4

THE TEST THAT WASN’T AND THE ONE THAT WAS

Thanks to Colm’s eight sisters, most of the too-thin Candorly library was filled with fanciful tales of royal romances or tomes of flowery poetry, a few histories and several almanacs, a book of recipes, and the children’s rhymes they had all learned to read by. But Colm did have one book, given to him on his tenth birthday, that told of several hair-raising adventures undertaken by half a dozen heroes. They were bard’s tales, embellished beyond the point of believability, his father said, but Colm devoured them anyway. The stories were full of monsters and caverns and mazes punctuated with chests of gold, just the same as Finn had described. Except Colm had only read about them. Finn had survived them.

Or so he said.

“So if there are so many dungeons, and so much treasure to be had from them,” Colm asked, “how come there aren’t more people like you?”

“It’s not a profession for just anyone,” Finn said, picking his way through the clinging brambles that multiplied with every step, the farther they strayed from the road; Colm’s arms were already etched with tiny scratches. “Long hours. Cramped working conditions. Involuntary dismemberment.” Finn picked a burr from his sleeve. “Bludgeoning, burning, magical transfiguration, the terror as you wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in your own cold sweat, memories of that giant spider scuttling across your paralyzed body, fangs hovering over your chest dripping with heart-stopping poison. It can start to wear on a man.”

Colm’s pace slowed. It was three steps before Finn even noticed.

“Don’t worry,” Finn said with a flash of teeth. “I’m making it sound worse than it is. Mostly it’s just trudging through dark, empty tunnels, hoping to uncover a gem or two. Most of the time it’s not that thrilling at all.”

Colm nodded.

“Besides, in order to become a dungeoneer, you have to train. And in order to train, you have to be admitted to the program. And in order to be admitted into the program, you still have to pass your test. After all, if you can’t get one measly little coin from me, there isn’t much chance of you becoming a dungeoneer. Not to mention I’ll have to come to Tye empty-handed when I promised him I’d find a worthy recruit.”

“A worthy recruit?” Colm asked, feeling a slight flush of pride.

“Certainly,” Finn said. “It was pure luck coming across you as I did. The girl I went looking for had already lost her hands before I could get to her. It’s hard to find good rogue material these days.” Finn looked up at the sun, then pointed to a patch of trees, one of them exploding with pears. “Looks like lunch,” he said.

He led Colm to the spot of shade, then spread out his cloak as a makeshift blanket and propped himself against the tree trunk. Colm noticed the cloak had several little pockets sewn into the inside—he and the rogue shared a love of secret compartments, it seemed. They ate mostly in silence, splitting the cheese Colm’s mother had packed and eating two pears apiece—though Colm had to be careful of the thorny branches when picking them, pricking his finger once.

“The guild has its own cook, of course, though he mostly just knows how to make stew,” Finn remarked, licking the pear juice from his fingers with a deliberate smacking sound. Colm thought about the bowl of stew that Celia had secretly slipped him. He missed her already.

Colm finished his second pear, core and all, spitting the seeds into the grass, then studied his companion. “Who’s Trendle Treeband?”

Finn smiled. “A charming scoundrel, dark and handsome. Uncannily lucky at cards and dice. A clever fellow. I think you’d like him. But I was only Trendle for a spell. I’ve been Finn for all my life.”

“Is that how you got that scar? As Trendle Treeband?” Colm pointed to the thick braid along Finn’s cheek. Finn stroked it self-consciously.

“Alas, no. That’s a different story altogether. And one that I promise to share, but not right now. Now, I think, we need some quiet time. The ground is comfier than it looks, and I don’t sleep well at night. It’s hard with one eye open.”

“But—” Colm protested, a hundred more questions at the ready, but Finn stopped him with a warning look. Then the rogue dug into the largest pocket of his cloak and pulled out a roll of parchment and a rusty-looking padlock the size of an acorn. The lock was snapped tight.

“Here, these should keep you busy for a while. The first is the guild’s contract. You can read it, but don’t sign anything.”

“And this?” Colm said, holding up the lock.

“That’s practice,” Finn said. “Your father mentioned that you had some small experience with picking locks.”

“But I don’t have anything to open it with,” Colm protested.

“A good rogue makes do with what’s around him. Use your imagination.”

