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I felt the same, and it shamed me.
TWELVE (#ulink_bd49cd52-5b44-5a64-9620-e3f3e71fc6a7)
Letters from Home (#ulink_bd49cd52-5b44-5a64-9620-e3f3e71fc6a7)
Life at the Academy went on. Our routine closed up around us like a healing wound and after a time, the empty bunks in our quarters and our smaller formation when we marched did not seem so foreign. Outwardly, little changed, but inwardly, all my feelings about the Academy and even the cavalla had subtly altered. Nothing seemed certain; no future could be taken for granted, no honour or fellowship assumed. In the space of a day, I had seen three boys have all their dreams dashed. I now had to believe that it could just as easily befall me.
If that culling had been intended to build a fire in my belly, it succeeded. With single-minded concentration, I poured myself into my academics. I pushed homesickness aside. I even buried my outrage at how the Old Nobles’ sons were treated in comparison to us. We soon learned that none of the latter had been sent home in disgrace. On even flimsier excuses, four of the first-years from Skeltzin Hall had been culled. The first-years from Bringham House received demerits to march off, as did a number of the second-years. Our own Corporal Dent had dark circles under his eyes for a month, for he had to rise an hour early each day to discharge his punishment. But that was the worst that befell any of them. In time I came to believe, as Rory heavily observed one evening, ‘We were set up for that culling. We were chumps, friends. Chumps.’
The strange part was that once the culling faded in our minds, I truly began to enjoy my days at the Academy. Life was both busy and demanding, and yet uncomplicated. All elements of my day were predetermined; I rose when told to do so, marched to my classes, did my work, ate what was put before me, and slept when the lights were extinguished. As my father had foretold, my friendships deepened. I still felt a divide between Spink and Trist. I liked them both, Spink for his ethics and earnestness and Trist for his elegance and sophistication. If I could have, I would be friends with both of them, yet neither seemed inclined to allow that to happen.
I think the differences between the two showed most in how they treated Caulder, for the commander’s son became very much a part of our lives. I recall the first time that he showed up in our common room, uninvited and unannounced. It was at the end of our second month in the Academy, and on that Sevday evening, the proctor had left our study room early to take himself off to an evening in town. It was the first time we had been left unsupervised for a full evening, and a welcome respite from the grindstone. Ostensibly, we were applying ourselves to our lessons to be ready when classes resumed on the morrow. Certainly Spink was, with faithful Gord at his elbow as he laboured through page upon page of maths drills, for that remained his most challenging class. I had finished my written work, but had my Varnian grammar book open before me, going over some irregular verb forms. As my father had intended, I was ahead of the column in most of my classes and fully intended to retain that lead.
The other residents of our floor sat at the tables or sprawled before the empty hearth, books and papers scattered on the study tables or on the rug. The quiet buzz of desultory conversation filled the room. All our previous inclination to horseplay had been worn away by the long day of classes and drill that we had endured.
Rory, who seemed to have an endless supply of bawdy tales and ribald jokes, was lounging at the table and in the midst of recounting a long tale about a whore with a glass eye. Caleb was in his corner with his latest penny dreadful, reading aloud to Nate and Oron about an axe murderer who preyed on loose women, when a young and disapproving voice loudly exclaimed, ‘I thought you were all supposed to be studying here tonight. Where is your proctor?’
Rory stopped in the midst of his tale, his mouth agape, and we all turned our attention to the lad who stood in the doorway looking in at us. If it had not been for the tenor of his voice, I might have mistaken his utterance for the disapproval of a senior officer, so confident did he sound of his right to rebuke us. There was a moment of silence in which all of us exchanged glances. If anyone else had been there to witness, they might have thought it comical to see a room full of physically prime young men fall to a hush at a rebuke from a mere boy. But I am sure the thought flashed through everyone’s mind: ‘Is he here on his own, or at his father’s behest?’
Nate found his tongue first. ‘Our proctor isn’t here at the moment. Have you a message for him?’
It was a guarded response, and I knew immediately that Nate was putting himself on the line for our study proctor. Was it possible that he was not supposed to have left us that evening? I admired his courage and loyalty even as I doubted his wisdom.
Caulder advanced into the room like a rat that has discovered the cat is away. ‘Oh, aye, I’ve a message for him. Someone should tell him that he’ll get the dick-scald if he doesn’t stay away from Garter Anne’s girls.’
Rory gave a great ‘hah!’ of laughter at this unexpected pronouncement and the rest of us joined in. Garter Anne’s was a cheap brothel at the edge of town closest to the Academy. We had all been sternly warned away from it and like establishments in the first Sixday service we had attended, and heard tales of Anne’s wild girls from every upper classman on every day since then. Caulder stood grinning, a bit pink on the cheeks, well pleased with the effect he had wrought. Later I would come to know that this was a pattern with the lad. He would first fling about his father’s authority, to see who was impressed, and, if that did not bring him welcome, he’d next sink down to some crude jest to see whose interest that would win. Had I been older, I would have recognized it as a boy’s floundering attempt to win approval and acceptance with any coin he could muster. At the time, caught off-guard, I laughed along with the rest of them, even as I was appalled at Caulder’s words. In my home, at his age, they would have earned me a severe whipping from my father or tutor. Here, having earned his entry into our company, Caulder advanced into the room.
