ALDER

ONE

There was nothing in the world that Alder had wanted more than to become a full-fledged Bedoowan knight. A Bedoowan knight was strong. A Bedoowan knight was just. A Bedoowan knight was brave. A Bedoowan knight was a hero to all people, respected by all.

And now Alder was a knight. In fact, he was generally known as the finest of all knights. When Alder’s name was spoken, it summoned up everything that was virtuous in a Bedoowan knight.

On this particular day he was riding through the dark, forbidding forest of Arlberg on his powerful black warhorse. As he rode, he heard a sudden scream of anguish pierce the gloom. He wheeled the horse around and spurred it toward the cry.

In seconds he had reached the source of the sound. A beautiful young villager, obviously caught in the middle of doing her washing, was surrounded by highwaymen—the unscrupulous robbers who lived deep in the forest, preying on travelers.

“Please!” she cried. “Someone help me!”

“Unhand her, you cowards!” Alder shouted. The highwaymen whirled fearfully.

Alder drew his sword, brandishing it high, as his horse reared up in the middle of the stream. Then he charged. Seeing him, the highwaymen scattered like leaves in the wind.

All of them, that is, except for their leader—a tall, muscular man with a scar running down his face. He grabbed the beautiful young villager, putting a thin, rusted blade to her neck. “Come and get me, knight,” the man shouted.

Alder swung his sword and—

“Alder!”

Alder swung his sword and galloped toward—

“Alder!”

Alder swung his sword and galloped toward the—toward—galloped toward the—

“Hey, Alder! Snap out of the daydream, you nitwit!” Master Horto, the head of the Imperial Training Academy, was yelling at Alder. As usual. “I’m not telling you again! Get me some water. And while you’re at it, a couple of those pastries. The ones with the jelly inside.”

It took a moment for Alder’s mind to adjust. He was standing in the rear of the academy’s training hall, while Master Horto led the sword class. The students—knights in training—were all lined up and repeating their sword drills. All except Alder.

Alder wasn’t permitted to train with the others. He had other duties.

Alder ran into the other room, came back with some water and the tray of pastries. Master Horto was a huge man—even taller than Alder, and weighing about as much as two ordinary men.

“Here you are, Master.” Alder bowed and held out the water and the tray of pastries.

Horto grabbed one of the pastries, stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. As he chewed, a disgusted expression ran across his face. He spit the entire pastry on the training floor. “That one’s old! Did you just give me yesterday’s pastries?”

“Well, I just—”

Master Horto cuffed him across the head so hard his ears rang. “Clean that up.” He pointed at the floor.

The other trainees tittered and pointed as Alder knelt and began cleaning the floor with a rag. Alder sighed and smiled, trying to pretend it didn’t bother him to be laughed at. But it did bother him. It always did. He had been the butt of jokes every single day since he joined the academy three years ago.

Joined? Well, officially he was a trainee. But he never trained with the other students. Master Horto had him so busy cleaning and fetching and doing other menial jobs around the school that he never had time to train.

“As soon as you get your chores done, you can train,” Master Horto would always say.

Only…the chores never got done. No matter how hard Alder worked. Now he was sixteen years old, and he still knew next to nothing about fighting.

Alder’s problem was that he was an orphan. He had no parents, no friends, no supporters, no patrons, no money. And since he couldn’t pay fees to the academy, Master Horto required him to work. And work. And work.

Most of the boys at the academy would have their knighthoods within a year. But Alder? Knighthood seemed very far away. In fact, if he didn’t get on with his training soon, he was going to be in serious trouble.

There were actually a few Bedoowans who never became knights. Usually they were people who had physical or mental problems that kept them from completing their training. Poor, pathetic wretches who shambled around the castle with long faces, avoiding people’s eyes, constantly abused by everyone. They were called every horrible name in the book—“cripples,” “weaklings,” “half-wits.” They were laughed at and despised even by the Novans, the people who worked as servants to the Bedoowans, and by the Milago, the people who worked the glaze mines in the village below the castle.

The thought that Alder might end up wandering around the castle without any respect, without any status at all—the very thought of it made him sick to his stomach. But what could he do? If Master Horto wouldn’t let him train…

The thing was, if you didn’t make your knighthood by age eighteen, you were out of the running. Alder only had two years. And two years was a very short time to learn all the skills a knight was supposed to know.

You had to be a decent horseman, a passable archer, proficient with pike and glaive and short spear. And of course, most of all, you had to be an excellent swordsman. If you couldn’t show real skill with a sword, you were sunk.

Alder practiced secretly in his tiny room, memorizing moves from the academy curriculum and then practicing them until late into the night. But that wasn’t the same as practicing at school.

“Class dismissed,” Horto shouted.

The trainee knights, laughing and joking, began packing up their equipment.

Alder started packing up his equipment too. He was never allowed to use it, but he brought it anyway. One of these days he was going to be allowed to train. And when that day came, he’d be ready.

“Alder!” Master Horto stood over Alder, his fists on his hips. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Sir, uh, Master, I have guard duty tonight at the north gate of the castle, so, uh, I was thinking—” Alder ducked his head respectfully.

Master Horto glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You were thinking were you? Thinking?”

“Well, Master, I—”

“Don’t think. Do what you’re told. Get that floor cleaned up. Then get to your post!”

TWO

It was well past supper by the time Alder arrived at his post. He was late because Horto had kept him busy with chores. He’d had no time to eat. Eman and Neman, two boys Alder knew from the academy, were standing at the gate in their armor.

“You’re late, you big flabby goof!” Eman said. Eman and Neman took every chance they got to torture Alder. They were actually younger than he was. But they had been knighted just months ago, and so they outranked him.

“We’re gonna take a break,” Neman said. “Don’t move a muscle!”

“But…” Alder cleared his throat. “We’re supposed to have no fewer than three guards at the gate at any time. Our orders are—”

“Who’s the senior guard here, huh?” Eman said.

“Uh…”

“Yeah. Thought so,” Neman said. “I don’t know if you noticed, Alder, but nobody comes to this gate at night. So shut your piehole and do what you’re told.” He and Eman turned and wandered into the guardhouse, snickering.

“Okay, okay.”

“Excuse me, trainee?” Neman said, eyes wide.

“I mean, uh—yes, sir.”

“That’s better.” Neman whirled and walked away.

It galled Alder to call the two younger boys “sir.” But what could he do about it? Rules were rules. So Alder stood there like a lump, getting colder and colder and colder. And hungrier and hungrier and hungrier.

After a while the tantalizing smell of roast mutton and fresh bread began wafting out of the guardhouse. His stomach rumbled. Finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. He looked around to make sure nobody was approaching the gate, then ran quickly to the guardhouse.

He found Eman and Neman eating. There was a big fire in the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” Eman said, smacking his lips. “Go back to your post!”

“Don’t I get to eat sometime?” Alder said.

Neman snorted.

“Anyway…I thought you guys were coming right back. What if somebody comes?”

Eman looked up, a piece of meat sticking out of his mouth, gravy on his chin. “Show ’em who’s boss,” he said. Then he winked slyly at Neman.

Eman turned his back and grabbed a pigeon wing from the pile of hot food. Alder’s stomach rumbled. “Could I just—”

“Are you still here?” Neman said. “Get back to your post. And don’t bother us again!”

Alder went back out and stood there with his pike, shifting from foot to foot. The moon went behind a cloud. It was starting to get kind of spooky.

Hours passed. Eman and Neman were nowhere to be seen. He knew the captain of the guards would make a tour around midnight. Eman and Neman would kill him if they got caught away from their post. They’d be sure to make it out to be his fault somehow.

Finally he decided he’d better check on them. He ran back to the guardhouse. Eman and Neman were snoozing away on the floor by the fire. Every scrap of food was gone. Alder was in a bind. They’d get mad if he woke them. The captain of the guard probably wouldn’t be there for another half hour. Better to let them sleep. They might wake up on their own.

Alder walked quickly back to the gate. He was surprised to see a small man approaching the castle from out of the darkness.

The man was quite old and shabbily dressed, and he leaned on a gnarled cane. His body was concealed by a threadbare cloak. His face was very thin, as though every bit of fat had been chiseled from his skull. A poor farmer, Alder guessed. Though it was certainly unusual for farmers to approach the castle at this time of night. And market day wasn’t until Friday.

“Why weren’t you at your post?” the old man snapped, pointing his gnarled cane at Alder’s chest.

“Excuse me?” Alder said.

The old man looked around irritably. In the light of the flickering torch, the old man’s eyes glittered strangely. “There should be at least four of you guarding the gate.”

Alder decided he’d better take control of the situation. This old farmer didn’t seem to understand the correct tone for speaking to a Bedoowan knight. Even if Alder wasn’t a full-fledged knight, he was a guard at King Karel’s castle. Respect was due. “Um…state your business, old man.”

“My business is my business,” the old man said. There was something in his eyes, an intensity, that seemed unlike a farmer. Alder wondered if maybe the old man were crazy.

“Right…well…I need you to state your business. Otherwise I can’t admit you.”

“Oh, really?” the old man said.

“Eman!” Alder called. He had a feeling this old man was going to cause trouble. Alder didn’t know quite what he should do. “Neman!”

“That’s it,” the old man said. “Call for reinforcements.”

“I’m just a trainee,” Alder said apologetically. Then he felt foolish. He was letting this old farmer get under his skin.

“A trainee? At your age?” The old man sounded appalled. “I’d be ashamed to be a trainee at your age.”

Alder blushed. He was ashamed to be a trainee. He felt like saying he was a victim of circumstance, giving him the I’m-just-a-poor-orphan speech that he used to justify all his shortcomings. But he figured the old farmer would just make fun of him even more.

Eman and Neman showed up out of breath, buckling on their armor. “What!” Eman demanded. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry to bother you. But this old man wants admittance,” Alder said.

Eman looked the ragged old man up and down. “You woke us up for this, Alder?” he said.

Neman poked at the old man with his pike. “What do you mean by disturbing Bedoowan knights at this time of night?”

The old man placed one finger on the pike, redirecting it just enough to avoid getting poked in the ribs with its sharp point. “You’re a very rude young man,” the old man said. “Has anybody ever told you that?”

Eman and Neman looked at each other. “Did he just say what I think he did?” Neman said.

“I believe he did, Neman,” Eman said.

Eman’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to the old man. “Who do you think you are?”

“Deserting your post?” the old man said. “Leaving the safety and security of the castle in the hands of a chubby, over-aged trainee? I’m not at all impressed with you two.”