Colm wasn’t sure how his imagination was supposed to help him open this tiny rusted lock, but Finn wasn’t going to offer any helpful suggestions; his eyes were already half shut. “Wake me if you see or hear anything out of the ordinary. Like someone else who thinks I owe them money,” the rogue said.

Colm wanted to protest again, but Finn turned his back to him. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, the man was snoring. Colm put down the lock and picked up the parchment, unfurling it. It was printed on both sides. There were several words Colm didn’t understand, but he managed to get the gist.

Be it henceforth known that (hereafter referred to as THE APPRENTICE) is requesting admittance to Thwodin’s Legion (hereafter referred to as THE GUILD) to be trained in the arts of dungeoneering, including, but not limited to, the study of dungeon navigation, warcraft, warding, archery, swordplay, brawling, breaching, healing, wizardry, monstrology, trap disarmament, and treasure retrieval. THE APPRENTICE enters into this agreement with THE GUILD in accordance with the following stipulations:

1. THE APPRENTICE exhibits promise in his or her chosen field (combat, thievery, mystical arts, etc.) and passes the entrance requirements as outlined by his or her recruiter.

2. THE APPRENTICE recognizes the potentially perilous nature of dungeoneering and accepts the risks inherent therein.

3. THE APPRENTICE agrees that any treasure acquired by THE APPRENTICE through his or her association with THE GUILD or utilizing any property associated with THE GUILD is subject to the following deductions:

Forty percent to THE GUILD to cover operating expenses.

Ten percent to TYE THWODIN, founder of THE GUILD, to use as he sees fit.

The remaining fifty percent to be split among the adventuring party in equal shares according to their rank: apprentice adventurers receiving a half share and masters receiving one full share. In the event that not all party members return, their shares shall be split among remaining adventurers after the aforementioned expenses and deductions.

4. In the event that THE APPRENTICE wishes to terminate his or her association with THE GUILD, THE APPRENTICE may do so at a penalty of one third of the proceeds he or she has acquired through said association, to be used by THE GUILD to find a suitable replacement. In the event that THE APPRENTICE must quit the program due to life-altering injury such as loss of life or limb, THE APPRENTICE is not required to pay said penalty and all acquired assets shall be distributed to THE APPRENTICE and/or his or her next of kin.

5. THE APPRENTICE acknowledges that THE GUILD cannot be held liable for injuries or fatalities incurred by THE APPRENTICE while in training. This includes, but is not limited to, lacerations, fractures, bleeding, beheading, dismemberment, burning, scalding, drowning, electrocution, paralysis, implosion, curses, polymorphing or other transmogrification, zombification, mummification, reanimation following expiration, or any conditions caused by undue stress. Expenses for the treating of injuries, curses, diseases, and the like shall be incurred by THE GUILD at no cost to THE APPRENTICE so long as he or she is a member in good standing.

Signed on this day, , by

Colm put down the parchment. He wasn’t sure what transmogrification meant, though he guessed it wasn’t good, and half of all treasure seemed excessive. He guessed this Tye Thwodin was probably a very rich man by now.

He looked at the blank reserved for his name, then looked behind him in the direction of the road that he could no longer see. He was already farther from home than he had ever been in his life. The woods were quiet, save for the crickets and the sound of Finn snoring; none of his sisters’ incessant chatter. He wondered what Celia was doing right now. He imagined her tucked in his hammock, staring out his too-small window, waiting for him to come home.

Hoping for a distraction, Colm took the lock in his hands and gave the shackle a good tug. It didn’t budge. The thing was probably rusted closed. If he had one of his mother’s sewing needles, he might be able to undo it. Beside him, Finn Argos shifted so that he was on his back again, hands on his chest, both eyes closed.

“Make do with what’s around you,” Colm whispered to himself. He checked his pockets. There wasn’t much chance of picking a lock with a spare pair of socks. He opened his sack. Figs. Apples. Bread. He needed something sharp and thin. He looked at the dot of already drying blood on his finger and then at the branches above him. Not all pear trees had thorns, he knew, but this one had them in abundance. “Worth a shot.” He found the longest, thickest one he could and snapped it off at the base, then set to work, carefully feeling out the recesses of the keyhole, mindful not to break his makeshift lockpick. Not that he didn’t have a thousand more where that came from, but he didn’t want pieces lodged inside; no sense making the task even thornier, he thought with a smile.

