him into revealing his flaws; he already knew them all.
The hail of the guard in the tower brought Jhared back to the moment. He fell into line with the others awaiting entry, praying the City Guard on duty wasn’t in a querulous mood. He couldn’t afford to be delayed with an interrogation, or anything worse. As Jhared filed through the gate, he wondered what veils he carried with him today. Would they lead him down the wrong path in the Becoming? He shoved down the thought. It was no time for doubt. The guard, a burly, bored-looking fellow, eyed him without interest, gave a perfunctory glance at his documents bearing the stamp of the Minister of the Teaching, and waved him through.
Jhared made his way past Aelend Prison, the City Guard barracks, and the Forest Guard garrison before turning away from the outer wall and into the maze of twisting streets. Here in the city’s innards, Jhared could see and smell the decay. The noisy, crowded lower circles of the city routinely confused strangers and could be dangerous for those who didn’t know which lanes to avoid. He once heard a soldier from Clan Nadaren complain that the Lady of Order herself would get lost amid the city’s chaos. But Velantar moved in rhythms that Jhared recognized, even if he didn’t find them comforting.
As he strode deeper into the heart of the city, the buildings on either side of him leaned precariously toward one another, as if sharing recollections of better times. Craftsmen closed up shops. Men strode toward the taverns. Women and girls dressed in clan colors drifted toward their circles’ chapels for the evening devotion. In front of him, two women emerged from a weaver’s cottage. He saw the younger woman’s distended belly a moment after he spotted her guardian’s green and blue striped robes. His heart lurched as they turned toward him. He dropped his gaze to the ground and backed up a handful of steps. Although scarves concealed the young woman’s face and temple blessings hung from her neck, he couldn’t risk the accusation that he had laid the curse of the Shorn upon her unborn child. Shorn men went to the scourging stones for such things, if they didn’t first fall into the hands of a neighborhood mob. To his right, a narrow alley curved south. Without glancing up, he left the busy street behind.
It grew quieter as he drew away from the main street down the dusky lane. He hoped the women had not seen him. Every Avelonian woman had cause to dread that she would bear an Avelun, one whom the guardians would carry to the temple to be Shorn. He despised the thought that he might have added to her fear. No one could say for certain why the curse landed among even the most pious families when many of the Shorn couples who dared to have children produced no afflicted offspring. He thought of his own mother: she had not been Shorn; neither had the man who fathered him. He wondered what they had done to protect themselves from the curse. What charms and prayers had failed them?
“One of the cursed dares to trespass. I told you there’d be poison here, Ilvio.”
The cold words, ringing like an echo of his thoughts, made Jhared halt. He swore under his breath when he saw where his inattention had led him. Not Laebeki raiders, but an ambush all the same. Four men emerged on either side of the alley, blocking his way.
“Poison that must be purged!” the one called Ilvio crowed, patting the knife in his belt. Red-headed and sharp-eyed, he was a solid, stocky young man. The two others beside him looked younger, brothers from their similar features. All four wore clean, well-made clothes. Their malicious grins exposed good teeth. This wasn’t one of the ragged bands that skittered through the shadows, hiding from the City Guard and tormenting whatever passerby they might for the sake of coin. This band wanted Jhared and the others like him.
“Of course it must be purged,” said the first man. “That is what we strive for.”
Slightly apart from the rest, the first speaker was a few years Jhared’s senior, fine looking and with an air of command in his tone. Jhared knew this one. His father served with Elder Trianor on the Council of Clans. Elder Rud was no friend to the Minister of the Teaching. Jhared pressed his expression into neutrality. This could go badly.
Drawing a centering breath, he kept his chin level and voice even, but made certain not to meet the other’s gaze. “I know you, Maren Rud. It’s a worthy band you have. Fit for greater challenges than the likes of me. Why not honor them with a hunt in the wilds and let me pass?”
Maren hesitated, a flash of uncertainty in his eyes. Jhared hoped he might stand down as easily as that. Then recognition replaced uncertainty and a slow, mocking smile transformed his features to ice. “Look boys, I know this poison! He’s Tierzen Trianor’s foul pet.” Maren ran his gaze over Jhared, and his expression turned to one of disgust. “We’re here in the name of Tumal’s Legacy to see you pay for your crimes. If you want to pass, you will do what we command.”
Tumal’s Legacy. Jhared struggled to maintain his calm. That influential faction maintained a strict interpretation of Shorn Law and saw to it that Shorn men and women who transgressed were pushed off the top of the city walls. “What is it you want?” Jhared asked steadily.
“Pay a toll as a sign of your loyalty: give us what you carry in your bag.”
Jhared’s hand tightened on the satchel. “I cannot. What is here belongs to Riana and none other. If it’s a toll you want, I have…” He thought quickly: his bow, his bag, a small knife, and a few coins in the pouch at his belt. Nothing of interest to young men who spent their days and their fathers’ wealth in the city. Maren seemed to know it even before Jhared could finish.
“We don’t want your trinkets. We want a sign of your service. If you cannot give it to us, you must face a trial.”
“Trial! Trial!” called the two younger boys.
Jhared held himself still. “If you let me pass, the trial that awaits me is beyond anything you might devise.”
Maren’s expression darkened. “You dare to protest what we rightfully ask of you? You think that soiling an elder’s home means you need not prove yourself? Is that it, you filthy raven-spawn?”
Even standing in a dark lane, a petty bully in a coarse gang, Maren’s manner radiated authority. He was city-bred in a privileged house; he and his companions would wield true power one day.
“I will prove myself today and each day I serve Avelos,” Jhared said without moving. “What trial would you have of me?”
Maren’s lip curved smugly. “Since you have no token to contribute, we will hear the atrocities you have committed against Avelos.”
“I’ll start!” Ilvio stepped forward.