‘Well, I can see you’re all hard at work here!’ he said, his tone conveying exactly the opposite. Eyes bright, he wandered through the room as if he had a right to be there. Most of the cadets watched him curiously. Kort put a blank sheet of paper over the letter he had been composing. Caleb opened a book to conceal his pamphlet. Across from me, Spink’s pencil continued to scratch its way through another set of exercises. As if drawn to him by this very lack of attention, Caulder stopped at Spink’s elbow and rudely peered over his shoulder at his work.
‘Eight times six is forty-eight, not forty-six! Even I know that!’ He stabbed at Spink’s error. Spink’s lifted arm casually blocked him. Without even looking up from his work, Spink asked, ‘And do you know that this is the study room for Carneston House first-years, not a playroom for little boys?’
The mocking smile melted from Caulder’s face. ‘I’m not a little boy!’ he declared angrily. ‘I’m eleven years old and the first son of the commander of this institution. You don’t seem to realize that my father is Colonel Stiet!’
Spink lifted his gaze from the page before him and looked at the boy flatly. ‘My father was Lord Kellon Spinrek Kester. Before that, however, he was Captain Kellon Spinrek Kester. I am his soldier son. As your father was a soldier son, and not a lord, all his sons are soldier sons. That would make us peers and equals, if you were old enough to be a cadet here. And if, as the son of a soldier and not the son of a noble, you were guaranteed entry to the Academy.’
‘I … I am a first son, even if I will be a soldier. And I will go to the Academy: when my father took over this post, he asked that of the Council of Lords and they granted it. My father has promised to buy me a good commission! And you, you are just, just a second son of a second son, an upstart battle lord’s son, jumped up to the status of a noble’s son! That’s all you are!’ Caulder had lost not only all his charm, but also his veneer of maturity. His name-calling unmasked him for the child he was, even as his rash reply revealed what he truly thought of all of us. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he realized what he had done. He looked around at all of us, and seemed torn between attempting to mend fences and defiantly putting us all in our places. He drew breath to speak.
Trist saved him. He had been reading a book, his chair tipped back to lean against the wall by the hearth when the boy came in. Now he tipped it forward so that the front legs landed with a thud on the floor. ‘I’m going out for a chew,’ he announced to no one in particular. Caulder looked at him in puzzlement. At first I thought Trist was announcing it aloud just to irritate Spink further. Trist had recently discovered that although the smoking of tobacco in ‘paper, pipes, water tubes, or containers of any sort’ was expressly forbidden by Academy rules, the chewing of it was ignored. Some said it had been forgotten when the rules were drawn up; others said it was well known that the chewing of tobacco could stave off certain diseases that bred in close quarters, and thus it was tolerated, although spittoons were forbidden in our rooms. For whatever reason, Trist interpreted that whatever was not specifically forbidden was allowed, and openly indulged in the habit. It annoyed Spink, who regarded it as a churlish sidestep of gentlemanly behaviour. He had grown up in an area where tobacco was not commonly used, and seemed to find any use of it disgusting. As predictably as the sun rising, Spink observed, ‘A filthy habit.’
‘Undeniably,’ Trist agreed affably. ‘Most manly pleasures are.’ He won a general laugh for that, and then I perceived his true target as he turned his inclusive grin on Caulder. ‘As befits an indulgence of “battle lord upstarts”. Don’t you think, Caulder Stiet? Or have you never been exposed to tobacco chewing?’ Before the boy could reply, Trist answered himself, ‘No, doubtless you are too well-born to have ever even heard of the simple pleasures a cavallaman may carry in his own pocket. A bit too rough for a gently-reared lad like yourself.’ Casually, Trist took a plug of tobacco from his pocket. He peeled back the bright wrapper and then the waxed paper to reveal the dark brown brick of dried leaf. Even from where I sat, I could smell the harsh tobacco. It was cheap, rough snoose, something a sheep farmer might chew.
Caulder looked from the plug to Trist’s smiling face and back again. I could almost feel the charismatic pull myself. He didn’t want to be seen as ignorant, nor as ‘too genteel’ to enjoy the manly pleasures of a cavallaman. Too genteel was only one step away from being a sissy. I didn’t envy him his dilemma. If I had been a boy burning to distinguish myself in front of a room full of manly young cadets, I’d probably have taken the bait also.
‘Seen it before,’ he said disdainfully.
‘Have you?’ Trist’s reply was lazy, and he let it hang a moment before he asked, ‘Ever tasted it?’
The boy said nothing, but only stared at him.
‘A demonstration,’ Trist offered affably. ‘Like so, lad.’ He made a show of breaking a corner off the plug. ‘Now, it doesn’t go into your mouth on your tongue. Rather, it tucks into the lower lip. Like this.’ Snugged into place, the plug barely showed as a lump in Trist’s lip. He nodded his head sagely. ‘A man’s pleasure. Rory?’
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Rory replied enthusiastically. I had known that he chewed, also that he had been too short of coin to bribe a second-year to buy him snoose in town. He stepped forward to receive the offered plug, broke off a share, and tucked it into his lip. ‘Aw, that’s the stuff!’ he exclaimed when he had it in place.
‘Caulder?’ Trist asked, extending the bar of pressed tobacco.