Eman and Neman had had enough. Neman lifted his pike and brought it down hard, obviously intending to whack the old man in the head with its wooden shaft.

But the old man deftly parried the blow with his goofy-looking cane, and then whacked Neman in the shin with it.

“Ow!” Neman said, dropping his pike and clutching at his leg. “Owwwwww! I think you broke my leg.”

“All right, that’s it!” Eman said. He jabbed his pike at the old man.

But by the time the pike reached the old man, he was somewhere else. The sharp spear point passed by him. Eman grunted angrily. Three times he jabbed at the old man, each time, missing by a hair.

“Come on, Alder!” Eman shouted finally. “Help me out!”

Alder leaned his pike against the wall and drew his sword. “Ah!” the old man said. “Now someone’s showing some common sense. Pikes are worthless for individual combat. They’re intended for engaging mounted cavalry. Didn’t anyone ever teach you that? If you want to fight a man on foot, use a sword!”

“What do you know about fighting, you stupid old farmer?” Eman said. But as he spoke, he hurled his pike down and drew his sword.

Alder held back and let Eman press the attack. He had no confidence that he’d be of much use in a sword fight anyway. After all, he hadn’t had even a shred of training, had he?

The old man parried nimbly as the younger, larger man attacked him. Chunks of wood flew out of his stick as Eman whaled away at him. But the old man didn’t look the slightest bit afraid. In fact, his face was as impassive as a mask. Finally Eman chopped his stick in half. The old man stood with the stump in his hand.

“Seems I have you at a disadvantage, old man,” Eman said, pointing his blade toward the old man’s throat.

“In what sense?” the old man said. Then he threw back his cloak. Visible for the first time, were the old man’s clothes. He was dressed like a Bedoowan, not a farmer. And hanging from his wide leather belt was a sword. The handle was not ornate, but it had the look of a well-used tool—polished to a soft gleam, as though by regular practice.

“Who are you?” Eman said nervously.

“You know, you might have been wise to ask that earlier,” the old man said. Then he began to attack Eman. Not with the sword, though—to Alder’s amazement—but with the hacked off piece of wood in his hand. And though Eman defended himself, he seemed powerless to keep the old man from driving him backward.

“Help me!” Eman shouted. “Neman, do something! Sound the alarm!”

But Neman was still rolling on the ground, moaning and holding his leg.

With that the old man tripped Eman, stripping his sword with one hand and pressing the sharp point of the wooden stick to Eman’s throat with the other. Eman froze. The old man turned to Alder. “So, young trainee, are you going to admit me to the castle? Or are you going to fight me?”

“Uh…”

“Wrong answer, dear boy!” The old man hurled Eman’s sword at Alder. It passed between his legs, piercing his cloak and sinking its point deep into the door behind him, pinning him to the wall.

The old man sighed and shook his head disgustedly. “Pathetic,” he said. “Pathetic, miserable, appalling, nauseating performance.”

Then he walked past them.

“If you wish to arrest me,” he called over his shoulder, “you may find me at the Seven Arms Inn. Tell them to ask the innkeeper for Wencil of Peldar.”

“I guess I better go get the captain of the guards, huh?” Alder said weakly after the old man had disappeared.

Eman leaped to his feet, ran over to Alder, and whacked him in the head. “If you even think of telling anybody about what just happened here, I’ll skin you alive.”

“All right, yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Eman looked at Neman and shook his head sadly, as if to say, Will he never learn?

THREE

Three days later Alder was trudging up the High Street toward the academy when he noticed a small sign hanging over the window of a building that had been empty for quite a few years. It read:

 

WENCIL OF PELDAR
MASTER OF ARMS
INSTRUCTION OFFERED TO YOUNG
BEDOOWAN GENTLEMEN
INQUIRE WITHIN

 

Alder stood rooted to the ground, looking at the sign. The building was much like Wencil himself—shabby. One of the windows was broken out. The walls needed painting. The roof looked like it needed to be rethatched. Alder held his sword and the various wooden practice weapons in his hand. It seemed ridiculous, carrying the weapons around with him all the time. Every day he carried them from his little room in the castle to the academy—as though he were actually going to use them. And every day he did nothing but sweep the academy and cut wood and carry things around for Master Horto’s obnoxious wife.

He studied the sign some more. Master of arms. That meant that the old man taught the knightly arts—swordsmanship and so on. For years Master Horto had been the only certified master of arms in the castle.

Wencil of Peldar was a nobody, of course. He was no Master Horto. If you wanted to be a knight, you obviously had to train with Horto, a man with a reputation at court. Still, Alder was intrigued by the sign. He wondered idly if there were some way he could at least pick up a few tips from the old man.

Out of curiosity as much as anything, Alder tentatively pushed open the front door of the building. It groaned on rusty hinges. He found himself in a very small, cold, empty room.

“Hello?” he said.

There was no answer.

“Hello?”

He walked tentatively into the next room. It too was empty. And yet…He felt the hairs come up on the back of his neck. Someone is here! He was sure of it.

He quietly leaned his practice weapons against the wall—all of them except his wooden sword. He gripped the sword tightly and crossed the room as silently as he could. “Hello?” he whispered. “Sir? Master Wencil?”

He thought he heard something in the next room. A squeak? A slight exhalation of breath? He wasn’t sure.

He moved as silently as he could into the next room.

Whack!

For a moment Alder didn’t know what had happened. He whirled around as pain shot through his shoulders. Standing behind him was Wencil. How in the world had he gotten there? In Wencil’s hand was a stick, much like the one he’d carried the first time Alder met him.

“Sneak into my home, would you?” the old man shouted.

“But I—the sign said—I was just—”

“Defend yourself or die!” the old man shouted. Then he began attacking Alder with the stick. Alder desperately tried to defend himself. But it was pointless. The old man, grinning broadly, drove him backward.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

The stick caught him on his shin, his elbow, his arm—flicking out like the tongue of a snake. By the time Alder got his sword anywhere near the stick, it was already hitting him someplace else.

“Please! I was just trying to—”

Alder could see he was wasting his effort trying to talk to this man. He decided his best hope was to make for the door.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

Apparently the old man saw what he was trying to do: He bounded in front of Alder, cutting off his escape. Alder tried to make for the back of the building. Surely there would be a door there!

Whack, whack, whack! The stick hit him again and again. And yet, the old man never quite finished him off. After a while Alder started to get the feeling that Wencil was just toying with him. But try as he might, Alder couldn’t escape.

Soon Alder was feeling breathless and winded. His legs were like rubber, and his arms could barely hold the sword.

“Keep your guard up!” the old man shouted. “Or I might—” Whack! “Be forced—” Whack! “To pummel you in the head!” Whack whack whack!

Alder felt a sense of gloom and desperation fill him. There was nothing he could do to stop the old man. And he had no strength left.

Then he saw it. His last chance. The old man had driven him into the corner of the room farthest back in the house. It had a broken window through which blew a cold wind.

The window! If he could just get to—

With his last shred of energy, Alder parried the old man’s cane, and dove through the window. There was a rush of air and a brief feeling of freedom before…

Splat!

Alder sat up. Yuck! He had landed in a large, smelly pile of something.

A bunch of muddy pigs stared at him with angry pink eyes.

Oh, god! He knew what he’d fallen into now. He tried to stand up, slipped, fell again. The smell was awful. And the sticky feeling against his skin. Horrible!

For a moment he just lay there, eyes closed, imagining all the jokes and laughter and jeering that would follow if he showed up at the academy covered in pig poop. There would be ten times as much ridicule as usual. But if he went home to clean up, Master Horto would punish him for being late.

Finally he opened his eyes.

Only to find a man staring down at him. Wencil.

The old man had his hand out, palm up. “Five pieces of silver, please,” Wencil said.

Alder sat up. “Huh?”

“Are you deaf, boy? Give me five pieces of silver!” The old man still had his hand out.

“For what?” Five pieces of silver was a lot of money. Alder had no idea what the old man was getting at. He was obviously completely insane.

“For your first lesson.”

“My what?”

“Your first lesson.”

Alder stared at him. Finally he pointed at the building. “In there? That was…a lesson?”

“Young man, I am an instructor in the arts of fencing, pikesmanship, spear throwing, strategy, tactics, the equestrian arts, archery, grappling, rope climbing, etc. etc. etc. Didn’t you read the sign on the door?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then what in the name of creation do you think I was doing in there? Playing patty-cake? Five pieces of silver, please.”

“But…I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have any money.”

“Then go to your parents and get some!”

“I’m afraid I don’t have any parents. I’m an orphan.”

“An orphan?” the old man said sharply. Alder noticed that his eyes were an intense green. “No money at all?”

“None, sir.”

“Oh,” Wencil said. “In that case your instruction will be complimentary. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp. Don’t be late.”

“But…sir, I’m a student at the Academy.”

“Not anymore, boy. That charlatan Horto has obviously taught you nothing. You fight like a three-year-old girl. Nine o’clock sharp.”

Alder blinked. He had never heard anyone speak that way about Master Horto before. “But—”

The old man wrinkled his nose. “And for goodness sake, clean your clothes. I can’t have my students wandering around the castle smelling like pig dung!”

With that, the old man whirled around and disappeared.

FOUR

The next day at nine o’clock, Alder appeared at the door of Wencil’s house. Wencil was standing next to the door, tapping his fingers impatiently. “Let’s go,” he said.

“Where?”

“To my academy.”

“But I thought this was your—”

“You see, boy, that’s your problem. You think too much. Close your mouth, listen, do what you’re told. That is the way one becomes a warrior.”

“So…uh…should I bring my weapons?”

“You can throw them in a lake for all I care.”

The old man began marching down the street, his cane clacking smartly on the cobblestones. Alder didn’t see the point of martial arts lessons if you didn’t have weapons. So he carried them behind the old man. Besides, he was very proud of all his training gear. He had spent every bit of what little money he had buying the fanciest wooden training weapons available at the academy. They were custom made for him from genuine striped pakka wood by a famous craftsman in another city. He oiled them every night so that they gleamed.

They walked down the High Street, out the north gate, and down the road. Soon they were out in the woods. Wencil was old, but he sure walked fast. Alder was feeling slightly out of breath. Suddenly the old man stopped, clapped his hands, together and turned around.

“Perfect,” he said.

“Where are we?” Alder said.

“In my academy, of course,” the old man said.

Alder looked around. They were in the middle of a stand of ancient kena trees. Beneath them was a fragrant mat of kena needles. It was a beautiful spot. But he didn’t see a building anywhere. “I don’t see it,” Alder said.

“This is it!” The old man spread his hands.

“But…” Alder frowned.