Colm jumped as the padlock sprang open. It had taken very little to trigger it. It seemed even easier than the lock on the cellar at home. Or maybe Colm had just gotten lucky. He leaned forward, holding out the open padlock, about to say something, figuring it was a test of some kind Finn had given him, when another rumbling snore escaped the sleeping rogue.

The padlock was only an amusement. The real test was still hidden somewhere in that cloak. The one the rogue was sleeping on top of. Colm got to his knees and cleared his throat, softly, like a kitten’s purr, then louder, like his father’s grunt. Nothing. Not a flutter of lashes. Not a twitch of the nose. Colm put down the lock and whispered Finn’s name. No response. The man was out.

Colm crept as close as he dared and gently reached across Finn’s cloak to where three pockets were sewn in, each plenty big enough to hide a single piece of silver. He felt along the outside of each, then dipped in two fingers just to be sure. The top two were empty, but the bottom held a spool of bright yellow ribbon. Colm had no idea what Finn would need the ribbon for, but the sight of it reminded Colm of his sisters again. Colm peeled up the cloak and carefully checked the outside pocket, but all he found were the rogue’s black leather gloves, the ones that hid the fact that he was two fingers short. There was no silver coin on this side.

Colm stood slowly, careful not to make a sound, and tiptoed around the tree to check the pockets on the other side, holding each breath as long as possible. He found a thimble and a small vial of ink and a carved wooden rune, but no coin.

It wasn’t in the cloak. Too easy. Besides, hadn’t Finn patted the pockets of his pants earlier that day when mentioning Colm’s test? Colm inched closer, crouched on his haunches, one hand against the tree to steady himself. He was close enough to smell the rogue’s pear-tinged breath, to see the intricate pattern that singular scar made along his cheek, jagging this way and that—clearly not a clean cut. Finn’s hands were folded, fingers crossed, and Colm could see the stubs of the two smallest, the right slightly shorter than the left, the tip of it slightly pinker than its missing brother.

Colm studied the rogue’s pants. They weren’t the baggy silk breeches of the wealthy merchants who lined Felhaven square, so easy to dip into. They were sturdy and black, stitched tight and cinched with the rogue’s thick leather belt. More leather was patched at the knees, and the cuffs were buried down into the scuffed black boots. There appeared to be only one pocket on each side, the opening barely large enough for Colm to slip in a hand. He looked for the silhouette of the coin, the marked outline of a circle, but the outside revealed nothing. Colm would just have to take a chance.

He held his breath again, keeping his eyes on Finn’s face, looking for the slightest quiver as he wiggled one hand inside. A lip tremble, the flare of a nostril, his fingers digging, until . . .

Yes! That’s it! Colm bit his lip, pinching the coin between two fingers, pulling it free with one swift motion. He suddenly felt every muscle tense as a hand shot up, securing him around the wrist, causing him to lose his balance and topple backward. Still, he held on to the coin, holding it out between him and Finn for the rogue to see.

“Aha! I got it! See? See?”

Finn smiled. Silver and gold flashing quickly, and then retreating back behind his lips.

“You got something,” he said coolly.

Colm looked at the thing in his hand. It wasn’t his silver at all. It was a piece of wood, carved in a perfect circle, sanded to an almost steely smoothness. Colm shook his head. “What the blazes is this?”

“It’s a decoy. I whittled it myself last night while trying to fall asleep,” Finn said. “Enough to fool a blind man, I suppose. Or a boy who thinks he’s just discovered buried treasure.” He let go of Colm’s wrist with one hand and snatched the circle of wood from between Colm’s fingers with the other, flipping it and catching it, closing his palm around it. When he opened his fingers, it was, of course, gone.

“You tricked me,” Colm said bitterly.

“Said the pickpocket to his prey? ‘I stole your purse and there was nothing in it!’ Really, Colm, you cannot blame the man you pilfer from because he has nothing of value for you to steal.”

“But you do have it. You stole it from me!”

“And who did you steal it from?” Finn asked, sitting upright. “Do you even know? Do you have a name? Do you remember which coin came from which pocket? Did you bother to say ‘Thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry’? And who had it before that person? How many hands has that piece of silver known? Was it used to buy dinner from a hardworking fisherman on the pier? Did it trade hands at the mill for a bag of flour? Or did some pirate pry it from the hands of a dead seaman as his ship sank underneath him? I’m afraid you’ll have to do better than that.”

Finn looked around and saw the open padlock lying in the grass.

“I see you picked the lock, at least.”