All eyes were on him. Except for Spink’s, of course. His pencil had not paused in its scratching. His diligence was a rebuke to the rest of us, but even Gord seemed transfixed by Trist’s seduction of the boy. Trist was so golden, so relaxed as he leaned an elbow on the mantel of the fireplace. He was one of those rare men on whom a uniform looks unique. Every one of us in the room was dressed in the same green jacket and trousers and white shirt, but Trist looked as if he had chosen the garb rather than donned it by default. His shoulders were wide, his waist trim, and his gleaming black boots hugged the calves of his long legs. Our severe haircuts made most of us look like shorn sheep, or, as Rory had aptly put it, ‘bald as scalded pigs’. But Trist’s dense blond curls hugged his skull in a golden cap rather than, as my own hair did, standing up in a forest of coarse bristle. If ever a young man exemplified a cavalla cadet, it was Trist. How could any lad who longed to distinguish himself turn away from such an offer of camaraderie?
Caulder couldn’t. A hushed silence held as the boy advanced, saying with bravado, ‘I don’t mind saying that I’ll try it.’
‘There’s a lad!’ Trist exclaimed with approval. He broke off an overly generous chunk of the harsh stuff and handed it to the boy. Caulder tucked the whole wad into his lower lip, and then tried to smile bravely around the bullfrog bulge of it.
‘Well, let’s outside for a stroll about before curfew shuts us in, shall we?’ Trist invited him and Rory. Caulder was already turning pinkish about his eyes as they walked out of the room. Rory and Trist, well experienced in the way of chew, were chatting about the day as their boots clattered down the stairs. For a time, the silence held in the room. Then suddenly Oron, and a couple of other cadets were suddenly inspired to rise and tiptoe down the stairs after the trio, barely managing to contain their mirth as they went.
‘Bet he don’t even make it to the second landing,’ Nate said quietly. Kort lifted one dark eyebrow sceptically, then drifted across the room and moved silently to where he could watch the descent.
Someone chuckled, and then silence filled the room again. We listened to the regular cadence of boots descending the stairs. Then suddenly we heard a desperate rush of footsteps down the stairs. A truly impressive bellow of retching reached our ears, echoed almost instantly by Sergeant Rufet’s roar of outrage, and drowned in the hoots of laughter and cruel applause of Caulder’s audience. Kort reappeared and announced solemnly. ‘Vomited down two flights of stairs. I’ve never seen one plug of tobacco go quite so far.’ We all burst out laughing. Spink lifted his eyes from his books and slowly shook his head at us. ‘Picking on a lad,’ he shamed us solemnly.
‘Oh, and you were so kind to him earlier,’ Gord rebuked him good-naturedly.
A smile crimped one corner of Spink’s mouth. ‘I wasn’t so harsh. I spoke to him just as I would my own little brother. No, actually, a bit gentler. If Devlin had come in here as Caulder did, mincing about and showing off to try to win our attention, I’d have loosened his head a notch on his shoulders. It’s a brother’s duty to teach his younger brother humility.’ He allowed himself a grin. ‘And I learned lots of humility from my eldest brother, so I have a great deal of it to pass along.’
‘Well, from the sounds of it, he’s had more than an ample lesson from Trist. Imagine a lad of his age not knowing better than to swallow snoose.’
Rory re-entered the room. ‘Sergeant Rufet told him to clean up after himself. Caulder refused and ran out of the hall crying. Rufet’s not so hard a stone. He sent Trist after him to see to him. He gave mops and buckets to the others. I was behind, and played innocent.’ He was smirking, well pleased with the prank and his evasion of punishment.
‘It should have fallen on Trist,’ Spink said quietly, and I found myself agreeing with him silently. I thought Trist had taken things a shade too far, and despite feeling that Caulder was insufferable, I felt a twinge of sympathy for him as well. I’d had my own harsh experience with chewing tobacco when I was only seven. The memory had never dimmed. Caulder might have fled Carneston House, but I doubted he’d gone home. Probably he’d found a quiet place to be horribly sick.
Several hours passed before Trist returned. Most of the other cadets had cleared out of the common room, but Spink and Gord were just finishing up his maths, while Rory and I lounged back in our chairs, talking of our homes and the girls who waited for us there. Trist came in whistling just before lights-out, and looked so pleased with himself that I could not help but ask him what he’d been up to.
‘I’ve been invited to dinner at the commander’s house,’ he said cheerily.
‘What?’ Rory demanded, outraged and grinning. ‘How’d you pull that off, after poisoning his son with plug tobacco?’
‘Me? Poison Caulder?’ Trist struck an aggrieved pose, his hand to his breast. Then he flung himself in a chair and thrusting his long legs out before him, stacked his boots one on top of the other. He grinned. ‘Who went after the poor lad and wiped his mouth and cleaned him up? Who was astonished at his reaction to the tobacco, and said it must be an allergy he had, for I’d never seen anyone else puking after chewing tobacco? Who sympathized with him for all those rotters who laughed and mocked him when he retched? And who gave him peppermints to settle his stomach and take the nasty taste away, and then walked him safe to his daddy’s door? Trist Wissom, that’s who. And that is who young Master Caulder has invited to his father’s table, next Sevday.’ He stood and stretched gracefully, well pleased with himself.
‘And you don’t think the boy will ever discover that almost everyone vomits the first time they chew tobacco? Don’t you think he’ll eventually realize that you set him up for that humiliation and hate you for it?’ Spink’s voice was cold.