“Let me ask you a question,” the old man said. “Do you think battles happen inside academies? Do you think that knights fight on nice clean straw mats?”

“Well. I guess not.”

“Then why should they train there?”

Alder had never thought about it that way.

The old man looked around. “Brisk out here, isn’t it. Build a fire.”

“Okay.” Alder looked around. There wasn’t much deadfall on the ground to burn. He was going to have to go forage. “Let me go look around for some wood.”

“Why go to all that trouble? You could just burn those.” He pointed at Alder’s collection of beautiful wooden training weapons.

Alder stared. Surely Wencil was joking.

“Hurry up,” Wencil said. “Start the fire. I’m freezing.”

“But…if I burn my training gear, what will I train with?”

“The whole world is a weapon, boy.” Wencil tapped his temple with his finger. “A true knight fights with his mind.”

Alder hesitated. His beautiful weapons gleamed dully in the mottled light. The striped wood looked deep as a river. How could he burn them? He stalled, gathering some tinder and building a little blaze.

“They’re a little long for such a small fire,” Wencil said. “Break them up first.”

Alder had been told a million times that being a Bedoowan knight was all about doing what you were told. So he broke his weapons one by one over his knee and fed them into the fire.

“Ahhhh! That feels great, huh?” Wencil said, warming his hands over the little fire.

Alder said nothing. He couldn’t even speak, he was so angry and hurt. These weapons had represented everything to him. His hope. His future. His soul. His very identity. Without weapons, a Bedoowan knight—even a poor, pathetic trainee—was nothing.

When the fire had burned down to embers, the old man pulled a knife from his belt. It’s handle was intricately carved from silver, and the blade showed signs of great age. “Go to the riverbank,” the old man said. “You will find small trees sticking up out of the water. They are called ‘ipo.’ Do you know what an ipo tree looks like?”

Alder nodded sullenly. They were a runty little trash tree that grew in swampy areas along the river.

“Good. Then go and cut one for me. About this long.” Wencil held his arms out about three and a half feet.

 

Fifteen minutes later Alder came sloshing back with a piece of ipo wood, his boots full of water. He had been surprised at how hard the wood was to cut.

Just to spite the old man, Alder had chosen the knobbiest, ugliest piece of ipo he could find.

Wencil took the gnarled, homely stick from him, examined it carefully. You’d have thought it was a work of art the way he squinted and pored over it, fingering each minute imperfection.

“You chose well,” he said finally, handing it back to Alder. “Now break it over your knee and throw it in the fire.”

Alder wanted to punch the old man in the face. It had been a huge pain in the neck cutting the wood. And now he wanted him to break it? If he’d wanted firewood, he should have just said so. There were plenty of dead kena branches on the ground between here and the riverbank.

Alder tried to break the wood over his knee. It bent. But it wouldn’t break. Alder grunted and strained, turning red in the face and muttering angrily under his breath.

“Come on, are you that weak?” Wencil said. He sat down on the ground and crossed his feet. “Harder!”

Alder wrestled with the wood. He felt embarrassed and foolish.

“It won’t break!” Alder shouted finally. “It can’t be done.”

The old man cocked his head. “All of that firewood over there,” Wencil said. “How much did you pay for it?”

It took Alder a moment to realize what he meant by “firewood.” The silly old man was talking about Alder’s training weapons, so beautifully made and so lovingly maintained. “Close to a hundred pieces of silver,” Alder said through gritted teeth.

“And yet you broke them all without any great strain.”

Alder flushed. Now he saw what the old man was getting at. This junky, gnarled piece of ipo was stronger than all of those training weapons he’d been so proud of.

“In the old days,” Wencil said, “a Bedoowan knight cut his own piece of ipo on the first day of training. It was expected that he would train with that same piece of ipo for eight, ten, twelve years. If, during that entire decade of training, his weapon broke, it was cause for great shame. He’d chosen unwisely.” Wencil’s lip curled in disgust. “Now we pay others to make our weapons.”

Alder looked sheepishly at the ground.

“Being a Bedoowan knight is not about appearances, boy. Those were pretty pieces of wood. And they might have lasted a year or two. But in the long run, they wouldn’t have served you. To be a Bedoowan knight is to be like this.” He held up the gnarled stick. “A Bedoowan knight serves…not the king, not your commander, certainly not your own ego. A Bedoowan knight serves the realm. He serves the good of all the people in the realm—Bedoowans, Novans, even the despised Milago who toil under the earth to bring out glaze.”

Alder frowned. “But at the academy they say, ‘Novans bow, Milagos serve, Bedoowans rule.’”

“To be a Bedoowan is to be responsible. At all times. Not just for yourself, but for those whom you protect. To wear this”—he pulled back his cloak, revealing the hilt of his sword—“to wear this is to bear a great responsibility. You hold the power of life and death in your hand. It’s not for the faint of heart.”

“I try hard to do what I’m told.”

“Of course. A Bedoowan must do as he’s told.” The old man smiled craftily. “Except when he doesn’t.”

“But…how do you know when not to do what you’re told?”

The old man patted one wrinkled old hand over his heart. “You always know,” he said. “The question is whether you take responsibility for what is right. Or whether you don’t.”

FIVE

For the next six months Alder trained day in and day out. Wencil never took on any more students. He simply led Alder into the forest and trained him from dawn till dark. There were no chores, no sweeping, no cooking, no fetching things. Just train, train, train.

At first Alder suspected that Wencil was a fraud or just crazy. Whenever he ran into anybody from the academy, that’s exactly what they said about Wencil. He was a quack, a liar, a lunatic, a has-been, a never-was. Some said he wasn’t even a Bedoowan. They had no shortage of insults. Everyone knew Master Horto was the only teacher qualified to instruct anyone in the deepest secrets of Bedoowan knighthood.

And yet Alder saw quickly that Wencil’s teaching was more practical, more…well…real than Master Horto’s. There were no ceremonies in his teaching, no complex formal exercises, no long dancelike routines, no elaborate drills, no arcane terminology. It was simple techniques, repeated over and over and over. And over. And over. And then those techniques were tested in practical, hard, relentless sparring. Unlike at the academy, where sparring was discouraged as too dangerous, too undignified, too “unknightly.”

Alder’s shoulders hurt all the time. His feet were sore. His hands grew calloused. His arms and legs were covered with bruises.

But one day he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and he realized that something had changed. His muscles were stronger. The layer of baby fat that had earned him so many cutting remarks at the academy had started to disappear. Even the shape of his face had subtly changed.

Each day as he dragged himself back to the castle, dirty and tired, he invariably ran into someone from the academy on the way home—often Eman or Neman. At which point he was sure to get teased.

“Nice stick. When are you going to get a real weapon?” “What are you and that crazy old man doing out there? Gathering flowers? Dancing with the fairies? Playing hide-and-seek?” The jokes went on and on.

Alder was too exhausted from his training to even reply. He simply shuffled back to his tiny, windowless cell in the castle, fell into bed, and slept.

One day Wencil said, “Why do you think they took advantage of you at the academy?”

“Because I didn’t have any money?”

Wencil shook his head. “No. It was because you didn’t take responsibility for yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You showed up every day. You did as you were told. But you left your destiny in the hands of others. You were being lazy.”

“Lazy?” Alder spluttered. “But I worked hard. I did what they told me to!”

“It’s possible to work hard, and yet be lazy.”

Alder squinted, trying to puzzle out Wencil’s meaning. Wencil came out with this sort of infuriatingly confusing statement all the time. “Well…how?”

“If you work hard doing the wrong job, is it really work? Or is it some kind of fakery?”

Alder didn’t know what to say. He had never been one to question things very much.

“But…all the others had money! I didn’t. So they made me work.”

“They made you clean the floor and serve drinks because you let them.”

Alder didn’t understand.

“A Bedoowan knight doesn’t prove himself when things are easy. You prove yourself when things are hard. The ipo tree grows in wet, sandy, bitter soil, soil that’s too miserable for any other tree to grow. It grows slowly and painfully. Many ipo trees simply die and sink under the water. But the ones that make it? The ones that make it are stronger than any other tree. Because they have been tested.”

Alder nodded. He was getting it now. Sort of.

“You are destined for something greater than this.” Wencil pointed his gnarled cane at the castle. “These knights, they strut around, all puffed up with pride because they can tell a handful of Novans and Milago what to do. But this…this is nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Alder had always been taught that the castle was the center of the universe, the most important place on the territory.

“You’ll see,” Wencil said. “There is a great struggle going on in Halla. You’ll be part of it. But to play your part, you must be like the ipo tree.”

“Halla? What’s Halla?”

Wencil spread his arms wide, his cane in one hand. He swept them in a slow circle, taking in the river, the castle, the forest, the dark mouth of the glaze mine—seemingly taking in even the clouds and the suns and the distant, unseen stars. “This,” Wencil said. “Halla is all this.”

Alder looked around. He had never traveled more than a day’s journey on horseback from the place they were standing. It was hard to take what Wencil was saying all that seriously.

“I just want to be a knight,” Alder said.

Wencil laughed. “Of course you do. And for right now, there’s no point in worrying about Halla.”

“So when will I be ready to be a knight?” Alder said.

“Back in my day, you had to undergo an ordeal. A true ordeal. Now the ordeal is just a ritual.”

At the academy every prospective knight had to go through what was called the “Grand Ordeal.” It was not much of an ordeal though. You ran a gauntlet of the other students, who whacked you with padded sticks. The whole thing was over in about five seconds.

“What would a true ordeal be?” Alder said.

“Oh…I would say that going down into the glaze mines, finding a chamber marked with a star and retrieving a special ring—that would probably be the right test for you.”

“The glaze mines! But everyone says Bedoowans die if they go into the mines for more than a few minutes!”

“Well, it wouldn’t be much of an ordeal if you didn’t put your life in danger, would it? Besides, that’s just a tall tale”—Wencil frowned thoughtfully—“I believe.”

Alder swallowed. Was he serious? It made Alder a little mad that Wencil was making fun of him.

“What if I went right this minute?” Alder said.

The old man shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

“Okay! Fine!” Alder said. “I’m going.”

He started walking down the path that led toward the mouth of the glaze mine. “Don’t try to stop me! I’m really doing it! I’m going now!”

He kept hoping Wencil would stop him. He didn’t really want to be poisoned to death in some dark mine. But Wencil just smiled and waved, then looked up at the sky as if he were wondering whether it might rain.

The path to the mine was about a mile or two long. Plenty of time for Wencil to catch up to him and tell him it was all just a joke. After a couple of minutes Alder paused and looked back. Wencil was nowhere to be seen.

