Minutes felt like hours and, as it stretched into hours, it seemed to go on forever. They labored under the bright sun in their repetitive strikes under Ordan's command.
Ordan had them line up after an unending length of time spent on arm jarring strikes and Sethlzaar studied his wooden sword as they waited for their next command.
He knew very little about swords, and he knew even less about the various designs. The only weapons to ever appeal to him lived in his memory of his journey and the scabbard of the darkness. He had snuck into Groc's study at one point in time and had seen the different swords hung on the wall, most of them had been longer than he had been tall.
They'd all presented themselves in various sizes, sharpened on both sides. It gave them a double-edged ferocity. But what had caught Sethlzaar's eye was neither them nor the elegantly curved swords with the inscription sword of Tarr crossed over each other and sharpened on one end with no visible sign of use unlike the others.
No. It had been the black bow that had rested on the table against the wall. Its string was black as night with hints of silver threading along it from end to end, as if the weaving was mixed with metal. Then, he had dare not touch it.
He'd kept the knowledge from Groc for fear of drawing his anger, and from his mates for all they had to offer him his whole life had been looks of disgust and the occasional putrid mumbles when they chose to pay him any attention.
Fen, on the other hand, he had confronted with his question when they were alone. He had waited until they were done serving at the bar before he'd asked.
"Why does Groc have a bow in his study?"
Fen had looked around frantically before asking, when he was convinced of their solitude. "You were in Groc's study?"
Sethlzaar had heard the panic in the older boy's voice. He'd had wondered if he'd made the wrong decision of asking but nodded, regardless. Fen had remained silent for a while and Sethlzaar had wondered if he would keep the answer from him.
But after a while he'd spoken.
"Do you know about Groc's swords?" he'd asked.
Sethlzaar had nodded. He didn't know the stories pertaining to each blade he had seen and honestly didn't care to.
Groc had told him about his sword on one or more occasions, how they had been given to him by the realm a few times after he had joined the army, when he'd fought at the forefront of wars while he was still young. But, Sethlzaar's interest was solely in the bow.
"I don't know much about the bow," Fen continued, "but Ventril said Groc always came back with a new sword. But when he came back from his last trip, he came with the bow."
At the end, Fen's face had taken up a clouded expression and Sethlzaar wondered if he had soured the boy's mood.
He'd wondered on occasions what Groc looked like as a soldier. Each time Ventril spoke of it, he spoke with such wonder. But Sethlzaar had never truly been able to create the image in his mind. He had only ever known the old man as a bar owner. Sometimes Groc would exude an ominous presence whenever the children made severe errors but all Sethlzaar ever saw was a bar keep.
"Step forward, Vi Sorlan."
Ordan's order brought Sethlzaar out of his memory. He proceeded to the spot the priests cane referred, faltering once before getting there.
Ordan held his gaze as he lowered himself to a stance. The feeling of disdain ebbed away as Sethlzaar watched the man's brown eyes move ever so gently. Everything seemed to fade, leaving them alone in the moment.
In an instant, Ordan attacked. His movement blurred in Sethlzaar's eyes. It reminded him of mere moments ago. Sethlzaar raised his sword to the side, predicting the priest's strike and protecting himself.
Ordan's cane came down hard on his chest. It sent him to the ground gripping it in excruciating pain.
"Useless!' Ordan bellowed, "Urvin, come an' show him how it's done."
Omage Urvin reminded Sethlzaar of the son of a farmer that had once visited Groc, tall and muscular, easily towering over his peers, his skin bronze from too much sun. Groc had spoken to the father while the boy stayed with them for almost half the day before they had taken their leave.
Sethlzaar wondered if Omage, too, had been the son of a farmer left with no choice but to toil the fields.
"Canabi Nuvere!" Ordan called, shoving Omage with his foot as the boy struggled with his crawl away on the ground clutching his shoulder.
The boy who'd been crying earlier stepped forward, timid as a sheep. He held his weapon close to his chest. Ordan stood straight and assessed him until he stopped in place, wooden sword still clutched to his chest.
