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Chapter 4

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“That’s Vatania?” Oskar scarcely managed to choke out the words. He’d been to Karkwall and thought himself prepared for a big city, but this was something else entirely. Far below them, where the Blue River twisted its way south and east, the outskirts of the city blanketed the world in a jumble of wood, stone and smoke. Dirt roads clogged with traffic, mounted and afoot, meandered toward the city walls, just visible in the distance. And beyond them, lay the inner city and, Oskar knew, the sea.

“That is part of it,” Aspin said, guiding his horse down the winding road.

Oskar hesitated for a moment, still mesmerized by the vast sea of human habitation that lay before him, and then hurried to catch up, his horse bouncing him roughly in the saddle.

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘there.’ We’ll reach the outskirts of Vatania in less than an hour. After that, another hour to the city walls, and the Gates.”

Oskar shivered at the mention of the fabled headquarters of the saikurs, so named for the iron gates at its entrance. He forced his mind back to what Aspin had said. Another hour after entering the city proper?

“The city is that big? I thought once we were inside the city it wouldn’t be so far.” Oskar tried, but could not paint the picture in his mind’s eye. It was too vast.

“The distance is not so great. What will slow us down are all the people we will have to navigate around. The closer you draw to the Gates, the slower the going.” Aspin sounded as if he would rather be anywhere but here. His temper had grown noticeably shorter since they had crossed the border.

From central Lothan, they’d traveled northeast through Diyonus and then here to Vatania, a coastal city in southern Cardith. He’d been thrilled at the prospect of seeing the great cities of Diyonus, with their fabled rooftop gardens, but their travels had taken them through rural areas, and the few stops they made had been in villages not much larger than his home of Galsbur, where he’d grown up. Still, he’d enjoyed the trek through a country about which he’d read and heard tales.

Along the way, Aspin had intensified Oskar’s training, instructing him in a variety of subjects as they rode, until Oskar felt as though his head would explode if he learned one more fact. The evenings were devoted to practicing with the quarterstaff, at which Oskar was competent, and sword forms, at which he was hopeless.

Each night, just before they drifted off to sleep, Aspin warned him of all the things he should not reveal to anyone within the Gates: Shanis, Larris and Lerryn, The Silver Serpent, the Keeper of the Mists, the re-unification of the clans, the lost city of Murantha, the Thandrylls, the warning signs of a new Frostmarch. Essentially, anything interesting that had happened to him during his travels was taboo. Now, as they drew ever closer to Vatania, Oskar wondered if he was in any way prepared for what he would face beyond the gates of iron.

Oskar sighted the iron gates that barred entry to the saikurs’ headquarters long before he and Aspin reached them. Set between two high, crenelated walls of gray stone, they stood higher than the tallest building in Galsbur. Admittedly, that was less than forty spans, but still, the gates were impressive. Drawing closer, he saw the runes carved upon their surface. Common wisdom held that they were defensive spells that rendered the gates indestructible, and they cast curses upon any who attacked the walls, but Aspin had confided in him that the symbols merely made the iron impervious to rust. Of course, there had been a twinkle in his eye when he said it—one of the few traces of humor in the otherwise stolid man.

The gates stood open, a squad of guards barring the way. One guard stepped forward as Oskar and Aspin reined in. He stood ramrod straight, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere in the distance.

“Who seeks to pass beyond the Gates of Iron?”

“Aspin, a saikur.”

Silence. Finally, Aspin cleared his throat and looked pointedly at Oskar.

Flustered, Oskar managed to stammer out the words Aspin had taught him. “Oskar, one who humbly seeks admission to the Gates.”

Wordlessly, the guard stepped aside, and they rode in.

“You’ll have to do better than that.” Aspin’s placid expression remained unchanged, but the disapproval in his voice was impossible to miss.

“I will.” Privately, Oskar wondered if could really do this. Suddenly, the very idea of a farm boy from Galsbur studying to be a saikur, or seeker as they were commonly known, seemed the greatest of follies.

They rode through a forested area which made the Gates seem as if it were set apart from the surrounding city. The woods soon gave way to a broad, manicured green space, and beyond it, the foreboding towers of the Gates.

Aspin led the way to the stables, where they dismounted and turned their horses over to the stable hands. Oskar patted his mount, a chestnut stallion named Oaken, and whispered a word of thanks for bringing him safely to Vatania. It was something his father had taught him to do. The stable boy heard him and nodded his approval. Oskar slung his saddlebags over his shoulder, hefted his quarterstaff, and followed Aspin.

By the time they reached the front steps, Oskar felt like he’d swallowed a bullfrog. His stomach heaved and cold sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Every step he took seemed an insurmountable task, but he soldiered on until they stood at the front doors. Here, they were once again met by guards, one of whom asked their names. This time, the question was no mere formality. He passed word to a messenger who hurried away, returning minutes later with a brown-robed man with a wan face and receding hairline.

“Aspin.” The man’s nod was polite if perfunctory. “The prelate will receive you in his study immediately.”