“That was easy,” Colm huffed. He could still feel the coin between his thumb and forefinger. He’d been so certain he had succeeded.

“I imagine it was,” Finn said, looking up at the sticky branches of the pear tree that shaded them. “Well, come on, then, and stop pouting. There’s still several hours left in the day.” He bent down and picked up his cloak, clasping it around his neck. He tucked the open lock into one of the outer pockets, then snatched up the parchment, handing it to Colm. “Save this for later.” The rogue winked, then took off, heading in the same direction as before.

Colm rolled the contract and stuffed it into his own pants pocket, his hand brushing up against something smooth and round. He pulled out the little wooden token that, somehow, Finn had slipped in there.

“What’s yours is yours,” Finn said over his shoulder. Then he started humming again. Colm dropped the piece of wood in the grass.

The sun was exhausted, beginning its blushing descent, calling it quits. Finn had given him until the end of the day to get that piece of silver back. Time was running out.

“We are almost there,” Finn said more than once, though Colm couldn’t figure out where there was. They had tromped over hills, between stalks of wild wheat, past muddy creeks and mossy woods. At one point they crossed a decrepit stone bridge, Finn pausing, looking around, studying some imaginary map in his head, then nodding to himself before continuing.

They were walking along the edge of a forest now. Finn had said the name, but Colm didn’t recognize it. He didn’t recognize any of it. It wasn’t within six miles of Felhaven, so it wasn’t part of his world. He knew the names of some of the nearby hills and of the river that ran beside the town, knew the names of most of the neighboring villages—Blackhorn, Boughbridge, Wallford—but they didn’t seem to be close to any of those. In fact, Colm hadn’t seen a living soul since the encounter with the horsemen, unless he counted the mosquitoes that he mashed against his neck. If this castle of Finn’s was nearby, it was very well hidden.

To make it worse, in addition to sore legs and feet, Colm had already failed three more times to get his coin back. Once, when they stopped by the riverbed for a drink, he attempted to reach into Finn’s other pants pocket—but a swift move by the rogue caused Colm to lose his balance and fall into the water, soaking both pairs of socks. The other two attempts were equally sloppy: Colm pretending to stumble, claiming he was tired of walking (which was true) and bumping against Finn’s side, hoping to make a quick grab. The first of those Finn sidestepped easily. The second he not only managed to keep Colm’s hand from his pocket but also, somehow, got back into the bag slung across Colm’s shoulder and stole another apple before Colm even knew he had done it.

It was looking hopeless. Even if he got to this castle of Finn’s, it wouldn’t matter. Even if he wanted to become a dungeoneer—and he wasn’t at all certain—Finn wouldn’t allow it. After all, how can you steal a trove of treasure from under an ogre’s nose when you can’t pinch one coin from a sleeping man’s pocket? Colm would return home, empty-handed, an opportunity squandered, crawling back into his closet of a room to watch Celia restitch the seam of a dress worn a thousand times already.

Finn, for his part, hadn’t given up, continuing to lecture Colm on what to expect when they arrived. “The guild’s like a second family, I suppose,” he said, “except your uncle’s a barbarian and your second cousin summons lightning from the sky.”

Colm had never seen anyone summon a lightning bolt from out of nowhere. Or summon anything, for that matter, unless you counted his mother’s ability to summon them all to the table with the smell of bacon. “They must be very powerful,” he said. “Those second cousins.”

Finn shrugged. “I suppose. Though if you ask me, magic is worth no more than a quick wit and a sharp edge.” He looked down at Colm’s feet. “Or a good pair of boots to run in.”

Colm couldn’t imagine Finn Argos running from anything. Not after seeing what he’d done to those three men on horseback outside the village. But there was a lot about Finn that was a mystery.

“I’ve run from battles. From brawls. From giant boulders and balls of flame. From angry innkeepers and angry ladies and their angry fathers or husbands, or both, in one case. There’s something to be said for running if it means you get to keep your head, especially if your pockets are full. Ah. Here we are.”

The rogue walked up to a giant oak, easily three times the size of the elms that twisted for sunlight beneath its canopy. All manner of writing had been carved into it, strange letters in a language Colm couldn’t read. He ran his finger along the carvings whittled deep into the bark. “What does it mean?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Finn replied, walking past it toward a row of smaller trees. “It’s gibberish. They’re not even real words. The idea,” he added, “is that most people look at that tree and assume it’s hiding something, so they ignore this one.” He stood beside an unassuming elm with a small hollow at its trunk and reached inside, pulling out a small pink shard. He held the crystal out for Colm to see. “Do you know what this is?”