‘Who would he ask? And who would tell him?’ Trist asked calmly. ‘Good night, fellows. Pleasant dreams!’ He sauntered from the room.
‘Some day, that will come back to haunt him. See if it doesn’t,’ Spink said angrily.
But, as with all risks that Trist took, it never seemed to take a toll on him. Trist remained a favourite with the lad in the early months of our schooling, often inviting him to our rooms and making time for him, for all that the boy irritated the rest of us. I soon came to share Sergeant Rufet’s attitude toward him; I found Caulder annoying and presumptuous. He seemed to think himself a small extension of his father, for whenever he encountered a first-year he was very outspoken in giving his opinion of him. Even when Corporal Dent was marching us in formation to one of our classes, if we encountered Caulder on the way, the lad felt free to tell Rory that his uniform shirt needed tucking in, or criticize the shine on Caleb’s shoes. Spink, with his ill-fitting garb, was often a target of the boy’s snide criticism. Spink did not take kindly to it, and often righteously seethed that Dent never told the lad to be off about his own business and leave us alone. Caulder always had a cheery and comradely greeting for Trist, almost as if he wished to be sure that we knew he favoured the fair cadet.
Worst was when the boy chose to invade our living space, often under the guise of delivering a message or issuing some unnecessary reminder to us. I soon learned that we were not the only house troubled by his visits. He patronized all of us, new nobles and old alike. Some cadets muttered that he spied for his father, looking for hints of drinking, gambling, or women in our barracks. Others, more accurately I felt, pitied the boy, saying he sought from us the companionship that his father did not offer him, for never had we seen him treat the lad as anything other than a small soldier. It was said he had two younger sisters and a mother, but as yet, none of us had ever seen any sign of them. He had no friends of his own age that we ever saw. He lived in the commander’s quarters on the campus, and was tutored in the morning hours. In the afternoons, he seemed to run free, and often into the early evening he could be seen wandering about the campus alone.
He did seem to be in search of something. He began to seek Trist’s company, often invading the sanctuary of our upstairs common room. Trist would share contraband sweets with the lad if he had them, and unlikely tales of encounters with plainsmen and their beautiful women when his pockets were empty. It was a tactic that seemed to pay off, for as Trist had bragged, he was one of the first cadets invited to share the commander’s table in his own quarters, a rare honour that Colonel Stiet extended only to those he considered of glowing potential. It did not escape my notice that Trist was the only New Noble son to be thus distinguished, even though the dinner invitations were handed out on a regular basis. It singed my competitive soul that I was not so honoured, and yet I stoutly refused to compromise my pride or my friendship with Spink by courting the little boy’s regard.
Due mostly to my father’s foresight in preparing me, I achieved solid marks in my academics as the year advanced toward winter. Not all my fellows fared as well. Spink continued to struggle with his mathematics. His faulty arithmetic foundation was an added hindrance to him, for even when he mastered algebraic concepts, his answers still depended on his ability to calculate accurately. Rory struggled with his drafting, Caleb with language. We all helped one another from our strengths and learned there was no shame in baring a weakness to our friends. Despite the chafing between Spink and Trist, we became, all told, a tightly knit group, just as our officers had intended we be.
For myself, I most enjoyed our afternoon class in Engineering and Drawing. Captain Maw seemed to me to be an even-handed instructor who paid no attention to Old Noble or New Noble differences. He seemed genuinely fond of Spink who made great efforts in our class, but I quickly became something of a favourite with him as well. My tasks on my father’s holding had given me a generous dose of practical engineering. I glowed with pride on the day that Captain Maw referred to me as ‘a muddy-boots engineer like myself’ meaning that my skills had come to me with practice rather than from books. He often enjoyed setting us tasks that demanded non-standard solutions, and he often threatened us that ‘there may come a time when you must throw up earthworks without shovels or create a bridge without lumber or worked stone.’
I distinguished myself one afternoon by constructing a model of a raft built from ‘logs’ and string alone. Captain Maw created a set of rapids on a water table from a bucket of water poured down a ramp. Mine was the only raft to successfully negotiate the rapids and bear its cargo of lead soldiers to a safe landing at the bottom. I earned high marks for the class that day and was still flushed with success when he asked me to stay behind.
After the others had departed, and we were left alone to tidy away the rafts, soldiers and buckets, he shocked me by asking me solemnly, ‘Nevare, have you ever considered becoming a cavalla scout?’
‘No, sir!’ I replied in quick and honest horror.
He smiled at my disdain for the position. ‘And why is that, Cadet Burvelle?’
‘Because I, well, I want to be an officer and distinguish myself in service to my king and make my family proud of me and …’
My words dribbled away as he cut in quietly with, ‘And you could do all that as easily as a scout as you could as a lieutenant in uniform.’ He cleared his throat and spoke quietly, as if sharing a secret with me. ‘I know a number of good men stationed in the border forts. A recommendation from me would take you far with them. You wouldn’t have to remain here at the Academy with your nose shut in a book for most of the day. Six weeks from now, you could be free and on the open land, serving your king.’
‘But, sir!’ I halted, realizing that I should not argue with an officer, nor even offer an opinion until he sought it.