“No. I will begin.” Maren swaggered before his companions. “Witness, all! Here stands one of the cursed. Know him by his outrageous height, his eyes the color of treachery, and his traitor’s scars. He is filthy, like the vulture that eats its own dead; faithless, like the jay that lays its eggs in another’s nest; and cunning, like the crow who thieves the treasures of others. He is Shorn, and we will hear him confess his crimes.”
Maren gestured at one of the younger boys, who leaped to obey. “Your kind conspired with the enemies of Avelos. Do you confess this treason before the people?”
Jhared knew what he needed to do, but he couldn’t force himself to answer.
The boy glowered. “Face your crimes or face your sentence. Do you confess?”
It is that easy for you to cause harm, boy.
Jhared cleared his throat. “I do.”
“Your kind betrayed the council and our high chieftain. Do you confess this before the people?”
“I do,” he repeated.
“You caused the death of innocents in the Exile War.”
“Burned our crops.”
“Destroyed our villages.”
“Violated our women.”
Over and again they shamed him with the truth. He knew they only waited for him to defy them, so they could beat him for it. Even so, as it continued, he thanked Riana for the training that helped him to keep hold of his emotions. Evil existed in his blood, passed down through generations; he deserved this humiliation. On this day of all days, it was profoundly fitting. He should be tested. He must be.
“It is good you admit your crimes,” Maren spat finally. “But have you prepared to pay your debt? Are you ready to die for me? When the Sahisten armies come against Avelos once again, will you take a spear in your side and watch the life bleed from you, knowing it’s me you protect?”
Jhared hissed and twitched a half-step toward the man before he could stop himself. Too revealing, that gesture. Ilvio caught it. With a snarl, the boy pulled the knife from his belt. The gang was ready to escalate, and Jhared dreaded it. With four of them, a fight would be perilous. In the confusion of such a brawl, he might accidentally cause them serious injury, and the consequences of that were too horrible to consider. He couldn’t want to harm them.
He didn’t want to harm them.
Jhared rubbed a hand across his face to regain his mask of composure, and contemplated his alternatives: aware, with a growing urgency, of the lowering sun. He could run. He would easily outstrip them, and dignity could not play a part in the decision, but fleeing would only excite them. Like any predators, they would be driven to pursue. What he needed was to make them believe the thrill of harassing him was no longer worth the cost, when in truth there was no cost he could levy. Blind them with their own veils until they cannot see that truth. It was General Nadel’s lesson, although Jhared had an uneasy feeling the general wouldn’t approve of its use on an elder’s son. Within him, the Teachers stayed quiet. Alone, he made his decision and steeled himself for the unpleasant task of bringing Maren down.
He shifted his stance and clasped his hands behind his back to show the gang they still offered no threat. “Such foolish behavior is no surprise from you, Maren Rud. I suppose this is the kind of elder you will be in your father’s place. You will bully the council like the bossy child you are now.”
Maren’s features turned a mottled red. “You dare to criticize the council? You walk awfully close to the line of treason.”
“Missing the point, as ever,” Jhared pressed. “There is no treason in criticizing a gutless boy who needs a posse to torment a single, harmless passerby.”
Ilvio sniggered. Maren shot him a black look.
“We should shove him off the wall for that,” Ilvio said. “See him splatter, eh?”
They gathered closer around Jhared. They were no longer laughing. Ilvio raised his blade.
Ignore them. They’ll wait for Maren’s lead. Fuddle his judgment with his own anger. Make him want you for himself. Jhared looked back at Maren. This time, he met the other’s gaze directly and held it. “When you are elder, will you also continue to expect others to do for you what you cannot do for yourself?”
“I need no one else to make you regret your impudence!”
Jhared readied himself for the inevitable, letting his bow and his bag slide to the ground and checking that his knife was secure in his belt. Even if it meant taking their beating, he would not dare to pull the blade. Finally, with a feigned yawn, he offered the greatest insult yet: slowly and casually he turned his back to the man.
Shocked silence spread across the alley. Jhared could feel the others’ disbelief and knew they all stared at him. He straightened his shoulders against the weight of their fury.
“Do you think I won’t hurt you for that?” Maren ground out, as the last of his inhibition shredded. “No Shorn traitor shows me his back and goes unpunished. You’re mine!”
The man charged, growling for the others to fall away. Jhared kept still, counting the running steps. He felt the rush of air as Maren reached upward to grasp at him. With the precision of intensive training, Jhared reached over his shoulder and grabbed Maren’s wrist in a solid hold. Stepping backwards into the attack, he plowed his elbow into the man’s belly. Then, twisting quickly, he flung Maren over his shoulder and hurled him onto the ground.
Air whooshed from Maren’s lungs as he slammed onto the stone. Jhared dropped down with one knee against his throat, putting enough weight in it to make the threat clear. The man stared up at him, dazed and bleary-eyed and enraged.
Jhared pitched his voice so the others would hear. “You are a coward, Maren. You don’t dare to face me unless surrounded by your pack. The temple says Cael has a special torment for cowards, so think on that when you lay to sleep tonight.”
He rose to scowl at each of the others. Ilvio stared at Jhared with frustrated longing, his fingers still curled around his knife, his dilemma clear. He wants to lead this band, but he knows they won’t follow him. Yet. Jhared forced himself not to hurry as he picked up his bow and his bag, and then turned his back to the gang once more. He proceeded down the alley with a deliberate, collected pace, listening for the onrush of an attack. His back prickled in anticipation of a blow.
It didn’t come. As soon as he turned the corner, he sprinted forward to make up for lost time. Using the rhythm of his pounding feet, he brought his mind back to the importance of what lay before him. The significance of the Becoming repeated over and over in his head. With each step he delivered himself to be bound to Avelos, to accept his place, and all that came with it.