"Do yer inten' to fight like that?" Ordan asked.
"No, s-sir... Father."
Amidst the stutter, the boy possessed an obvious brogue indigenous to the Tinsoo tribe situated somewhere in the lands of Creia, north of the realm.
"I see Creia still makes 'em cute." A gentle smile tugged on Ordan's lips.
Sethlzaar was surprised to see the man smile as he and his mates awaited the battle.
Ordan moved.
There was no finesse in the action. It was the wildness of a beast in rage. He moved fast. His feet seemed to take a single step yet he covered the distance in it. The sound that reverberated through the air stunned Sethlzaar as if he had been struck. A greater sense of panic flooded him at the sight of the boy.
Canabi sat on the floor bleeding from a gash in his head. It stained his black hair in crimson. To Sethlzaar's greater surprise, the boy made no audible sound. He sniffled in his pain but no sob escaped him. None of the boys moved from their place, and Sethlzaar, ignoring the rage that built in him, imitated their actions.
He would take his cue from the collective till he knew enough to act as an individual.
In the same order, each boy stepped forth to engage in a spar Sethlzaar could only view as an excuse for pointless brutality. Canabi, proving to be the only real fatality of them all, stood in his place, blood dripping very slowly from the gash in his head.
When it came to the turn of Narvi Ernshua, a boy of average build with a full set of brown hair on his head, Father Ordan moved first.
The boy jumped out of the way rather than make an attempt at defense as the others had done, and Ordan attacked again. His movement blurred then, moving too fast for Sethlzaar's eyes to follow as he struck at Narvi.
The sharp crack of wood against wood was audible as Narvi raised his weapon. It intercepted Ordan's on its path, but the attack proving stronger, sent Narvi staggering back.
Sethlzaar found himself watching the way the priest wielded his cane whilst waiting like everyone else for the finishing blow, the one that would signal an end to the spar.
Ordan held it with changing grips. At first he held it at one end. Then he held it halfway up its length. Then he held it two thirds down on his end.
His grip switched at what seemed random intervals, but Sethlzaar was certain there was a trick to it.
In the end, the final blow never came. Ordan simple fixed Narvi with a gaze Sethlzaar was all too familiar with as the boy found his footing. In the conisoir one of the older boys had directed it at him once before: a mixture of disgust and acknowledgement. Ordan adjusted his grip on his cane and, instructing them to follow him to the dining hall, walked away.
They followed obediently. One of the boys walked alongside the boy bleeding from his head as Sethlzaar watched from his place at the back of the group. Narvi walked a few paces ahead, engaged in an almost lively conversation with a boy Father Ordan had called Frent Alforsa.
The dining hall was filled with older boys laughing and engaging each other in friendly banter. The tables lined up from the door to the wall on the far end of the hall, with the density of students reducing as the tables grew closer to the end.
The table at the wall housed priests eating in grim silence, five of them in totality, but Sethlzaar was fairly certain it couldn't be the sum of all the priests in the Seminary.
What laid before them not only proved to goad at their bowels but also at their minds. The meal was bountiful, like a first for Kong's. The only time Sethlzaar had seen so much food in so much assortment was when Groc had thrown a feast. Considered, he'd been confined to the attic with the other children, forcing him to spend time with them while Fen served.
A subtle glance revealed the looks on the faces of his mates, assuring him that the consuming hunger and fear of being the subject of a test was not restricted to only him.
"If food is before you," Omage said, biting into an apple as they sat down, "you best eat."
It was all they needed.
Everyone ate in their hunger. Sethlzaar noticed one of them setting food aside. The boy that had walked with Canabi. Soartin Cronis was his name. Sethlzaar remembered it easily.
The sight of the pale white of his skin blemished by the bruise on his hand no doubt from one of Father Ordan' strokes was unmistakable. Accompanied by that was the realization that Canabi was not in the hall. The calm state with which the boy selected the food spoke volumes and hinted at the possibility of him knowing where the other boy was.
"Fattening us up like pig for a feast, eh."