‘Speak freely,’ he encouraged me. He went back to his desk and sat down. As I spoke, he toyed with a small model of a catapult.
‘Captain Maw, a scout does not have the status of a regular officer. He commands no men save himself. He operates alone. Often he is a ranker or a man disowned by his family. They are expected to know the conquered folk intimately, their language, their habits … Sometimes scouts even take plains wives and have children with them, and only come into the forts sporadically to report for duty. They are not … they are not gentlemen, sir. I am sure that being a scout is not what my father intends for me.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he conceded after a few moments. ‘But I will tell you this plainly, young man. You have a talent for innovation and independent thinking. Those abilities are not prized in a lieutenant. On the contrary, your commander will do his best to quash those gifts, for a freethinking lieutenant is not an asset to a smooth chain of command. Cadet Burvelle, you are not meant to be a cog in a gear drive, nor a link in a chain. You will be unhappy there, and will make those above and below you unhappy in consequence. I think the good god made you to act on your own. Soldier son you may be and, by the King’s word, your father may be a noble. But take it as no shame that I say this to you: I do not see an officer when I look at you. That is not an insult. It is my honest appraisal. I think you are brilliant, capable of landing on your feet no matter what tricks life plays you. But I do not see you as a line officer.’ He smiled at me kindly and looked more like an uncle than an Academy instructor as he asked me, ‘Do you, honestly, see yourself as an officer five years from now?’
I squared my shoulders and forced my words past a lump of disappointment in my throat. ‘Yes, sir. I do. With all that is within me, it is what I aspire to be.’
He left off playing with the catapult and leaned back in his chair. He raised his bushy grey eyebrows and sighed with resignation. ‘Well, then. I suppose that is what you will do your best to be. I hope you find it to your liking, Cadet. I hope the cavalla does not lose you when you discover that the limits of such a role are greater than you thought them to be.’
‘I am cavalla, sir. Born and bred.’
He nodded gravely. ‘I suppose that you are. Remember something for me. Remember that your raft passed through the rapids with its cargo because you were wise enough to engineer some flexibility into your structure. Do the same with yourself and your ambitions, Cadet. Leave room for them to bend without breaking you. Dismissed.’
And with that he sent me out into the fading afternoon to ponder his offer. I could not decide if his words had been complimentary or a warning to curb my ambitions. I didn’t discuss it with any of my fellows.
After the first two months of classes, those of us who had performed well were allowed a day of liberty every second Sevday to visit relatives. It was a welcome change from the previous ‘holidays’ we’d been offered in our schedule. All the first-years had been given a Sevday of leave once before, but it was a sham. We’d been ordered to spend our ‘free day’ in attending a musical performance given by Lady Midowne’s Historical Society. A score of noble ladies and their daughters sang original compositions that told of significant events in Gernian history. It was interminable, with extravagant costumes and sets and mediocre singing that scarcely reached our ears. At the end, we dutifully applauded, and only then learned that first-years were not even allowed to attend the tea that followed it to mingle with the young ladies. Instead, we were sent back to our dormitory to ‘enjoy the rest of our day of freedom’.
I was fortunate among the New Nobles’ sons in that I had nearby relatives willing to welcome me to their home for my free afternoons. Trist, Gord, and myself were the only ones who could count on a dinner invitation. The others most often stayed in the dormitory. My uncle always sent a carriage to pick me up, and provided me with a hearty meal at his home. I came to know my aunt and my cousins Hotorn and Purissa a bit better. Aunt Daraleen did not lose her stiffness toward me, but I perceived, as my father had observed, that there was nothing personal in it. As long as I did not presume on our relationship, she felt unthreatened by me. I did enjoy the long talks with my uncle in his study, in which he often asked how my lessons progressed and discussed language and military history with me. Sometimes Hotorn, his heir son, joined us there. He was older than me by four years, and enrolled in a university. Sometimes he spoke of his studies there, and I confess I somewhat envied that literature and music and art were amongst his subjects. My younger girl cousin, Purissa, took enough of a fancy to me that with her governess’ help, she would bake little cakes and sweets, and pack up a basket of such treats for me to take back to my friends at the Academy. But Epiny, my older girl cousin, was always absent whenever I visited. In some ways, this was a relief for me, for my first impression of her had been a rather strange one.
Thinking to make polite conversation at the table one afternoon, I once observed to my aunt, ‘It is unfortunate that Epiny is always occupied elsewhere when I visit.’
My aunt gave me a look even cooler than her usual formal regard and said, ‘Unfortunate? I do not follow your thought. Why would you think it unfortunate?’
I instantly felt unsure of myself, as if I were riding a horse over unsound ground. ‘Why, I meant only that it was unfortunate for me, of course. I am certain that I would enjoy her company and the opportunity to get to know her.’ I thought those words would smooth whatever had ruffled my aunt’s feathers, but I was wrong.
She stirred her cup of tea for a moment and then smiled at me without warmth. ‘Oh, I am certain that you are wrong about that, Nevare. You and my daughter would have absolutely nothing in common, and could scarcely be expected to enjoy one another’s company. Epiny is quite a sensitive young woman, and very refined. I cannot imagine what you might find to talk about. I am sure it would be very awkward for both of you.’