Alder kept walking, as slowly as possible, pausing now and again, pretending to stretch or adjust his pants. But each time he snuck a look back—no Wencil.

And the dark, forbidding mouth of the mine drew closer and closer. There were a series of small hills on the way to the mine. Each time he came into one of the little valleys, he felt better. Plenty of time for this charade to end. And each time he crested a new rise, the black hole grew larger.

As he walked, he thought of all the stories he’d heard about the glaze mines. The Milago were undoubtedly inferior beings to Bedoowan knights, but they did have some kind of strange capacity to withstand the poisonous gases in the mine. Gases that could kill a Bedoowan in a heartbeat.

Or so they said anyway. No Bedoowan had been into a mine for generations. So who could say for certain?

While Alder was having these gloomy thoughts, he came over the final rise before reaching the mine. Alder was pleased to see that there was a small knot of young men standing between him and the mine entrance. They were doing something—though he couldn’t make out what it was. Maybe, he thought, whatever’s happening here will give me a reason not to go into the mine.

As he drew closer, Alder recognized two of the boys. His heart sank. It was Eman and Neman. He had been serving guard duty with them regularly. And they had used every opportunity to torment him. The third boy was obviously a Milago—he had dark hair and the pasty white skin that marked him as someone who spent much of his life underground.

Eman had the Milago boy by the collar of his grimy, threadbare shirt. Both he and Neman were much larger than the Milago boy.

“What were you doing sneaking around near the castle?” Eman was saying.

“I wasn’t sneaking!” the boy said. “I was just gathering mushrooms for food!”

Eman pushed the boy into Neman. “Stealing the king’s mushrooms?” Neman said. “Oh, that’s a very serious crime.” He shoved the boy back at Eman.

“Did you just shove me?” Eman said to the boy. “Neman, did you see that? This little Milago just intentionally bumped into a Bedoowan knight! I’m shocked!”

“Hey, guys,” Alder said. “What’s going on?”

Eman and Neman turned. Eman rolled his eyes. “Hey, look who’s here!” he said with a big fake smile. “Thank goodness. We’ve caught a very dangerous Milago rebel, and we may need those scary fighting skills you’ve been picking up out there in the forest with Grandpa Wendy.”

“Wencil,” Alder said. “His name’s Wencil.”

Eman and Neman snickered.

“Whatever,” Eman said. “Anyway, we got it under control, trainee.”

Alder could have kept going. But the mine was scarier than Eman and Neman.

“Please,” the Milago boy said, appealing to Alder. “I didn’t do anything. I was picking mushrooms. Everybody in the village does it. There’s no law against it.”

“Is that true?” Alder said. “He was just picking mushrooms?”

Eman gave Alder a hard look. “I told you, trainee, we got it under control.”

Eman punctuated his speech by giving the much smaller Milago boy a hard shove.

“I don’t know,” Alder said. “To me? Looks like you’re just making trouble with the boy for no reason.”

“Oh, really!” Neman said, smiling coldly. “Let me get this straight, Alder. Are you—a mere trainee—supporting a Milago, over two full-fledged Bedoowan knights?”

Alder cleared his throat. “I, uh…” He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He thought back to all the speeches Wencil had given about how Bedoowan knights were supposed to be defenders of the poor. “Well, uh, yeah. I guess I’m saying I think you’re just troubling this poor boy for no reason.”

Eman looked at Neman. Neman looked at Eman. Their eyebrows went up comically. “Did I just hear the trainee correctly, Eman?”

“I believe you did, Neman!”

“Just let him go,” Alder said firmly.

“You are joking, right?” Eman said.

Alder had always felt like his oversize body was a hindrance rather than a help in his quest to become a knight. But suddenly it occurred to him that he was by far the biggest of the four boys. He drew himself up to his full height. “I’m not joking. Let him go.”

“Or what?” Neman said.

“Or else…this.” Alder pulled the ipo stick from his belt.

Eman and Neman laughed derisively. “Hold the Milago,” Eman said to Neman, “while I teach this weakling a lesson.” He put his hand on the hilt of his sword.

Alder had the strangest feeling all of a sudden. It was as if he were watching himself. He would have expected to be scared. But he wasn’t. He felt calm—almost eager. He had seen the training at the academy for years now, and he knew that it couldn’t hold a candle to what Wencil had been teaching him in the forest. “Enough talking,” Alder said.

Something flashed in Eman’s eyes. Alder could see what was coming a mile away. It would be the standard gambit that Master Horto taught—a drawing cut, followed by a downward slash, and then a thrust. Alder put his left hand in his pocket. He was suddenly determined not just to beat Eman, but to make him look like a fool in the process.

Sure enough, Eman drew and cut. Alder sidestepped, the sword flashing by him. On the downward cut, he blocked. On the two thrusts that followed, he effortlessly parried. Eman paused, blinked, swallowed.

“What,” Alder said. “That’s all you got? I would have thought a full-fledged knight would be more impressive.”

Eman forgot all about the standard fighting routines he’d learned from Master Horto. His face flushed with anger, he attacked Alder wildly, thrashing away. To Alder’s surprise and satisfaction, he realized that Eman had nothing. Every move was awkward and predictable. He could see what Eman was going to do three moves in advance.

“All day,” Alder said, easily parrying cut after cut. “All day.”

“Little help here, Neman,” Eman hissed from between clenched teeth.

“What about the Milago kid?”

“Forget about him!”

Neman quickly slid a rope around the boy’s wrists, tying them behind his back. Then he lashed the rope around a tree, unsheathed his sword, and leaped forward. At which point, Alder realized he was overwhelmed. Eman was the big talker of the two. But it was clear within seconds that Neman was the superior swordsman. What had been an easy one-on-one fight suddenly turned into a two-on-one battle royal.

Fighting with his hand in his pocket wasn’t going to hack it, that was for sure. Alder began fighting for all he was worth, using every trick that Wencil had taught him. But it wasn’t quite enough. Alder saw that the Milago boy was furiously trying to free himself from the rope. With his hands tied behind his back, he was having no luck.

“Who’s the smart guy now?” Eman said, slashing wickedly at Alder’s leg. He was using the flat of his sword, not trying to cut him. Just trying to punish him. As Alder blocked the slashing blow, Neman stepped behind him and caught him with a hard rap on his back.

Alder whirled, caught Neman’s elbow with a sharp blow. His blade went flying. But then Eman gave him another whack. That one stung!

As Alder turned his attention to Eman, Neman retrieved his sword. “Lucky shot, you big oaf,” Neman said, whacking him in the leg.

Alder began retreating, a sinking feeling running through him. As he backpedaled, trying desperately to keep both Eman and Neman in front of him where he could fend them off, he saw a figure leaning against a nearby tree.

Relief flooded through him. It was Wencil. Good old Wencil would get him out of the jam!

“Wencil!” he called.

Wencil smiled broadly. “You’re doing great, boy!” he called.

Doing great? Was Wencil joking?

Alder gave his instructor an imploring look. But the old man just crossed his arms and continued to lean against the tree, a placid smile on his face.

Distracted by Wencil, Alder left himself open and several more blows caught him—one on the shin, one on the arm, and one nasty stinging blow across the face.

Alder realized that he wasn’t going to win. That much was completely, painfully obvious. But he realized that if he was going to take a beating, at least he might achieve his goal of helping the Milago boy. If he could do that, then Eman and Neman would still have lost.

Alder reached into his belt, pulled his knife. With a flurry of blows, he managed to drive Eman and Neman back, opening just enough space to allow him to sprint toward the Milago boy. With a quick slash of his knife, he cut the boy free.

“Go!” he hissed.

The boy blinked. “Why did you—”

“Go!” Alder yelled it this time.

The boy didn’t have to be told again. He turned and ran like a scared rabbit. And like a rabbit, he escaped by disappearing suddenly into a small hole in the ground.

Alder’s focus on freeing the Milago boy, unfortunately, had put him in a bad position. Eman and Neman were now closing in on him from opposite directions. He couldn’t fight them off both at once. Not without growing another pair of arms.

He decided it was time for a retreat.

It was then that his oversize body caught up with him. He had never had the steadiest feet in the world. So when his toe snagged on a root, he staggered and went down with a heavy thump.

Eman and Neman leaped forward, slapping him unmercifully with the flats of their swords. He had no option but to curl up in a ball and take it. The blows rained down on him from all sides.

Where is Wencil? he thought bitterly. When’s he finally going to intervene? But as he snuck a glance at the tree where the old man had been leaning, the last shred of hope leached away. Wencil was gone.

“We’ll quit,” Eman said, “as soon as you admit we’re stronger.”

“Just say it, Milago-lover!” Neman added, whacking him hard in the arm. “‘I’m a weakling.’”

“Weakling!” Eman said. “Weakling!”

Then a thin, clear voice cut through the air. “Over here, you Bedoowan creeps!”

Alder looked to where the voice was coming from. Now he saw it: The Milago boy’s body was poking up from the hole in the earth. He was waving furiously.

“Over here!” the boy called again.

Alder still had his ipo stick gripped in his hand. He desperately swung it in a wide circle. Eman and Neman leaped back to avoid getting whacked in the shins. It gave Alder just enough time to stagger to his feet and start sprinting toward the hole where the Milago boy was.

“That’s right!” Eman yelled. “Keep running, you chicken!”

Alder looked over his shoulder. Eman and Neman were trotting after him. Not rushing—but following fast enough that Alder knew he had no choice. Go down the hole or keep getting beaten.

“Follow me!” the Milago boy shouted.

Alder didn’t have to think twice. Even though the idea of hiding in some overgrown rabbit hole didn’t appeal to him, he couldn’t stand the idea of any further humiliation. He dove into the hole. What the hole was, where it led, or why it was there—none of these question entered his mind. All he could think about was escape.

“This way!” the Milago boy whispered. The hole was deeper, larger, darker than Alder expected. Now that he was here, it occurred to him to wonder what kind of hole this was.

“What is this place?” Alder said.

But the Milago boy didn’t answer. He simply disappeared from view, as though he’d fallen through a trapdoor.

Alder felt around blindly in the darkness. His hands closed around the rungs of what was obviously a ladder. So that was where the Milago boy had gone. Down the ladder.

“Weakling! Weakling!” Above him two sword points were probing into the hole. If he just sat there, Alder realized the points would soon be probing holes in his legs.

Without another thought Alder grabbed the ladder and descended into the darkness. After eight or ten rungs, he reached the bottom and found himself in a long tunnel lined with torches. The Milago boy was nowhere to be seen.

