After a while, she began to cry again and there was silence in the house before his father emerged, patted Elaire briefly on the head and went out to mount his waiting horse. After his return four long months later Elaire noted his parents slept in separate rooms. He blinked and came back from the old memories and looked at his empty plate.
After the meal, it was time for the observance. The plates were cleared away and they sat in silence as the priest recited the articles of the Faith in a clear, ringing voice that filled the hall. Despite his dark mood, Elaire found the words oddly uplifting, making him think of his mother and the strength of her belief which had never wavered throughout her long illness. He wondered briefly if he would have been sent here if she was still alive and knew with absolute certainty she would never have allowed it.
When the priest had finished his recitation he told them to take a moment for private contemplation and offer thanks for their blessings to the Departed. Elaire sent his love to his mother and asked her guidance for the trials to come, fighting tears as he did so. The first rule of the Order seemed to be that the youngest boys got the worst chores. Accordingly, after observance, Jarem trooped them to the stables where they spent several foul hours mucking out the stalls. They then had to cart the dung over to the manure mounds in Instructor Azmar's gardens. He was a very tall man who seemed incapable of speech, directing them with frantic gestures of his earth darkened hands and strange guttural grunts, the varying pitch of which would indicate if they were doing something right or not. His communication with Sollis was different, consisting of intricate hand gestures that the master seemed to understand instantly.
The gardens were large, covering at least two acres of the land outside the walls, comprising long orderly rows of cabbages, turnips and other vegetables. He also kept a small orchard surrounded by a stone wall. Being late winter he was busily engaged in pruning and one of their chores was gathering up the pruned branches for use as kindling.
It was as they carried the baskets of kindling back to the main keep that Elaire dared ask a question of Master Jarem. "Why can't Instructor Azmar speak, Instructor?"
He was prepared for a caning but Jarem confined his rebuke to a sharp glance. They trudged on in silence for a few moments before Jarem muttered, "The Zakars cut his tongue out."
Vaelin shivered involuntarily. He had heard of the Zakars, everyone had. At least one of the swords in his father's collection had been carried through a campaign against the Zakars. They were wild men of the mountains to the far north who loved to raid the farms and villages of Eastfield, raping, stealing and killing with gleeful savagery. They are called wolfmen, there are stories of them turning into demonic wolves who stand on two legs, use sharp claws as weapons and eat human flesh. His father always told Elaire to not believe such stories, but he couldn't help but come up but doubt.
"How come he's still livin', instructor?" Jon enquired. "My uncle Rand fought agin the Lonak an' said they never let a man live once they got him captured."
Jarem's glance at Jon was markedly sharper than the one he turned on Elaire. "He escaped. He is a brave and resourceful man and a credit to the Order. We've talked of this enough." He lashed his cane against another boy's legs, it was Nolan the only boy who was quieter than Lucas. "Pick your feet up, Sehdal."
After chores, it was more sword practice. This time Jarem would perform a series of moves they had to copy. If any of them got it wrong he made them run full pelt around the practice ground. At first, they seemed to make a mistake at every attempt and they did a lot of running, but eventually, they got it right more than they got it wrong. Jarem called an end when the sky began to darken and they returned to the dining hall for an evening meal of bread and milk.
There was little talk; they were too tired. Deren made a few jokes and Jon told a story about another of his uncles but there was little interest. Following the meal Jarem forced them to run up the stairs to their room, lining them up, panting, drained, exhausted. "Your first day in the Order is over," he told them. "It is a rule of the Order that you can leave in the morning if you wish. It will only get harder from now on so think carefully." He left them there, panting in the candlelight, thinking of the morning.
"Do ye think they'll give us eggs for breakfast?" Jon wondered.
Later, as Elaire squirmed in his bed of straw he found he couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion. Deren was snoring but it wasn't this that kept him awake. His head was full of the enormity of the change in his life over the course of a single day. His father had given him away, pushed him into this place of beatings and lessons in death. It was clear his father hated him, he was a reminder of his dead wife best kept out of sight. Well, he could hate too, hate was easy, hate would fuel him if his mother's love could not. Loyalty has its own sworn reward. He snorted a silent laugh of derision...
'Let loyalty be your reward father. I discard your words.'
Someone was crying in the dark, shedding tears on their straw pillow. Was it Benjen? Jon? Nolan? There was no way to tell. The sobs were a forlorn, deeply lonely counterpoint to the regular wood saw rhythm of Deren's snoring. Elaire wanted to cry too, wanted to shed tears and wallow in self-pity, but the tears wouldn't come. He lay awake, restless, heart thumping so hard with alternate hatred and anger that he wondered if it would burst through his ribs. Panic made it beat even faster, sweat beaded his forehead and bathed his chest. It was terrible, unbearable, he had to get out, get away from this place…
" Vaelin. "
A voice. A word is spoken in darkness. Clear and real and true. His racing heart slowed instantly as he sat up, eyes searching the shadowed room. There was no fear for he didn't know the voice. The ghostly voice of the spirit. It was like a shade had come to him, come to offer comfort, come to save him. The voice didn't come again, although he strained his ears for another hour, no further words were spoken. He settled back into the needle discomfort of the mattress, the tiredness finally overtaking him. The sobs had ceased and even Barkus's snores seemed softer. He drifted into a dreamless, untroubled sleep. The first day ended.