I lowered my eyes to my plate and murmured, ‘Of course, I am sure you are correct.’ I would have done anything in the world to cool the blood that flushed my face at her smoothly worded rebuke. Obviously, she thought I had been forward to hint that I might speak to her daughter. Just as obviously, it was no accident of scheduling that Epiny was never present in her father’s home when I was. My aunt deliberately kept her daughter apart from my company. I belatedly realized that when I was their guest, I was always the sole guest. The next thought that rushed into my mind was that perhaps my uncle, too, considered me too socially inept to associate with family friends. I was sharply reminded of how my own father had kept my mother and daughter away from Captain Vaxton when the rough old scout had come to call. Did my aunt see me in a similar way? Did my uncle?
As if he could hear my thoughts, my uncle sought to disarm the hurt that hovered. ‘In some ways I agree with your aunt, Nevare, but not for the reasons you might think. Although by her years Epiny is almost grown, she behaves so childishly that I have not thought to expect the social duties of a young woman from her yet.’ He drew breath to say something more, but my aunt cut in, outraged.
‘Childishly! Childishly? She is a sensitive, Sefert! Guide Porilet, the queen’s own medium, has seen great potential in her. But she must be allowed to unfold slowly, as a blossom opens to the sun or a butterfly opens her new wings, damp with the waters of her birth. Force her too soon into the worldly duties a woman must bear and that is what she will become: a worldly woman, shallow and cow-like, bearing the yoke of insensitive men! Her gifts will be lost, not just to her, but also to all of us. Childish! You do not see the difference between innocence and spiritual awakening and babyish behaviour.’ Her voice seemed to get shriller with every word.
My uncle abruptly pushed his chair back from the table. ‘I am sure I do not see the difference between this “sensitivity” and childish behaviour. And thus I am sure that Nevare cannot, either. So, I think I shall spare him exposure to it. Nevare, will you join me in my study?’
I was mortified. I had precipitated this barely-concealed quarrel between them. I stood as gracefully as I could and bowed to Lady Burvelle as I left her table. She turned her gaze away from me, and gave a disdainful sniff as I left. It was the most awkward moment I’d ever endured in my young life.
Once we reached the study, I stammered out an uncomfortable apology to my uncle, but he shrugged his shoulders as he took out a cigar. ‘If something you did hadn’t offended her, she would have found something in my behaviour to offend. Epiny has begged, several times, to be allowed to see you. I still think it may be arranged, despite the busy schedule her mother contrives for her. But I warn you, she is exactly as I said: a girl with a child’s ways. Sometimes I think Purissa is more mature than her older sister.’
I could not very well tell him that my expressed desire for my cousin’s company had been a polite bit of conversation rather than a sincere desire to see her. In truth, Epiny had impressed me as flighty and foolish. I felt no need to spend time with her. But all I could do was smile and assure my uncle that I would look forward to it, while ardently hoping that it would not come to be and that I could thus avoid any conflict with my aunt.
After that Sevday interlude, it was almost a relief to return to the Academy and the company of my fellows. That week, to my delight, mounted drills replaced marching in our schedules. The beasts they gave us to ride were sedate, brown, and so uniform in both temperament and appearance that there was scarcely anything noteworthy between one and another of them. They were numbered, not named. My mount was Seventeen C, for Carneston Riders. The care of the beasts also fell to us, crowding yet another task into our busy days. Warhorses they were not, nor cavalla chargers, but I suspect we looked very pretty as we performed our choreographed manoeuvres on them. They were undemanding creatures, unquestioningly obedient, and completely unsuited to any challenge of endurance or speed. We sat on their backs and they went through their paces with precision but no spark. When there were errors, it was usually the fault of the cadet rather than the horse. Gord proved himself an apt horseman, to my surprise, but Oron slouched in his saddle and Rory was over-enthusiastic in ‘controlling’ his horse, reining him sharply and kicking him harder than was needed, prompting the animal to fidget and baulk.
Even so, our small troop looked better on horseback than the other first-year patrols. The Carneston House first-years were not only the soldier sons of soldiers, we were one and all the sons of cavalry officers, and none of us lacked saddle experience. That was obviously not true of the old nobility-bred soldier sons. On our breaks, we would watch them drill. Rory put it into words for us. ‘Them’re why we’re all mounted on these mealy-spirited hobby horses. Put a real horse between their legs, and half those lads would wet themselves.’
A few rode like true horsemen, but for the most part their inexperience was apparent. Their ignorant fellows botched the efforts of those with skill. The horses knew the commands but their riders did not. I saw one fellow sawing on his reins with his elbows held wide of his body, causing his mount to veer from one side to the other and occasionally shoulder into the horse beside him. Another rode with one hand gripping the horn of his saddle. At the trot, he looked as if he might be unseated at any moment. It gave us some amusement, but it was short-lived. Our drill instructor, Lieutenant Wurtam, was old nobility and would not suffer us to mock them as we desired. Instead, we were given demerits to work off with stable mucking. Wurtam lectured us that when we mocked the men of other troops, we were mocking the cavalla itself and defiling the age-old custom that the cavalla took care of its own. The diatribe did not sit well with any of us. We already well knew the difference between good-natured teasing and ignoring a fellow in need. The punishment was yet another blow to the wedge that the cadet cavalla officers seemed intent on driving between old and new nobility cadets.