It was only then that he realized where he was.

I’m in the mines! he thought. Now I’m going to die!

SIX

So,” Wencil said, “you braved the mines, huh?”

Alder was lying on the floor in one of the back rooms of Wencil’s house while Wencil rubbed salve into the bruises on his back and arms.

“I only stayed there for a minute or two,” Alder said morosely. “When I came back up the hole, Eman and Neman were gone.”

“So the fumes didn’t kill you?” Wencil said with a knowing smirk.

“You think this whole thing is a big joke, don’t you?” Alder said angrily.

Wencil slapped Alder on the shoulder, hitting him squarely on one of his bruises. “There. That should do it.”

“Ow!” Alder said, pulling his shirt back on. Then he stood up. “Why didn’t you help me?”

“You were doing fine,” Wencil said.

“Doing fine! I was getting totally humiliated.”

Wencil shrugged. “True.”

Alder sighed. “So I guess they’re right, huh? I’m just a big weakling.”

“You stepped in to help somebody who was being unjustly attacked. You easily bested one fighter and then made a tactical retreat in the face of overwhelming odds. I’d call that a victory.”

“Yeah, right,” Alder said sourly.

“Look,” Wencil said. “The reason you fought those two imposters to knighthood is because you wanted to help that Milago boy. In that you were successful. You won, Alder. You won!”

Alder cocked his head, curious. It hadn’t occurred to him to think of it that way. “Really? You think so?”

Wencil nodded. “All these bruises? They’re just trophies of your victory.”

“I bet Eman and Neman don’t see it that way. They’ll tell everybody in the castle that they beat me.” Alder contemplated all the jeers and laughter that would accompany him everywhere he went for the next few weeks. “How am I ever going to become a knight if everybody thinks I’m weak?”

Wencil stood and walked into the other room. “Come over here,” he said.

Alder followed him. Like the rest of Wencil’s house, it was barely furnished. Just a bleak, cheerless room that any senior Novan servant at the castle would have disdained to live in.

“Stand there.” Wencil pointed at a spot on the floor in front of him.

Alder did as he was told.

Wencil drew his sword. “This blade is called ‘Falling Light.’ It was forged in the great smithy of King Owenn. When King Owenn saw it swung, he said it moved like light falling from the sky.”

Alder was feeling confused. What was this all about?

“Kneel,” Wencil said.

“Huh?”

“Kneel.”

Alder frowned, puzzled. Then he knelt.

“Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To become a knight.”

Alder felt a rush of confusion. Was Wencil making fun of him? Was this some kind of typical Wencil trickery, something designed to teach him yet another obscure lesson in knightly behavior?

“I asked you a question,” Wencil said.

“Yes,” Alder said. “I’m ready.”

“Good.” Wencil held out the sword. “This blade is now yours. Let it serve you well, as you serve others.”

Alder took the blade. He felt numb and foolish and confused. He stared at the blade. Wencil had never drawn it, so he had never had a chance to study the blade before. It was the finest sword he’d ever seen. The handle was simple, worn with use. But the blade itself was extraordinary. Down the center ran a line of tiny runes, a legend carved into the steel in a language he didn’t understand. But more important was the actual steel. There was a fine, wavy pattern in the grain of the steel, as though water were flowing beneath its surface. The metal seemed almost alive.

And in that moment, gazing at the sword, he realized that this was no joke, no ruse, no clever object lesson. This sword was real. Which meant…

“I—I don’t understand—”

“Later this week I will go to the castle and enter your name in the registry of knights.”

“But…you’re supposed to have a big ceremony in court. It costs a lot of money. You have to have a certificate of completion from a licensed instructor. You have to—”

Wencil snorted. “King Karel was my student long, long ago. He will personally sign the certificate and the proclamation.”

“King Karel was your student?”

“I must tell you, he was a mediocre student. But a very nice young man. Perhaps too nice to be a king.”

Alder scratched his head. “You’re really serious,” he said. “About all of this?”

“Today people think that becoming a knight is an end. It’s not. It’s only a beginning. You are at the beginning of a long and difficult struggle. It used to be that a man became a knight on the battlefield. There was no ceremony, no chorus of trumpets. After a battle, after you’d buried the dead and packed away your weapons and fed your horse, a commander would approach you and say, ‘You fought like a knight today. Now you are a knight.’ And that was it.”

Alder didn’t know what to say.

“You fought like a knight today,” Wencil said. “Stand up.”

Alder stood.

Wencil took off the belt and scabbard that had held the sword, Falling Light, and buckled it around Alder’s waist. “Now go home and rest. You’ve got a lot to learn, and we don’t have much time. Tomorrow you’ll need to train harder.”

Train harder? Most Bedoowans pretty much stopped training the minute they got knighted. But instead he didn’t say anything. Alder wanted to ask, What’s the point of becoming a knight if you’re just going to train harder?

Without another word Wencil turned and walked into the other room. Alder reflected how old and tired Wencil looked. After a moment he heard his teacher clumping slowly up the stairs to the room where he slept.

Alder stumbled out into the street. It was dark and the streets were empty. He hadn’t gone more than fifty or a hundred yards before it finally hit him. He was going to be a knight! After all these years of anguish and fretting and embarrassment…There had been times when he’d almost thought it would never happen, that he would be one of those sad Bedoowans shuffling around the castle with no knighthood, the butt of endless jokes.

A warm glow spread through his entire body. A knight. A real knight.

He pulled out Wencil’s sword—no, wait a minute, it was his sword now!—and waved it in the air. “I’m gonna be a knight!” he shouted, a huge smile covering his face. “I’m gonna be a knight!”

SEVEN

Wencil wasn’t kidding. The next day was the hardest training Alder had ever had. Wencil made him run up and down hills, swim across the river and back three times, climb several tall trees—each exercise more fatiguing than the last. Then, when Alder felt that he was about to fall over, Wencil attacked him with a wooden pike.

For two hours they fought ceaselessly, wood thudding against wood. Sword against pike. Pike against short spear. Sword against sword. Short spear against staff. Staff against sword. There was no break for lunch. Wencil simply drove him harder. More running, more drills, more swordwork. Alder kept trying, his arms and legs growing more and more tired. But after a certain point, he just felt like he couldn’t go any further.

“Why are you doing this?” he said finally. “Don’t I get a break? Don’t I get some kind of reward for becoming a knight?”

Wencil shook his head. “No,” he said. “You don’t.”

Finally, when the suns started getting low in the sky, Wencil sat down and leaned back against a tree. His face looked gray, his skin drawn, his cheeks hollow.

“Do you mind my asking how old you are?” Alder said.

Wencil smiled sadly. “Too old.” Then he opened a small satchel and took out two apples and two pieces of bread. “Here.” He handed one apple and one piece of bread to Alder. They ate in silence. Or, more accurately, Alder inhaled his food while Wencil picked at his bread. His eyes seemed dull, and he was staring off distractedly into the distance. Finally Wencil handed the rest of his food to Alder. “Take it, boy. I’m not really hungry.”

Alder finished the rest of the meal.

When he was done, Wencil said, “I have some things to tell you. I may not have strength or time.”

Alder looked at his teacher. “What do you mean?”

Wencil seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. “I had hoped I might call you ‘son,’” Wencil said. “But circumstances prevented me from being here for you. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry for what you’ve had to endure in this place.” He waved his gnarled stick in the direction of the castle.

Son? What was he talking about? “I don’t understand.”

“You are not just a knight,” Wencil said. “You are a Traveler. As am I.”

“A Traveler? What do you mean?”

“That,” said Wencil, “is a very long story. I’m not sure I have the strength to tell it to you tonight. Maybe tomorrow, okay?”

EIGHT

But the next day when Alder showed up at Wencil’s house, Wencil was not there. A note was tacked on the door.

I am at the castle. I will have an audience with King Karel to discuss your impending knighthood. Don’t think that I forgot about your ordeal. Today you must go into the mines and retrieve your ring. You must find a chamber with a star carved into the wall by the door. Inside you will find a ring that will mark you as a Traveler. Along with the ring, you will find your destiny. When you return, King Karel will affirm your knighthood.

—Wencil

Alder’s heart sank. He’d hoped his fight the other day meant that he would be free from having to still endure the ordeal. Why couldn’t Wencil have assigned him an ordeal like Master Horto did for his students at the academy? At the academy the Grand Ordeal was over in the blink of an eye. You got a couple of bruises and the whole thing was over. For a moment he wondered why he needed to go into the mines. What would it prove? It didn’t seem fair. None of the other knights had to endure an ordeal like this.

But the feeling of resentment didn’t last long. If Wencil wanted him to go into the mines, he’d go into the mines. Wencil kept telling him he was special, right? So now he was going to prove it! He smiled and began walking down the road toward the mines.

 

A few minutes later Alder was looking down into the hole where he had escaped from Eman and Neman the previous day. There was no marker, no railing, nothing to keep the unwary from stumbling in. He could feel his heart pounding. Ever since he was young, he’d heard how dangerous the mines were. Bedoowan kids were even told that there were monsters living in the mines. His Novan nurse, when he was little, used to say, “If you aren’t a good boy, the quigs will come and drag you off to the mines.”

He took two deep breaths, looked around to see if anyone was watching, then jumped into the hole.

Within two minutes he was down in the tunnel where he’d hidden from Eman and Neman. The torches on the wall threw a dim flickering light. The tunnel ran in two directions. Little trails of water ran down the rock walls. The air was close and chilly. Which way? He randomly chose to go to the left. After a minute or two of walking tentatively through the tunnel, he heard voices.

He began walking toward the sound. But as the voices grew louder, the tunnel grew darker and darker. Finally he could see nothing at all. He had to simply feel his way along the slick, wet rock.

Without warning, the floor gave way beneath him. He slipped and fell down an incline or chute, head over heels. Finally, with a sharp thump, he rolled out onto a solid rock floor. He found himself in a small, dimly lit cavern, its walls showing the marks of being carved by pickaxes. There was a hum of conversation around him.

He sat up and looked around. A group of Milago men were at work on the far end of the cavern, their bodies caked with grime, so that all that was visible of their faces was their white eyes. As soon as he sat up, the hum of speech ceased. Every miner in the room stared at him.

“Um, excuse me for interrupting,” Alder said. “But I’m looking for a room down here. It’s got a star chiseled into the rock near the door.”

The miners stared at him as though he were a lunatic. Their eyes were not welcoming. In fact, they looked at him with undisguised hatred.

Finally one of the miners straightened up and walked toward him. “You’re looking for a room?” the man said incredulously. There was something menacing in his voice.

