30
Kaden spent the lengthening days of late spring tracking, running—at night and during the day, blindfolded and not—throwing bowls in the pottery shed, and painting, all under the watchful eye of Rampuri Tan. There had been no more gruesome deaths since Serkhan’s body was found, but the older monk insisted on accompanying his pupil whenever he left the central compound of the monastery, and it was some small comfort that Tan always carried that strange naczal spear. At least, it would have been a comfort if he didn’t spend half his time beating Kaden black and blue with the flat of it.
The training, which had started out brutal, only got worse; the blows grew sharper, the labors longer, the respites ever more brief. Strangely, Kaden was starting to realize that in many ways his umial seemed to know him better than he knew himself—knew just how long he could be held under the mountain streams before drowning, how long he could run before falling, and how close he could hold his hand to the flame without burning away the flesh—and as the days passed, Kaden found that, though his body still recoiled from the physical torment, his mind accepted it with growing equanimity. Still, it was a relief when he had a few scant hours to himself.
The stone cell in which he slept was small, barely large enough for a thin reed mattress, a simple desk, and a few hooks on which he could hang his robes. The granite of the walls and floor was cold and rough. Still, it was his own, and when he closed the door to the hallway, he had the illusion of privacy and solitude. He seated himself at the desk, glanced out the narrow window into the courtyard, unstoppered his ink jar, and took up his quill. Father—he wrote at the top of the page. The letter would take months to reach the Dawn Palace, even if he was able to send it along with Blerim Panno when he left for the Bend. From there it would have to go by boat to Annur. Whatever information Kaden cared to share would be hopelessly out of date by the time it arrived, and yet, it felt important to write, despite the fact that he didn’t have anything to say. Maybe it was Tan’s tutelage, or the deaths around the monastery, but Kaden felt as though some important part of himself, some human cord that tethered him to his past, to his family, to his home, was being stretched, that if he neglected it for too much longer, it might suddenly and unexpectedly snap. He paused before remembering to add his sister’s name to the opening lines.
Father and Adare—
I’m sorry it’s been so long since last I wrote. We accomplish little here, but the days are full. Most recently
Before he could finish the sentence, the door crashed open. Kaden spun in his seat, searching for a weapon of some sort, but it was only Pater, sweaty and breathless in his robe. The small boy’s face was flushed, his eyes wide with excitement.
“Kaden!” he shouted, trying to slow himself as he careened into the cell. “Kaden! There’s people here, Kaden. Strangers!”
Kaden laid down his quill. Visitors to the monastery were rare, exceedingly so. There was a new crop of acolytes every year, of course, but they arrived together, on the same day, led by Blerim Panno, who guided them up into the mountains from the Bend. Sometimes Panno arrived from the west, but the way was long and arduous: barren steppe and intermittent desert with only the nomadic Urghul for company. Either way, the Footsore Monk wasn’t scheduled to arrive for at least another month; Kaden had been getting an early start on his letter. “What kind of strangers?”
“Merchants!” the small boy chirped. “Two of them, and a pack mule, too!”
Kaden sat up. The Shin grew or made almost everything they needed, and for the rest they traded with the Urghul during the fall. Still, the occasional gullible trader, lured by rumors of fabulous hidden wealth in a monastery far to the north, would make the trek of hundreds of leagues. Their disappointment when they discovered the austerity of the Shin was so palpable that Kaden almost pitied them. It was unlikely that anyone would make the voyage so early in the year, but it sounded as though Pater had actually seen them.
“Where are they?” he asked.
“They’re cleaning up now, but they’re coming to the refectory for dinner. All the monks are going to be there, and we can ask questions! Nin even said so!”
The small boy was practically jumping out of his skin as Kaden rose to his feet.