I often thought of Sirlofty and missed him, though I knew he would be well cared for in my uncle’s stable. A boyishness in me looked forward to my third year. Then the emphasis of our education would leave the classroom and be founded on fieldwork. Then I could have my own mount in the Academy stables and show off the quality of both horse and horsemanship that I was accustomed to displaying.
Two months into my first year, those hopes were dashed when Colonel Stiet proclaimed that all privately-owned horses in the stables would be returned to their owners’ homes, and replaced with Academy-owned mounts. The long announcement about it cited cost advantages due to the uniformity of tack, veterinary care, and the use of a horse through several classes, and made much of the concept that all cadets would be equally mounted. To me, it well and truly proved that Colonel Stiet had no concept of what it meant to be a cavalla trooper. It undermined morale in a way that perhaps only a horse soldier could understand. A cavalla trooper is half-horse; unmounted, he becomes an inexperienced foot soldier. Mounting us on uniform but mediocre horses was tantamount to giving us medium-grade weapons or tatty uniforms.
This was the subject of one of the letters that I sent to Carsina. I judged it neutral enough that her parents would not disapprove, and that her father might find it of interest also, as Carsina’s younger brother would one day attend the Academy. Twice a month, I sent correct missives to her, in care of her father. I wrote them with the knowledge that they would be paternally perused before she received them. It was frustrating not to be able to share all that overflowed my heart, but I knew that her father must consider me a purposeful cadet and a man of focus if I wished to win her. Flowery phrases and reminders of how I cherished that tiny lace handkerchief would not win me his respect. The brief missives I received from her in response were very unsatisfactory. She always inquired after my health and told me that she hoped I was doing well in my studies. Sometimes she mentioned some useful pursuit of her own, such as learning a new embroidery stitch or supervising the kitchen girls as they put up berry preserves for the winter. I cared very little for embroidery or preserves, but those stiff little notes were all I had to sustain me.
I carried her token with me always, folded carefully and wrapped in a sheet of thin paper to preserve its scent. At first, I spoke little of my love to my fellow cadets, for fear of teasing. Then one evening, I walked in on a conversation between Kort and Natred. They were speaking of home and loneliness, and one another’s sisters. Kort was holding a tiny square of linen with a forget-me-not embroidered on it. Natred’s token from Kort’s sister was a cross-stitched bookmark in the Academy colours. I’d never seen him use it and suspected that he probably regarded it as too precious for such a mundane task.
There was a strange relief and pride in presenting my own lady’s token and speaking of how it had been given to me. I confided to them that I, too, missed my sweetheart more than was seemly in one who was promised but not formally engaged yet. In the course of discussing how carefully I must tread in that situation, each of them sheepishly produced a small packet of letters. Kort’s was bound with a lavender ribbon and Natred’s was scented with violets. They were in league with their sisters, who received letters from their brothers and then exchanged them. Thus Kort and Natred could not only write of how they truly felt but were privileged to hear from their darlings without any parental censorship.
The obvious solution to my dilemma immediately presented itself, but for several weeks I procrastinated. Would Yaril go to my mother with my request? Would Carsina think less of me for trying to evade Lord Grenalter’s monitoring of my correspondence? Most difficult of all was the ethical question of whither I was leading my sister in my attempt to enlist her in my plot. I was still agonizing over it when I received a peculiar letter from Yaril. My family took turns writing to me, so that I had a good chance of receiving at least one letter a week. Yaril’s notes had been dutiful and rather perfunctory up to that time. The missive that came that week was fatter than usual. I weighed the envelope in my hand, and when I opened it, I caught a waft of scent that was at once unusual and yet delightfully familiar. It was gardenia, and I was instantly transported back to my last night at home and my stroll through the garden with Carsina.
Inside was my usual dutiful missive from my sister. But folded within that letter was a second letter. The borders of the notepaper had been painstakingly decorated with butterflies and flowers. Carsina had used violet ink, and her penmanship was almost childishly large and very ornate. Her spelling errors would have been laughable in almost any other setting, but somehow they only added to the charm of her message as she told me that ‘every momint seems an age until I shall puruse your face agen’. The intricacy of her illustrations spoke to me of hours spent on the two pages she sent me, and I studied every tiny picture. She had a wonderful eye for detail, and I could name the various flowers she had so carefully reproduced.
Yaril had committed no guilty word of her own to paper, and so when I replied to her, as I did immediately, I made no direct mention of the enclosure. I did mention that I had heard that first-years were sometimes given a day’s liberty in town at the turn of the semester, and that I would be happy to buy her some lace or other trinkets if she told me what might please her, for it always delighted me to be kind to a sister who had in turn done so many kindnesses for me. Mindful that, even though Carsina’s father might not see it, it was very possible that my sister might be tempted to read my letter before passing it on to Carsina, I spent an agonizing two days composing my first missive to my love.
I tried to balance manliness with tenderness, respect with ardour, and passion with practicality. I spoke of our future together, the children we’d have, the home we’d establish together. I stopped when I realized I had run to five pages of finely written script. I folded it inside my letter to my sister, and sealed it separately from my letter to her, hoping that my parents would notice neither the uncharacteristic length nor promptness of my response. Feeling extremely guilty, I then composed an equally long and detailed missive about classes and the Academy’s decision regarding our mounts and sent it off to my father, hoping that it might prove a distraction from the letter I sent Yaril.