“Yes. With a star chiseled next to it.”

“A room!” The man grimaced. “We don’t have rooms down here, Bedoowan.”

Up on the surface Milago always looked at the ground when they were around Bedoowans. And they always referred to them as “sir” or “master” or even “my lord.” Alder felt a little annoyed at the man’s disrespectful tone of voice.

“Well, a chamber? A space? I don’t know what you call it.”

The Milago man looked at the other miners. For a moment his teeth flashed. “A chamber! Well, then! Should we show him, lads?”

The cavern was silent.

The Milago man turned back to Alder. “No, Bedoowan, I don’t think we will. Bedoowans aren’t wanted down here.”

“Now, listen here…” Alder tried to use the commanding tone of voice that Bedoowan knights normally used when addressing their social inferiors. But he thought it didn’t really come out right.

“No, you listen here.” The miner stuck his grimy finger in Alder’s face. “You have no business here. Go back where you came from.”

Alder stood up. He was going to try to show these Milago who was boss. But because he was taller than most of the Milago, he hit his head sharply on the ceiling. “Ow!” he said.

“Oh, looooook!” one of the other Milago miners said in a mincing tone. “The poor clumsy knight hit his head!”

“Oops!” another shouted.

They all started standing, moving toward him. And they didn’t look as if they were coming to help him. The miners all wore tiny lamps on their heads, the lights shining toward Alder, blinding him. He held up his hands, trying to block out the bright lights. What was wrong with these people? In the past he’d never heard Milago talk like this. Not once. They were always quiet and respectful.

One of the miners lobbed a piece of rock gently toward him. It came so unexpectedly that it bounced off his face before he had a chance to move out of the way. The rock was big enough that it stung.

“Oops,” the man who threw it said. “The silly knight hit himself again.”

“You know, Bedoowan, mines are really not safe places,” another miner said, picking up another piece of rock and hefting it in his hand. The rock was as big as his fist. “All kinds of accidents happen down here. Cave-ins, explosions”—his teeth appeared in the dim light as he smiled broadly—“falling rocks.”

This time the miner hurled the rock as hard as he could. Alder dodged, but rock exploded as it hit the wall behind him, showering his face with sharp fragments. Alder felt his face. When he took his hand away, there was a red stain on his fingertips.

“Listen here,” he said angrily, “I don’t know what you people think you’re doing but—”

“Payback time, Bedoowan!” one of the miners yelled.

Another rock whizzed by his head. Then another. He tried to dodge, but there were a lot of miners. And they were all throwing rocks. The rocks pummeled him in the chest and shoulders.

“What’s wrong with you?” Alder shouted. “I never did anything to you!”

A rock hit him in the head so hard that he saw stars. Suddenly he felt terrified. If the miners kept it up, they could kill him!

As he covered his face and attempted to stumble toward one of the nearby tunnel entrances, a voice yelled, “Hey, guys, stop!”

The rocks continued to thump into him, and the miners continued to shout insults.

“Hey! Stop!”

For a moment the rocks ceased to hammer into him. Alder uncovered his face. He saw that a thin young miner had come into the cavern. “What’s your problem, kid?” one of the other miners yelled at him.

“This knight helped me out the other day. He saved me from those two creeps who are always beating people up around here.” The boy’s face was so covered with grime that Alder didn’t even recognize him.

“Who cares?” a miner shouted, hurling another rock at Alder. “One Bedoowan’s no different from another. They’re all leeches. All they do is steal our glaze and sit around up there in the castle getting fat.”

“But this one’s nice,” the young miner said.

“Shut up, kid,” an older miner said. “When you grow up, you’ll see. Even when a Bedoowan pretends to be your friend, it’s only because he wants something from you.”

Several Milago threw rocks at Alder again. One of them caught him in the chest. Alder could see this situation was only going to get worse. It was time to run. He made a dash for the nearest tunnel.

“Not that way,” the young miner yelled. “Follow me!”

Alder didn’t have to be told twice. He dashed after the young miner, his head ducked low so he wouldn’t hit the rough timbers holding up the ceiling. Rocks clattered off the wall behind him as he raced down the tunnel.

Jeers and angry shouts echoed through the tunnels. He could hear the men running after him.

“Get him!” the voices called behind him. “Kill the Bedoowan!”

Rocks thumped against the walls behind him.

“This way!” the Milago boy’s voice called. The light disappeared to the left. Alder dodged into another tunnel. This one was so small and so dark he could barely make out where to put his feet.

“Shhh!” The Milago boy had stopped and put out his light. “Don’t move,” the boy whispered.

From the main tunnel behind them, Alder could hear angry shouting and footsteps. The two boys stood next to each other, frozen.

After a while the shouting died down. Finally the Milago boy relit his head lamp.

“Let’s go back,” Alder said finally.

The boy shook his head. “They’ll be looking for us back there. We’ll have to go out through one of the old tunnels.”

Alder nodded. “Hey, look, thanks,” Alder said. “My name’s Alder.”

“I’m Gaveth,” the boy said.

Alder held out his hand. Gaveth looked at it for a moment, then shook it dubiously.

“Come on,” Gaveth said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“Actually,” Alder said, “I’m looking for something. A chamber or room with a star carved in the rock next to it. Do you know where I’d find something like that?”

The boy turned and looked at Alder with curiosity. “Why?”

“There’s something there that I need.”

“Glaze?”

“No, not glaze.”

“Then why would a Bedoowan come down here? Everybody knows Bedoowans don’t come into the mines.”

“I’m looking for a ring.” Their footsteps echoed as they walked through the narrow corridor. The farther they walked, the thinner it got. Finally Alder was having to slide sideways through the narrow passage. The air seemed stuffier, hotter, danker, harder to breath. “Do you know where the room with the star is?”

Gaveth shook his head. “There are lots of tunnels down here. Nobody knows where all of it goes.”

“Do you even know where we’re going?”

There was a brief pause. “Not…uh…exactly.”

They shuffled along for a while. “So, I heard there are quigs down here.”

“Look, the mines can be dangerous. If you’re careless. People tell all kinds of stories to try and scare kids so they won’t wander around down here. But I’ve explored down here a lot. And I’ve never seen a quig.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Finally, just as the passage was narrowing to the point where Alder wasn’t sure he’d be able to squeeze through it anymore, the passage opened up into a large cavern. Tiny points of blue light glittered from all corners of the big room.

“Whoa!”

“That’s glaze,” Gaveth said. “The main deposit here was all worked out years ago. But there are still tiny bits of it stuck in the walls.”

Alder stopped and stared.

“We need to keep moving,” Gaveth said nervously.

“Can’t we take a break?” Alder’s lungs were wheezing in the heavy, close air. “I’m not used to this air.”

Gaveth shook his head. “No, we really need to keep moving.”

“What’s the rush?”

Gaveth pointed at the light on his head. “I’ve only got a limited supply of fuel for my lamp. There are no lights in the old sections of the mine. If you run out of light down here, you’re in big trouble.”

Alder didn’t like this place at all. The darkness, the air, the claustrophobic feeling of the low ceilings and close walls. Just the thought of being down here with no lights gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You know what?” Alder said. “Moving’s good! Let’s keep going.”

They walked into another narrow passage. After a while it split in two. Gaveth stopped, hesitated.

“Which way?” Alder said.

“Uh…this way.”

“You sure?”

Long pause. “Pretty sure.”

“You’re making me nervous,” Alder said.

“Hey, do you want to lead?” Gaveth said, his face clouded.

“No. I just—”

“Okay then!”

Alder followed. “So, can I ask you a question?”

“I guess,” Gaveth said.

“Why are all you guys so mad at us?”

“Mad at who?”

“Us. Bedoowans.”

Gaveth seemed surprised. “Are you serious?”

Alder shrugged. “Well…sure.”

Gaveth shook his head as though Alder had said something amazingly stupid. “You must be joking. Why would we not hate you?”

Alder felt puzzled. “Well…I mean, Bedoowans protect the Milago from invaders and bandits.”

“Protect us!” Gaveth said scornfully. “Is that what they tell you up there in the castle? There hasn’t been an invader or a bandit around here in generations!”

“Yeah, but that’s just because we’re ready at all times to fight them.”

Gaveth laughed. “You Bedoowan live up there in luxury in your castle while us Milago work ourselves to death down here in the mines. Every year the king—or that nasty chancellor of his, Mallos—demands more glaze from us. Before Mallos showed up, it wasn’t so bad. But now every year we have to dig harder and farther and deeper to find it. It’s not fair. You know how many miners died down here last year?”

Alder shook his head.

“Dozens! And how many Bedoowan died defending us?”

“Uh…”

“If a miner gets hurt? Or dies in the mine? Guess what happens to his kids. They starve.”

“Why doesn’t anybody help them?”

“Have you ever seen a fat Milago?” Gaveth said. “We’re all hungry. There’s no extra food.”

Alder couldn’t believe it. All his life everybody had always said how the Bedoowans had it so tough putting their lives on the line to protect the Milago and the Novans. But Gaveth was right. Bedoowans hadn’t been in any honest-to-goodness fights in, well, generations. Much less an actual battle. Or a war. So to a Milago, it probably looked as though the Bedoowans had things pretty easy.

And maybe they did. It made him feel strange to think that everything he’d been taught was a lie. He supposed that’s what Wencil had been getting at, talking about “the old ways” all the time, about how the Bedoowans today didn’t live the way they were supposed to. Alder had always thought Wencil just meant that Bedoowans had gotten lazy and didn’t train hard anymore. But maybe Wencil had been getting at something deeper.

As everything that Gaveth said was sinking in, the two boys paused again. They had just entered a large cavern. There were six tunnels leading out of it. Gaveth kept looking from one to the next.

“Do you know where we are?” Alder said.

Gaveth didn’t answer.

“Weren’t we here about fifteen minutes ago?”

Gaveth cleared his throat nervously. “Maybe.”

Alder suddenly felt as if he couldn’t quite catch his breath. The walls seemed to be pressing in on him. All he wanted was to be out of the mine. “So…basically…you have no idea where we are.”

“Basically? Yes.”

Alder felt like crying. But knights didn’t cry. “So which way?” he said.

“Uh…” Gaveth pointed at one tunnel entrance. Then at another. “This way?”

“You sure?”

For a moment Gaveth didn’t say anything. Then they heard a rustling noise, a sound like something being dragged across the rock.

“What was that?” Gaveth said.

“You’re the mine expert,” Alder said. “You tell me.”

Silence. Then two heavy thumps and a scraping sound.