Sethlzaar raised his head from the piece of pig meat he was shoving into his mouth. Frent was the one who had spoken. Beside him Narvi ate with the control of a child who was in the presence of guests. Shamed by the sight presented to him, Sethlzaar slowed his gusto, as one would a horse from a gallop to a canter.
"Pig for feast is wrong perception," Omage corrected. "Ox for field, 'tis better choice of words."
A while later Canabi walked into the hall. A piece of clean cloth was wrapped around his head. He approached the table, observing as he neared it... or rather, searching. He smelled of something strong, something akin to forest trees and muddy swamp.
He took a spot beside Soartin and began eating. It was only after Soartin studied the boy for a moment did he ask, "Does it hurt?"
Canabi raised his hand to the bandage reflexively. He stopped before it made contact. "No," he replied, a reassuring smile on his face.
Sethlzaar watched him. Liar.
A while later he realized the boy beside him had slowed his eating and wondered if the boy was full.
He was a skinny child narrowly Sethlzaar's height. His lack of enthusiasm seemed more from a mental distraction than the state of his bowel. Catching Sethlzaar's eye, the boy hesitated in what seemed a state of cognitive dissonance. It was a considerable pause. Like a man unsure of what sacrifice to offer. Like a drunk looking for his house. Like a solitary leaf falling from a tree. Then the scrawny boy leaned in.
"What is perception?" he asked quietly. It was almost a whisper.
Sethlzaar wasn't certain how to react to the question; impressed by how long the boy had pondered on the word or shocked at the boy's absence of knowledge of the word.
He considered keeping to himself to be the best course of action. Thus, he conceived to ignore the boy and return his full attention to his food. He made contact with the boy's mud brown eyes and his mind betrayed him. There was so much trust in them. He wondered how a boy that had just gone through the same day as he'd experienced could still trust.
He sighed. "It's how a person sees things."
"How a person sees things," the boy mused. "A pig and an ox." He nodded. "Thank you." Then he returned to his meal, his enthusiasm fully restored.
Sethlzaar doubted the boy understood. But choosing to prevent any further conversation, he returned to his meal, his gusto lost somewhere in the exchange of words. He spared the boy a discreet look, remembering his name, Cenam.
"So you're mistborn?" the boy who seemed oldest of them asked him. "That's all the priests have been talking about all day."
It took him a while, but in the end Sethlzaar recalled his name to be Takaris Nilfinu. Like himself, Ordan seemed to have also taken a liking to flogging him. Still, there was little sense of kinship there.
So he offered Takaris no answer. After a while of waiting, and a realization that none would come, Takaris returned to his food.
The cleaning of the hall was left to the youngest. It kept them longer than everyone else. They swept, cleared the tables, and cleaned the plates.
Done with the hall, they proceeded to cleaning the latrines under the inspection of Father Ordan who had returned towards the conclusion of their meal. Moving the feces proved a tasking job on their nostrils and earned some of the boys a flogging or two here and there for spilling some before getting to the garden where they were disposed of to be used as fertilizer in later days.
Wash up was an unsupervised event. They were directed to a place they attained buckets. With them, they drew water from a well and bathed in a building demarcated into stalls by weaved straws.
Climbing the stairs of the tower proved a greater task than it had in the morning. As they climbed, every part of their bodies bore them down, willing them to fail at the trivial task. Topped by the activities of the day, they were all without strength by the time they reached their room. Still, each of them navigated their way through the darkness of the night collapsing in their beds.
Sethlzaar's mind wondered to his travels with Valerik as his back ached from the imprint of the bamboo bedding beneath his too thin mattress. He found himself thinking instead of how best to better his sleeping arrangement. Almost reaching a solution, his mind buckled under the fatigue and he abandoned the thought for tomorrow. Tonight he was too weak for anything.
His mind drew a name as his hand wrapped around the insignia he had received from Father Nurudin. Shat'lzaar. It did make him think.
In mere heartbeats, sleep claimed him.
And so did a nightmare that would prove to be the first of many.