“You run ahead,” he said. “See if you can get a glimpse of them. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”
Pater nodded and bolted out of the room all at once, leaving Kaden alone with his truncated letter. Merchants. The thought filled him with more excitement than he would have expected. It seemed he had almost forgotten what real excitement felt like. Still, these men would have news of the world, news of his family, Kaden realized as he doffed his mud-stained robe and started to pull a clean one over his head. It wasn’t often that the monks had visitors, and Nin would want to make a favorable impression on whoever had taken the trouble to trek all the way across Vash.
“Don’t bother,” said Rampuri Tan. He had entered the room without knocking, and stood just inside the door, his dark eyes hard. The naczal, as always, was in his hand, although why he would carry it inside the dormitory was anyone’s guess. Whatever had killed Serkhan surely wouldn’t be bold enough to enter one of Ashk’lan’s largest buildings.
Kaden hesitated.
“You won’t be going to the evening meal,” Tan continued. “You will not speak with the merchants. You will not approach the merchants. You will remain out of sight in the clay shed until they leave.”
The words landed like a slap.
“They could be here a week,” Kaden pointed out warily. “Longer.”
“Then you will stay in the clay shed for a week. Or longer.”
The older monk stared at him, then exited as abruptly as he had come, leaving Kaden with his rope belt halfway tied and a look of disbelief on his face.
Visitors to the monastery were such an unusual diversion that a large dinner was always prepared—two or three goats would be slaughtered, trenchers filled with turnips, potatoes, and carrots, and everyone would eat crusty loaves of warm bread. Even more enticing than the meal, however, would be the conversation. All the monks would have their chance to ask a question or two, to learn something of the world that continued to turn outside the walls of Ashk’lan. Bohumir Novalk would want to talk politics, of course, and so would Scial Nin. No doubt, fat Phirum Prumm would ask for news of Channary, which the merchants would have in abundance, and news of his mother, which they would not. Kaden couldn’t remember an acolyte being forbidden to a meal when there were visitors present.
“Ae only knows what I did to deserve this,” he muttered to himself, “but I hope Tan’s got Akiil scrubbing out the privy.”
He shrugged the clean robe back over his head and tossed it onto the bunk. No point sullying it with clay. He dressed quickly and then, just as he was leaving, walked directly into Pater’s headlong rush.
“Kaden!” the boy shouted, trying to disentangle himself and pull Kaden down the hallway all at the same time. “Some of the monks are in the refectory already. We have to hurry!”
Kaden picked the boy up by his armpits, set him on his feet, and dusted him off.
“I know,” he said, trying not to let his bitterness show. “But I can’t go. You remember to tell me what they say, what they look like. You remember everything, all right?”
Pater stared at him, his mouth hanging open. “Can’t go? Kaden, who even knows who they are? We have to go!”
It was just like Pater to shift from I to we, and Kaden smiled in spite of himself. “Tan sent me to the clay shed to polish bowls. He’ll notice right away if I’m anywhere near the refectory. You go ahead.”
Pater shook his head so vigorously it looked like it might rattle right off his shoulders. “We won’t go to the refectory.”
“But that’s where the merchants are.”
The boy beamed, obviously pleased with his chance to help. “We’ll go to the dovecote.”
Kaden smiled slowly. The dovecote. Leave it to Pater to remember that old hideout.
The granite of the high peaks was cold and hard, impossible to cut or quarry. The Shin were forced to scavenge their building stone—exfoliated flakes and small, uneven boulders. Given the labor involved, the monks made the most of their existing structures and so, countless years back, when some brother long dead decided to build a dovecote, he built it up against the rear of the refectory, saving himself the labor of constructing a fourth wall. In their early years at the monastery, Kaden and Akiil had discovered the dovecote’s true value: a hidden spot where they could escape the severe eyes of their umials. When they outgrew their childhood hideout, they had passed the secret on to Pater, and Kaden had to smile now at the idea of the younger boy reminding him of his own secret.
“Is there anyone out back?” he asked. “Anyone who might see us?”
Pater shook his head emphatically once more. “They’re all out front, hoping to ask the merchants a few questions before the meal begins.”
“And Tan?”