Spring saw the snow covered practice field darken into deep green as they laboured under Master Sollis’s tutelage, their skills growing with every day, as did their bruises. A new element was introduced late in the month of Onasur; studies for the Test of Knowledge under the guidance of Master Grealin.
Every day they were trooped down into the cavernous cellars and made to sit and listen to his tales of the history of the Order. He spoke well, a natural story teller conjuring images of great deeds, heroism and justice that had most of them rapt in attentive silence. Vaelin liked the stories too but his interest was dampened by the fact that they all related to daring exploits or great battles and never featured Deniers being hunted through the countryside or imprisoned in the Blackhold. At the end of every lesson Grealin would ask them questions on what they had heard. Boys who answered correctly were given candy, those who couldn’t answer were favoured with a sad shake of the head and a sorrowful comment or two. Master Grealin was the least harsh of all the masters, he never caned them, his punishments were words or gestures, and he never cursed or swore, something all the other masters did, even mute Master Smentil whose hands could shape profanity with remarkable accuracy.
“Vaelin,” Grealin said after relating the tale of the siege of Baslen Castle during the first War of Unification. “Who held the bridge so his brothers could close the gate behind him?”
“Brother Nolnen, Master.”
“Very good Vaelin, have a barley sugar.”
Vaelin also noticed that every time Master Grealin gave them candy he rewarded himself too. “Now then,” he said, his considerable jowls quivering as he worked the barley sugar around his teeth. “What was the name of the commander of the Cumbraelin forces?” He scanned them for a moment, seeking a victim. “Dentos?”
“Erm, Verlig Master.”
“Oh dear.” Master Grealin held up a toffee and shook his large head sadly. “No reward for Dentos. In fact, remind me little brother, how many rewards have you received this week?”
“None,” Dentos muttered.
“I beg your pardon, Dentos, what was that?”
“None, master,” Dentos said loudly, his voice echoing in the caverns.
“None. Yes. None. I seemed to recall you received no rewards last week either. Isn’t that right?”
Dentos looked as if he’d rather be suffering under Master Sollis’s cane. “Yes master.”
“Mmmm.” Grealin popped the toffee into his mouth, chins bobbing as he chewed with gusto. “Pity. These toffees are quite superlative. Caenis, perhaps you can enlighten us.”
“Verulin commanded the Cumbraelin forces at the siege of Baslen castle, master.” Caenis’s replies were always prompt and correct. Vaelin suspected sometimes his knowledge of the Order’s history was equal if not superior to Master Grealin’s.
“Quite so. Have a sugared walnut.”
“Bastard!” Dentos fumed later in the main hall as they ate their evening meal. “Fat, smart-arsed bastard. Who cares if we know what some bugger did two hundred years ago? What’s it gotta do with anythin’?”
“The lessons of the past guide us in the present,” Caenis quoted. “Our Faith is strengthened by the knowledge of those who have gone before us.”
Dentos glowered at him over the table. “Oh piss off. Just because the big mound of blubber loves you so much. ‘Yes master Grealin,’” he dropped into a surprisingly accurate impression of Caenis’s soft tones, “the battle of shit-house bend lasted two days and thousands of poor sods like us died in it. Let me have a sugar cane and I’ll wipe your arse too.’”
Next to Dentos, Nortah chuckled nastily.
“Watch your mouth, Dentos,” Caenis warned.
“Or what? You’ll bore me to death with another bloody story about the King and his brats…”
Caenis was a blur, leaping across the table in a perfectly executed display of gymnastics, his boots connecting with Dentos’s face, blood erupting as his head snapped back and they tumbled to the floor. The fight was short but bloody, their hard won skills made fights dangerous affairs which they usually tried to avoid even during the most fractious arguments, and Caenis was sporting a broken tooth and dislocated finger by the time they pulled them apart. Dentos wasn’t much better, his nose broken and ribs severely bruised.
They took them both to Master Henthal, the Order’s healer, who patched them up as they stared sullenly at each other from opposite bunks.
“What happened?” Master Sollis demanded of Vaelin as they waited outside.
“A disagreement between brothers, Master,” Nortah told him, it was the standard response in situations like this.