I had never thought that receiving and then replying to a letter from Carsina would prove such a distraction to me. After it was posted, I could not stop thinking about it, and wondering how many days it would take to travel to her on the mail boat, and if it must dawdle long with my sister before a visit brought them together and Yaril could pass it on. At night, I lay awake, imagining her receiving it, wondering if she would open it while Yaril was there or wait for a quiet time alone. I longed for both, for if she wrote a response while they were visiting, Yaril could immediately send it along to me, yet I also hoped she read it privately and kept its contents to herself. It was a delicious agony and a serious distraction from my studies. It became my nightly ritual; evening ablutions, night prayers, and then staring into the darkness, listening to the deep breathing of my slumbering roommates and thinking of Carsina. I often dreamed of her. One night, as I hastened myself toward sleep with thoughts of Carsina, I dreamed, vividly, that a letter had arrived from her. The detail of that dream was extraordinary.
Sergeant Rufet distributed our mail to us. Often we returned from our morning classes to find whatever we had received set precisely in the centre of each bed. In my dream, there was a letter addressed to me in my sister Yaril’s hand, but I immediately knew that it held tidings from Carsina. I slipped it inside my uniform jacket, resolving to open it alone and unobserved so that I could privately savour whatever she had written to me. In the golden last light of the afternoon, I slipped away from the dormitory to a peaceful copse of oak trees that graced an expanse of lawn to the east of Carneston House. There, I leaned against the trunk of a tree and opened my long-awaited letter. Light filtered down through the canopy of autumn leaves. A light layer of fallen leaves on the ground shifted softly in the evening breeze from the river.
I drew the longed-for pages from the envelope. My sister’s letter was a large, golden leaf. As I looked at it, it turned brown, the inked lines fading with the colour change. The edges of the leaf curled in, until it resembled the dry husk of a butterfly’s cocoon. When I tried to unfurl it, it crumbled into tiny brown bits and blew away on the wind.
Carsina’s letter was written on paper. I tried to read it, but her handwriting, once so large and looping, crawled into tiny spidery letters, the characters becoming so ornate they defied my eyes. But within the page was a pressed trio of violets. They were carefully enfolded in a sheet of fine paper. When I opened them and put them on my palm, I could suddenly smell their fragrance as strongly as if they were freshly bloomed. I put my nose close to them, breathing in their perfume and knowing, somehow, that Carsina had worn this tiny bouquet pinned to her dress for a day before she had pressed them and sent them to me. I smiled, for the scent of the flowers was the air of her love for me. I was so blessed, that the woman destined to be mine regarded me with affection and anticipation. Not all arranged partners were so fortunate. My future was gold before me and assured. I would be an officer and I would lead men and acquit myself well in feats of war. My lady would come to me, to be my wife and to fill my home with children. When my days as a cavalla officer were done, we would retire to live out our years in Widevale in a gracious home on my brother’s holding.
As I thought these thoughts, the violets in my hand began to grow. They budded and more blossoms joined the three, and the three eldest blossoms formed tiny seeds, which dropped on the palm of my hand. There they germinated, sinking tiny roots into the lines of my palm and opening small green leaves to the sunlight. Flowers with the faces of children began to open. I watched over them, cherishing them, as I leaned on the trunk of a great oak.
I do not know what made me look up from them. She made no sound. She stood, unmoving as a tree, looking at me with great determination. Tiny flowers bloomed in her hair. The robe that draped her was the gold of birch leaves in autumn. The majestic tree woman shook her head in slow denial. ‘No,’ she said. Her voice was quiet and not unkind, but her words reached my ears with absolute clarity. ‘That is not for you. That may do for others, but a different fate awaits you. There is a task to be done and you were chosen for it. Nothing and no one shall lead you away from it. You will go to it, even if you must go as a dog that flees from flung stones. It is given to you to turn them back. Only you can do it, soldier’s boy. All else must be put aside until your task is done.’
Her words horrified me. It could not be so. I looked back at the future I held so securely. Cupped in my hand, the foliage of the tiny offspring of our love thrived briefly then, horrifyingly, yellowed and shrivelled. The little faces closed their eyes and grew pale and wan. The blossoms bent, withering, and then suddenly subsided into rotting foliage in the palm.
‘No!’ I cried, and only then felt how the oak had taken me in. Its bark had grown over my shoulders and engulfed my torso. Years before, my brother and I had left a rope swing tied to the branch of a gully willow. As time had passed, the tree’s limb had swelled up around the rope until the constricting line was invisible. So was this tree engulfing me, growing around me and taking me inside it. It was too late to struggle. Bemused by the flowers in my hand, I had been unwary.
I lifted my head and opened my mouth to scream. Instead, soundlessly, I vomited forth a cascade of green tendrils. They dived into the earth at my feet, and then rose again as saplings. On the lawn before me, a forest sprouted, and I felt them drawing sustenance from my body. As Nevare, I dwindled to nothing, and became instead a green awareness. My tree-selves grew and first encroached on the campus buildings and then enfolded them. My roots buckled the walkways and cracked foundations. My branches thrust into glassless windows. I sent wandering yellow tendrils across the dusty floors of empty classrooms. The Academy fell before me, and became a forest, a forest that slowly began to climb over the walls of the grounds and spread out into the streets and byways of Old Thares.
