The Test began on a Feldrian morning, two days before Summertide. Those boys who passed would be rewarded not only with the right to stay in the Order but also a pass for the great Summertide fair at Varinshold, the first time they would be allowed out of the Order’s care since the day of their joining. Those who failed would be given their gold coins and told to leave. For once the older boys had no dire warnings or ridicule to offer. Vaelin noted that mention of the Test of Knowledge around their peers provoked only sullen looks and vicious cuffs. He wondered what made them so angry, it was only a few questions after all.
“The only brother to journey through the great northern forest,” he demanded of Dentos as they made their way to the dining hall.
“Lesander,” Dentos replied smugly. “That was too easy by half.”
“Third Aspect of the Order?”
Dentos paused, brow furrowed as he searched his memory for the answer. “Kinlial?”
“Are you asking or telling?”
“Telling.”
“Good. You’re right.” Vaelin clapped him on the back as they continued across the courtyard. “Dentos, my brother, I think you may pass this test today.”
They were called to the Test in the afternoon, lining up outside a chamber in the south wall. Master Sollis gave them a stern warning to behave themselves and told Barkus he was first. Barkus seemed about to make a joke but the gravity on Sollis’s face stopped him and he gave them only a brief bow before entering the chamber. Sollis closed the door behind him.
“Wait here,” he ordered. “When you’re done get to the dining hall.” He stalked off leaving them staring at the solid oak door to the chamber.
“I thought he’d be doing this,” Dentos said, a little weakly.
“Doesn’t look like it does it?” Nortah said. He went to the door, leaning down to put his ear to the wood.
“Hear anything?” Dentos whispered.
Nortah shook his head, straightening. “Just mumbles, the door’s too thick.” He reached inside his cloak and came out with a board of pine wood about a foot square with numerous scars on its surface and an inch wide circle of black paint in the centre. “Knives anyone?”
Knives had become their principal game in recent months, a simple enough contest of skill where they would take turns trying to get their throwing knives as close to the centre of the board as possible. The winner would keep all the other knives in the board. There were variations on the basic game where a board was propped against a convenient wall, sometimes it would be suspended from a rope tied to a roof beam and the object was to hit it as it swung back and forth, in other games it would be thrown in the air, occasionally set spinning end over end. Throwing knives were a kind of surrogate currency in the Order, they could be swapped for treats or favours and a brother’s popularity was invariably enhanced if he managed to amass a large stock. The weapons themselves were plain, cheaply made items, triangular six inch blades with a stubby handle, little larger than an arrowhead. Master Grealin had begun to hand them out at the start of their third year, ten for each boy, the supply to be renewed every six months. There was no formal instruction in how to use them, they simply watched the older boys and learnt as they played. Predictably the best archers turned out to be the most successful players, Dentos and Nortah had the largest knife collection with Caenis a close third. Vaelin won only one game in ten but knew he was consistently improving, unlike Barkus who seemed incapable of winning a single match, making him guard his knives jealously, although he became skilled at bartering for more with the spoils of his many thieving expeditions.
“Shitting, stupid, sodding thing!” Dentos fumed as his knife struck sparks on the wall behind the board. Evidently his nerves were throwing his aim.
“You’re out,” Nortah informed him. If a player missed the board they were out of the game and their knife was forfeit.
Vaelin went next, sinking the knife into the outer edge of the circle, a better throw than he usually managed. Caenis’s knife was a little further in but Nortah took the game with a blade only a finger width from the centre.
“I’m just too good at this,” he commented, retrieving his knives. “I really should stop playing, it’s not fair on everyone else.”
“Piss off!” Dentos spat. “I’ve beaten you tons of times.”
“Only when I let you,” Nortah replied mildly. “If I didn’t you wouldn’t keep coming back for more.”
“Right.” Dentos snatched a knife from his belt and let fly at the target in a single smooth movement. It was probably the best throw Vaelin had seen, the knife buried dead in the centre of the board up to the hilt. “Beat that, rich boy,” Dentos told Nortah.
Nortah raised an eyebrow. “Luck smiles on you today brother.”
“Luck my arse. You gonna throw or not?”
Nortah shrugged, taking a knife and eyeing the board carefully. He slowly drew back his arm and then snapped it forward so fast his hand blurred, the knife a brief glitter of silver as it spun towards the target. There was the high ping of metal on metal as it rebounded from Dentos’s knife hilt and landed a few feet away.
“Oh well.” Nortah went to retrieve his knife, its blade bent at the tip. “Yours I believe,” he said, offering it to Dentos.
“We should call it a draw. You would’ve hit centre if my knife wasn’t in the way.”