“Thank you, Nolan.” Aspin turned to Oskar. “Good luck, young man. Work hard and learn all you can.” With that, he turned on his heel and disappeared into the huge, gray granite castle.

Nolan crooked one finger, indicating Oskar should follow him. The high-ceilinged entry hall was built of the same granite as the exterior and lit by torches that glinted off the flecks of mica embedded in the rock. There was no time to take in any more detail than that because they soon left the main passage into a smaller hallway. Three turns later and Oskar was thoroughly lost.

They finally came to a halt in front of a closed door. A graying man with broad shoulders and a wide brow answered on the third knock.

“A new member of the novitiate to see you, Inceptor.” Nolan bowed.

“Thank you. You are dismissed.” The man turned to Oskar. “Come inside.” He gestured to a wooden bench in front of a cluttered writing table. Oskar took a seat and the man settled into a chair.

“I am Inceptor Darhon. I will be responsible for you during your time in the novitiate.” He moved aside a stack of papers, uncovering a leather-bound book. The binding was cracked and the pages brittle, and he opened it with care to a place he had marked. “Your name and your home, please.”

“Oskar Clehn, from Galsbur in Galdora.”

Darhon picked up a ragged quill, entered the information, and then blotted the entry with sand. When he finished, he set the book aside and fixed his gaze on Oskar.

“Why do you want to enter the Gates?”

“I want to learn.” Aspin had told him to keep his answers simple, and that was the simple truth. He’d always loved learning.

“What do you wish to learn?” Darhon’s voice betrayed no emotion.

“History, logic, magic, sorcery. Everything, I suppose.”

“Why do you seek this knowledge?”

That wasn’t so easy to answer. How did you explain the thing that, more than anything else, made you who you are?

“I’ve always sought knowledge for its own sake. I read every book I could get my hands on and listened to every story the elders told.” He shrugged.

Dahron began shuffling papers, but the questions continued.

“What will you do with the knowledge you glean from this place?”

Oskar shook his head. “Something good. I don’t know, I suppose I’ll learn that too.” He felt he was failing the interview. Dahron would probably send him on his way in short order. He was, after all, just a farm boy.

“Do you wish to be a saikur?” Dahron still looked down at his papers, but his tone was sharp.

“I suppose I do.” Oskar kicked himself. Why hadn’t he considered his answer? Aspin had warned him to take care of what he said.

Dahron looked up and smiled.

“If you aren’t certain now, you shall soon find out.” He laid his papers down, laced his fingers together, and locked eyes with Oskar. “You will begin as a novit, with no status. I may dismiss you at any time for any reason: violating rules, failure to attend classes or see to your duties, showing a lack of promise. Any reason at all.” He fell silent and waited for Oskar to nod that he understood before continuing.

“Leave your personal effects here. They will be returned to you.”

Oskar winced. He owned nothing of significant value, nor was he attached to many of his few possessions, but there was his book. In his youth, he’d copied sections from Lord Hiram’s books, and when he left Galsbur, he recorded their travels, copied passages from books in the great library at Karkwall, mapped their journey, and even made rubbings of glyphs in the lost city of Murantha. It now comprised a thick bundle of papers wrapped in coarse leather and bound with twine. He hated the thought of giving it up, even briefly, but what choice did he have?” 

“Do you have any questions?” Darhon asked.

“Could I get a list of the rules?”

“Learning the rules is part of your novit training. I suggest you do so with all due haste. Now, follow me.”

An hour later, Oskar found himself bathed, de-loused, and garbed in an itchy tunic and hose. He was issued two spare sets of clothing, a coarse blanket, a surprisingly comfortable pair of boots, and a plain, brown cloak, the twin of the one the Thandrylls had given him so long ago. Aspin had kept it, thinking it a bad idea for Oskar to show up at the Gates already dressed like a saikur. Heart pounding, he stood outside the door to his dormitory. The page who had led him here smirked at his hesitation and pointed at the doorknob. Heart in his throat, Oskar opened the door and stepped inside.

The conversation in the room ceased. Three young men sat on bunk beds to his left and right. Directly opposite the door, a window looked out over the forest and onto the city. Oskar would have been eager to take a look were he not so nervous. He forced a grin.

“I’m Oskar.”

“It’s about time we got some fresh meat in here. I’m tired of being the new kid.” A young man with light brown skin and glossy black hair stood and offered his hand. “I’m Naseeb, and these piles of horse dung are Whitt and Dacio.” Whitt, a bulky blond, and Dacio, an angular youth with a crooked nose and dirt brown hair, added their greetings. “Toss your things on the empty bunk above mine. It’s almost third bell.”

“What does that mean?” Oskar hated feeling ignorant, but his only hope of learning his way was to ask as many questions as possible and hope no one steered him in the wrong direction.

“It means food.” Whitt slid down off his top bunk and landed on his booted feet with a thud. “It’s not tasty, but there’s always plenty, and you look like you could use a little feeding up.”