Colm shook his head. Obviously it wasn’t anything too special, or it wouldn’t have been shoved inside the trunk of a tree in the middle of nowhere. “A pretty rock for marking nothing in particular?”

Finn snorted. “One of the things we will need to work on—in addition to your lying—is your assessment of value. This, Colm, is a key. A very special kind of key, in fact,” he explained. “It opens a portal a long way from here, two more days’ walking at least, and through somewhat treacherous territory. They are quite rare, these keys, their powers nearly impossible to harness. Tye Thwodin has spent most of his life collecting them, and I daresay we have more than our fair share. Most of them are used for dungeoneering, but we have a few scattered here and there to make our travels easier.”

Colm stared at the crystal. It certainly didn’t look magical. “How do they work?”

“I have no idea,” the rogue replied. “I told you, the arcane arts aren’t my forte. But I can tell you how you will feel when we use it.” Judging by the look on Finn’s face, Colm wasn’t sure he wanted to know. “It’s not painful . . . exactly. You might feel a stretch, and then your whole body may feel a little—how best to put this? Unraveled. But then, before you know it, pop, you are on the other side, good as new. Or at least good as you were when you started.”

“The other side of what?” Colm asked.

Finn didn’t answer. “Trust me. I’ve done it a fair dozen times myself. There is nothing to worry about.”

Finn held out the crystal and instructed Colm to grab his hand. “Hold on tight, and don’t let go.” They were standing close together now, bodies nearly touching, and Colm realized this might be his last chance. Finn’s other pants pocket, the one he hadn’t checked yet, was only inches away. He had to move fast. But before he could get so much as one finger of his free hand in, he heard Finn whisper something.

Then Colm’s head exploded.

Not literally, of course, but he understood what Finn meant by unraveled. He felt a tingling sensation and was suddenly aware of every particle of himself slowly coming unstitched. Blood and bones and skin and brains and muscle and sinew teased apart so that you could see how they were connected. Disorienting didn’t begin to describe it, this sensation of separation, as if he were a piece of glass hitting a stone floor, shattering into a billion bits. Not painful, no, but uncomfortable, and nauseating, and just strange. Every memory seemed to flash before him at once, his thoughts strung out along a million threads that circled around him.

And then it was over. It had lasted only a moment. Two seconds, at most. And Colm found himself standing in the middle of a forest—much denser than the edge of the woods he had been skirting the moment before—staring at the mouth of a small cave, pitch-black, barely large enough for a man to squeeze into. Finn was standing right beside him, the crystal in his hand.

“We made it,” he said, sounding relieved, which only made Colm more nervous. “See, I told you it wasn’t so bad.”

Colm didn’t reply. His head was spinning. He patted himself down to make sure he was all accounted for, then looked around. The trees were so thick here, you couldn’t see more than a half mile in front of you, their blanket of branches blocking out the sky and what was left of the pink horizon.

“What are you talking about?” Colm protested. “You said we were going to a castle. There’s no castle here.”

“Not that you can see,” Finn replied enigmatically.

Colm looked around. Nothing but trees and the coal-black mouth of the cave, looking like a pocket sewn into the earth.

A pocket. Colm looked at the pockets of Finn’s pants. They had arrived. The day was over. He had failed the test. Now he wasn’t at all sure what was going to happen.

Finn seemed to read his mind. “Oh, that,” he said. “Needn’t worry about that.” He pointed at Colm’s side, at Colm’s own pants pocket. Reluctantly Colm reached inside, past the rolled-up contract, where something cool stuck to his palm. He pulled the silver piece out and stared at it.

Finn held out both hands. “Always knew you had it in you,” he said.

Colm shook his head, bewildered. “But it doesn’t count. I didn’t steal it,” Colm protested, holding the coin out between them. “I mean, I didn’t steal it back. You gave it to me. I didn’t pass the test.”

Finn smiled, though he had that look in his eye. That same look Colm had seen right before the rogue told him to duck. Right before he had drawn his sword and disarmed three men.

“The test?” the rogue said, putting an arm around Colm, holding him there at the edge of the cave. “The coin wasn’t the test. This is the test.”

Colm felt a shove. And the next thing he knew, he was falling.