Gaveth’s eyes were wide. “Yeah, but you’re the Bedoowan knight. You’re trained for this. What should we do?”

“Um…” More scraping and thudding. It was getting closer and closer, louder and louder.

“Based on my training”—Alder heard his voice break into a higher register—“I think maybe we should…”

Alder spotted a pair of large yellow eyes gleaming somewhere deep in the tunnel.

“Run!”

NINE

Quig!” Gaveth shouted.

Alder frantically tried to draw his sword as the huge beast charged toward them. He couldn’t see the quig. But he didn’t need to. He knew what it looked like—quigs were giant bears with teeth as long and sharp as daggers, claws big enough to cut a man in half, and sharp spikes on their backs.

“Can you fight it off with your sword?” Gaveth shouted over his shoulder.

“Doubt it!” Alder yelled, finally freeing Falling Light from its scabbard.

The thumping of the quig’s feet was growing closer. Gaveth turned hard right into another, smaller passage.

“What are we gonna do?”

“Try to find smaller tunnels!” Alder yelled back. “If we can get into a skinny enough passage, it’ll get stuck.”

“This way!” Gaveth dodged into another passage. This one was smaller still. The ground was littered with rock that had fallen from the ceiling. Alder stumbled. In the darkness it was impossible to see the floor well enough to avoid the dangerous rubble.

And still the quig kept coming. Alder could hear the sound of its claws rasping against the rock as it forced its way through the tight tunnels.

“It’s definitely slowing down,” Alder said. “But not enough.”

“Here’s an air vent.” Gaveth’s voice was high pitched and frightened as he pointed toward a rough hole in the ceiling. A wooden ladder led up into the hole. “Maybe this’ll do it!”

Gaveth jumped onto the ladder and began climbing. Alder followed. As he clambered upward, Alder realized to his dismay that the wooden ladder was half rotten. Gaveth was so light that the ladder was holding him okay. But as big as Alder was, the wood was shifting and groaning with each step.

Wham!

The quig thudded into the bottom of the air shaft. Alder felt the entire ladder jerk. He tried to move faster.

Gaveth disappeared above him. He had reached the top. “Hurry!” Gaveth called, his forehead light appearing above Alder. Only a few more feet to go.

But the ladder was moving back and forth now. A terrible rotten-meat smell wafted up the shaft, carried by the rising air. Alder looked down. The quig was in the shaft now. It was crawling upward!

Alder couldn’t believe something as big as the quig could get up the air shaft. But there it was, yellow eyes pinned on him, inching its way up the shaft.

Just as he reached the top, the rung that his bottom foot was on gave way. Alder’s stomach rose into his chest as he plunged backward into the shaft.

He made a grab for the top rung, missed, grabbed the next rung and hung on, legs dangling into the darkness.

Snap! Snap! The quig’s jaws were snapping shut.

Now this rung started to give way as well. Alder felt a flash of panic. He was done!

Then—just as the rung collapsed—he felt a hand lock around his wrist. It was Gaveth. For such a skinny kid, he sure was strong!

Gaveth lurched to the side, straddling the air shaft. “Hold on,” he grunted.

“I’m holding! I’m holding!” Alder swung his feet around until he managed to get one foot over the lip of the shaft. From there he was able to push himself up.

“Thanks,” Alder said weakly, gasping for breath.

“What now?” Gaveth said, peering down at the quig. It was still inching upward.

Alder pulled out Falling Light and stabbed down into the shaft. His first stab drew blood. The quig roared and thrashed, slipping back down a few feet.

“Yeah!” Gaveth shouted. “Poke him again!”

This time, though, when Alder stabbed at the huge beast, it batted the sword away.

Alder jabbed furiously. He managed to keep the quig from moving upward. But now he was having no success in drawing blood. And in the thick, unhealthy air of the mine, he knew he couldn’t keep up this pace much longer.

“I don’t—think—I can—stop it,” he gasped.

“Then we’ve gotta run.”

The passage they’d just entered wasn’t small enough to slow the quig down. And, like the one below, it was littered with rocks, some of them big as Alder’s head. It was obviously a very old part of the mine. The timbers holding up the ceiling were weak with age.

Alder continued to jab at the quig. “We’ll never make it,” he said.

“Wait!” Gaveth said. “I’ve got an idea. If we knock down the support beams, maybe we can cause a cave-in. That’ll block off the tunnel and cut the quig off.”

“Genius!” Alder said.

“There!” Gaveth pointed into the blackness. “That one looks like it’s about to go already!”

Alder followed as Gaveth ran down the tunnel.

“Pull!” Gaveth grabbed the beam and heaved. Alder got behind him and yanked. The beam snapped like a toothpick. The two boys leaped backward, but nothing really happened. A thin trickle of dirt fell from the ceiling. But that was it.

Gaveth turned and looked back toward the air shaft. One of the quig’s claws crept up over the lip of the shaft.

“Another one,” Alder said. He slammed his shoulder into another support beam. This one wasn’t as rotted as the other one though. “Help me.”

Gaveth too leaned into the beam. With a loud groan, it finally gave way.

Again, the results were disappointing. A few pebbles fell from the ceiling. But nothing else.

Gaveth turned toward the air shaft again. The quig’s snout had cleared the top of the shaft, and one muscular leg was hauling the big bear’s body upward.

“We’ve got to run!” Gaveth said.

“No,” Alder said. “Knocking down another support’s our only chance.”

“Come on!” Gaveth said. “Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s this or nothing!” Alder said, putting his shoulder against the next support beam. “Trust me.”

“Trust a Bedoowan?” Gaveth said. “I don’t know.”

For a second Alder thought he was joking. But he could see that the Milago boy was serious.

“Now!” Alder shouted.

“You don’t have to yell,” Gaveth said. He put his arms against the beam, braced himself, and heaved.

The beam slipped a little. But then it jammed on something and wouldn’t move.

The quig was now clearing the rim of the shaft. In only seconds it would be on them.

“Never mind!” Alder shouted. “Run!”

They turned and ran with all their strength.

But they didn’t get far. Alder’s stomach sank as he saw what was in front of them. A blank wall.

“No!” Gaveth shouted. “No!” He pounded his fist against the rock.

Behind them there was a scraping noise and a thud. The two boys turned to look. The quig was in the tunnel now. Its flanks were heaving with the effort, and blood dripped in a steady stream from its nose, compliments of Alder’s sword wound.

The quig was in no hurry now. Its yellow eyes were fixed on Alder, and the spikes on its back scraped the ceiling.

Scrape! Scrape! Scrape!

The only other thing Alder could hear was the sound of his heart.

The quig was even with the beam that Alder and Gaveth had been attempting to tear down.

Scrape!

One of its spikes lodged in a ceiling beam. The angered quig lunged forward to free itself. The support that Alder and Gaveth had been pulling on let out a sharp crack. The quig looked back in alarm.

The next thing Alder knew, there was an awful booming noise, like the ground itself was tearing in half. Then the ceiling came down with a noise that was louder and more terrible than thunder.

And just like that…the quig was gone! Nothing was left but a massive pile of black rock, and a choking cloud of dust.

Alder stared at Gaveth. Gaveth’s eyes looked at Alder, big and round as gold coins. For a long moment, there was only silence.

“Whooooooo!” Gaveth shouted.

“We did it!” Alder rejoiced. “We killed it!”

They hugged each other and jumped up and down.

And then finally they stopped. Alder looked around. Suddenly his heart sank. Around them was nothing but rock.

“Uh…one question though,” he said. They appeared to be trapped in solid rock. “Since you’re a Milago expert in mining, tell me: How do we get out of here?”

Gaveth looked around. “I have no idea.”

TEN

As the cloud of dust began to settle, Alder looked around. To his horror, he realized they were trapped. The rubble that had killed the quig had also trapped them in a chamber not much bigger than his bedroom back in the castle.

Gaveth met his eyes. “Uh-oh,” Gaveth said.

“How long before the air runs out?” Alder said.

Gaveth shook his head. “Don’t know. We’ll have to dig our way out.”

Alder looked at the pile of rubble. It rose clear to the ceiling. Some of the rocks in the pile were as big as Alder. Could they even move them? “What if it caves in more?”

Gaveth raised one eyebrow at Alder. “Then we’ll die even faster.”

“Sorry.”

There was a long silence. It was the most silent silence Alder had ever experienced. As they stood there, afraid even to move, Gaveth’s headlamp began to flicker.

“Oh, no,” Gaveth said.

Alder could feel his legs and arms shaking. Every sense was heightened. A tiny pebble shifted and slid down the rubble pile. Shadows flickered and danced on the ceiling in the dying light of the lamp.

“So this is it, huh?” Gaveth said.

Alder felt a soft, cool jet of air against his face. It was strangely comforting, like feeling a gentle breeze on a beautiful spring day.

Suddenly something hit him. “You feel that breeze?” he said.

Gaveth shrugged morosely. But then his eyes widened. He smiled. “Wait…”

“It has to be coming from somewhere. Right? There must be a passage somewhere above us that the air’s flowing from. Maybe instead of trying to dig sideways, we can go up.”

Gaveth moved gingerly to his left. “The air’s coming from this little crack right here,” he said, pointing at a small dark hole between two boulders.

“Go,” Alder said.

“Give me a boost.”

The Milago boy took a deep breath, then eased himself upward and into the crack. Soon his torso had disappeared. Only his feet were hanging out. With the lamp up in the crack now, there was so little light that Alder could barely make them out.

The rock above them groaned. Dust sifted out into Alder’s hair. This place could come down any second, he thought. Gaveth’s feet disappeared.

Alder’s heart began racing. The walls seemed to be pressing in again. He was completely encased in darkness. Utter, complete, total darkness.

He could hear Gaveth inching through the rock.

“I can see a tunnel!” Gaveth called.

“Can you make it?”

“I think so. Follow me!”

Alder climbed up into the tiny fissure in the rock. Gaveth had fit more easily. He had light, so he could see where he was going. And he was way smaller than Alder.

Sharp rocks poked into Alder’s flesh as he inched forward. The space grew narrower. He rolled slightly and began crawling on his side. Inch by inch by painful inch he snaked forward. For a moment he was stuck. A panicky sensation ran through him. He squirmed wildly.

Suddenly the crack between the rocks widened slightly. Not much. But enough that he could use his hands again. He saw a light above him. A faint, flickering light. Gaveth was looking down at him!

“You’re almost there, Alder!” Gaveth said. “Just a little more.”

And then, finally, Alder was out. He lay gasping on the floor of a small tunnel. It was so low he’d have to crouch to get through it. But after the crevice he’d crawled through, it felt like the Great Hall of King Karel’s castle. Relief flooded through him.