Oskar blinked. All his life, he’d been on the heavy side, but long months of travel, mostly through wilderness, living on trail rations, and practicing with his staff, had wrought a change in him to which he was not yet accustomed. He was tall and broad of shoulder, but he’d lost his girth, and his cheeks were no longer plump.

“Food will be welcome.” He tossed his bundle onto the bunk— his bunk.

“Don’t forget your cloak,” Naseeb said. “Never leave quarters without it.”

“Thanks. I asked the inceptor about the rules, but he said I had to learn them on my own.”

His three roommates laughed.

“Darhon does that to everyone. Just pay close attention to what we say, and never forget a word, and you’ll be fine.” Naseeb’s dark eyes twinkled. “Now, let’s go before I shrivel up and blow away.”

The smells of cooking reached Oskar long before they entered the dining hall: the aroma of freshly baked bread and something spicy. His stomach rumbled and his new companions laughed.

“Your stomach might not thank you for what you’re about to feed it.” Naseeb led the way into the dimly lit room. Tall, narrow windows cast slivers of orange sunlight across the rows of trestle tables where men of varying ages, all clad in brown robes, sat conversing around bites of bread and mouthfuls of a thick, brown stew.

As they joined the line of men waiting to be served, Whitt began to speak in a low tone. “All the men working the serving line are novits or low-level initiates. When they serve you, nod once and say, “Thank you.” Don’t say anything else, but don’t forget to thank them.”

“How about the fellow with all the ear hair?” A tall man with a pronounced widow’s peak and thick sideburns paced like a caged animal behind the serving line.

“That’s Master Moylan. Don’t let him hear you talking about his ear hair. He’s supposed to have tried every remedy to get rid of it, but every time it only grows back thicker.” Whitt’s expression turned grave. “If he speaks to you, address him as Master and don’t look at him with a speck of defiance. He’ll have you scrubbing pots with your hair if he thinks you’re not showing the proper respect.”

Oskar felt his spine stiffen as Whitt continued to explain proper conduct and forms of address for the masters, the proctors, the guardsman and his lieutenants, even the prelate. Oskar had always been one to put his boot in his mouth on occasion, so a misstep was inevitable. He just needed to keep them to a minimum and hope none were too egregious.

They found seats at the far table. Oskar dug into his bowl of stew. The meat was stringy and the vegetables undercooked, but after weeks on horseback, with only a few stops for proper meals, it tasted delicious. When he finally sopped the last morsel from his bowl with a crust of bread, he looked up to see the others staring at him.

“You might want to slow down next time. There are no second helpings.” Naseeb gestured with his spoon. “And you wouldn’t want Master Moylan thinking you a glutton.”

“Does he really pay attention to how fast a person eats?”

“He pays attention to everything. Here, you can have the rest of mine.” Dacio slid his bowl, still half full, over to Oskar.

“Thanks.” Oskar decided conversation might help him eat slower. “So, what lessons do we take?” His new friend explained that there were seven courses of study: History, Logic, Wisdom, Alchemy, Combat, Magic, and Sorcery. There were no courses on Seventhday, and while Sixthday mornings were devoted to either Combat or Sorcery, the remainder of the day was theirs.

“You’ll need that day,” Dacio said, “for study.”

“What’s the best course?”

“Combat,” Whitt said, as Dacio and Naseeb answered “Logic” and “Magic” respectively.

“Can we at least agree History is the worst?” Whitt looked at his friends, who nodded.

“I love history.” Oskar thought of the hours spent hidden away, reading Lord Hiram’s books. “At least, I love books of history.”

“It’s not the subject; it’s the teacher. Master Sibson once bored a student to death. I mean he literally died of boredom in the middle of a lecture.”

Oskar looked for signs of jest in Whitt’s eyes but saw none.

“He didn’t die from boredom.” Naseeb was doing tricks with his spoon- rolling it between his fingers and flipping it around his thumb and back again. “He died because his heart stopped beating.”

“Because the lecture bored it to death.”

“You’re both wrong,” Dacio said. “He tried mixing his own dream elixir, but he made it too strong and it stopped his heart.”

“And why did he take the elixir? Because he couldn’t stand Master Sibson’s lectures.” Whitt folded his arms across his chest and rocked back in his seat, waiting for Dacio’s rejoinder.

Dacio rubbed his long nose thoughtfully. “Fine, but the boredom didn’t literally kill him.”

Oskar had to laugh. He already felt at home. Before he could ask about the rest of the teachers, someone called his name.

“Oskar Clehn?”

He turned to see a brown-robed man standing behind him.

“Yes?”

“Proctor Basilius wishes to see you. Follow me.”

Puzzled, he collected his spoon and bowl and rose from his seat, but froze when he saw the frightened looks on his friends’ faces.

“What does Basilius want with you?” Naseeb whispered. “He’s...”

Whatever Basilius was, Oskar didn’t find out because the man called his name again.

“We’ll take your bowl,” Dacio said. “You’d better go.”

Oskar turned and followed his guide, wondering what, exactly, a proctor could want with him.