When he’d finally caught his breath, he said, “Don’t suppose you have any idea where we are, Gaveth?”

“No,” Gaveth said, looking around. His headlamp was flickering badly now. The narrow tunnel angled downward. Its walls seeped moisture, and the floor was slick.

“Hey,” Alder said. “There’s a light down here, Gaveth!” He began walking tentatively down the steep slope.

And with that, Alder’s feet went out from under him, and he began to slide down the slope into the blackness. Without any light to illuminate handholds or timbers in the walls, he had no way of stopping himself. His arms and legs banged into the sharp rock walls, and for a moment he was sure he was going to be killed.

But then, with a hard thump, he came to rest on his back, staring straight up in the air. There was just enough illumination coming from an adjoining chamber to see a little. Alder looked up and blinked.

There, above his head, was a star carved into the wall. “We made it!” he shouted.

Suddenly a powerful light spilled from the adjoining chamber. The light was so bright and harsh that Alder could barely see. A man, his face and body visible only as a black silhouette in the darkness, leaped through the door. In his two hands, raised toward the ceiling, was a huge sword.

“Yahhhhhh!” the man screamed. Then he swung the sword at Alder’s face.

ELEVEN

Caught off guard by the attacker, Alder was sure his skull was about to be split in half.

But just before the blade reached him, it stopped. There was a very brief pause, then the man with the sword stepped back into the light.

“Sorry about that,” the man said. Now that he was completely visible, Alder saw that he was a tall, pleasant-looking man with a broad grin on his face. “When I heard all that thumping and bumping, I thought for sure you were a quig!” The man laughed as he sheathed his sword.

Alder sat up gingerly. After his undignified tumble down the steep tunnel, he felt like one giant bruise.

The smiling man reached out his hand. “My name’s Press,” he said. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re Wencil’s student, Alder.”

Alder took the man’s hand. Press effortlessly hoisted Alder to his feet. The man was dressed like a Bedoowan knight. But he wasn’t anybody that Alder had ever seen at the castle.

Press looked up the incline into the tunnel. “Ah, that’s young Gaveth, isn’t it?”

“Do I know you?” Gaveth said.

“I knew your father,” Press said. “Before he was killed in the mine.”

Alder looked at Gaveth. “You? Your father…So, when you were talking about kids starving because—”

Gaveth looked away. “I’m old enough to work in the mine. We get by.”

“Gaveth,” Press said, “would you excuse us? I need to have a conversation with Alder.”

Gaveth nodded. Alder followed the dark-haired man back into the chamber. It was illuminated by a brightly burning light of the sort used in the castle.

“Sit,” Press said, indicating a hump of rock in the corner of the room.

Alder sat where the man pointed.

“I have a lot of things to tell you,” he said. “But first, I’ve got something to give you.” He extended his hand. In his palm lay a small silver ring with a stone in the center, its outer edge inscribed with tiny symbols written in a language that Alder didn’t recognize.

He reached out and took the ring.

“What’s this all about?” he said, trying on the ring. It fit perfectly on the fourth finger of his right hand.

“Like me,” Press said, “you are a Traveler. Let me explain what that means….”

TWELVE

It was late and dark when Alder passed through the walls and into the town that formed the outer ring of the castle. He stopped at Wencil’s house. The house was dark, and no one answered when he knocked.

He continued on to the castle to go back to his dank little room. As he passed through the inner gate, one of the guards said, “Come with me, Alder. The king commands your presence.”

Alder’s eyes widened. For a moment he wasn’t sure what the guard was talking about. The king? The king? King Karel? “You mean—”

But the guard turned away before Alder could finish his not-very-bright-sounding question. Alder flushed, feeling stupid now as he followed the guard.

They went through the entrance to the king’s own household. Everywhere he looked, objects made from pure glaze gleamed in the subdued light. He had never been here before. The magnificence of the place was astounding.

Because it was late, the rooms were deserted. The only sound was that of their footsteps.

Eventually the guard reached a heavy wooden door. He knocked, then threw the door open and said, “My lord, he is here.”

Alder hesitated.

“Go!” the guard said harshly. “The king is waiting.”

Alder entered. At the far end of the room he saw two figures standing next to a bed. One of them turned—an old man with a long white beard. It was King Karel.

Alder bowed low. “Your Highness,” he said nervously.

“Come,” the king said. He had bright blue eyes and a kind face.

Alder approached, recognizing the second man. It was Mallos, the king’s chancellor. His face was cloaked in darkness, only one eye visible. It was a very pale blue.

“Your master is extremely sick,” King Karel said.

It was only then that Alder saw Wencil lying on the bed. His face was drawn and haggard, and his eyes were closed. “Wencil!” Alder cried. “What happened?”

“Let him rest,” Mallos said softly.

King Karel put his hand on Alder’s shoulder. “Wencil was my instructor, you know. He was barely older than I. But he was the best swordsman alive.” The king smiled sadly. “He was a great friend to me.”

Mallos turned to Alder and said, “The king’s doctor has been with him. He says that Wencil will not make it through the night.”

“What!”

Mallos nodded. “Apparently, he had been sick for a very long time.”

“But…he never told me….” Alder felt a crushing weight on his shoulders. For the past six months—for the first time in his life—he had felt a sense of belonging, a sense of attachment. It was the feeling that everyone with a family must have, but that he had never really known.

And now…it was all being snatched away? It couldn’t be! It just couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” the king said. “I wanted to give my personal condolences to you. Wencil was a very picky instructor. He only chose to teach those of extraordinary promise. If he chose to teach you…” He spread his hands, as though nothing more needed to be said.

Extraordinary promise? From the way Wencil drove him, it seemed that he could never do enough, that he never had enough skill or bravery or talent. Surely there must be some mistake.

King Karel looked at his chancellor for a moment. “What do you think, Mallos? Is it time?”

Time for what? Alder wondered.

“While he still lives,” Mallos said.

The king nodded thoughtfully. Then he turned to Alder. “Kneel, boy.”

Alder felt confused. What was going on? But you didn’t ask questions when the king told you to do something. He knelt.

The king drew his sword, a beautifully jeweled blade.

“Alder, pupil of Wencil, I bind you to the realm,” he intoned. His voice was soft and scratchy. “With this, I call you…knight!”

Alder couldn’t believe it. Right here? Right now? A wave of relief and gratitude flooded through him. He had heard the words spoken as so many other boys became knights. And to think that the king was speaking them now…right here! In his own chambers!

With that, the king rapped Alder on each shoulder with the sword. Alder was surprised at how hard the king hit him. Each blow stung.

“Stand, knight,” the king said.

Wencil stirred in the bed. Had he heard the ceremony? Had he felt a moment of pride that his last student had become a knight?

Alder felt tears running down his face. His mind was a whirl of emotion. His legs felt weak.

King Karel squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, young knight. I would stay, but I am not so well myself.” He smiled sadly and walked from the room. His gait was slow, and Alder saw that one of his hands shook uncontrollably.

Then the king was gone.

“An era is passing,” Mallos said. “The time of great heros is slipping away, I’m afraid. King Karel and Wencil are the last of their breed.”

Alder looked at the chancellor. He was an extremely tall man, thin lipped, without an ounce of extra fat. Unlike most Bedoowans, he looked like a true warrior.

For a while the chancellor was silent. Wencil drew in a long, deep breath. It sounded as if he were having to fight just to bring in air.

“Can’t we do something?” Alder said. “Can’t the doctors—”

“He’s past that,” Mallos said.

Wencil drew another long, ragged breath.

“Stay with him, Sir Alder,” Mallos said. “He cared for you a great deal. As he slips away, let him know that you have understood what he has given you.”

Mallos left without another word, leaving Alder in the darkness.

THIRTEEN

After Wencil’s funeral, Alder felt aimless. He had nothing to do, other than meaningless guard duty at the castle gate. He had no friends. He had no one to train with. He was a knight now. But nobody cared.

As always, he remained cheerful, trying to be obliging, trying to be friendly. But it seemed to have no effect on anyone. He remained an outsider.

And the conversation he’d had with Press? It seemed distant and silly. All this talk about destiny and Halla and this big conflict between good and evil? Since that conversation, nothing had happened. He guarded gates through which no one entered the castle. He marched around the parade ground. So he was a Traveler. What did that even mean? The whole thing began to fade, almost seeming like some kind of dream. Or worse, like a cruel joke.

He felt as if he had been handed a brief moment of happiness. And now it was all being snatched away.

Then one day he returned to his room, and to his surprise, a man was sitting on his bed.

It was Mallos, black clad as always.

Alder stared at him.

“I apologize for invading your room,” the chancellor said.

“No problem, my lord.” Alder bowed. “Is there—did I do something wrong?”

Mallos’s thin lips smiled briefly. Then the smile faded. The cold blue eyes studied him for a moment.

“I too know what it means to be alone,” said Mallos. “To be without purpose and direction. To be without the bonds of friends and family.”

“Sir?”

Mallos nodded. “Wencil was right, you know. You are a boy of extraordinary promise. I’ve had my eye on you.”

Alder found this a little shocking. Other than the night Wencil died, he had never even spoken to the chancellor. “Really?”

Chancellor Mallos leaned toward Alder as if he were sharing a secret with him. “The knights here are mostly a useless bunch. But there are a few good ones. All the members of the king’s guard are good men.”

Alder couldn’t figure out where this was going. Why was the king’s chancellor sitting around talking about this in the room of a young man who’d been knighted not more than three weeks ago?

“How would you like to join them?” Mallos said. “You’d be under my personal command.”

Alder stared.

Mallos smiled. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’” He stood briskly and walked to the door. “Report to the guardroom at first light.”

“Thank you, my lord!” Alder stammered.

The chancellor paused. “Remember, Sir Alder”—he touched the side of his nose with one long finger—“whatever you do, wherever you go, my eyes are on you.”

And then the chancellor was gone. Alder paced around the room, a mixture of excitement and nervousness running through him like an electric charge. This was so unexpected that he didn’t know what to make of it. The king’s guard? They were the elite of the elite!

His head was in a whirl. Everything had changed so much lately. The king’s guard, the death of Wencil, this whole Traveler business…and now the sudden attention of Mallos. It was hard to make sense of it all.

Alder had always heard bad things about Mallos. Cruel, mean, deceitful—all that sort of thing. And yet here he was, being really nice to Alder. Maybe Mallos wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he was just misunderstood. Maybe—Well, he’d find out eventually, wouldn’t he?