Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [15]
Two proctors stood looking in, their faces hidden deep within their cerulean hoods.
One of them pointed at Caelan with his carved staff.
“Come.”
Wary, expecting a beating, Caelan made no move to obey.
“You have been summoned to the chambers of Elder Sobna. Come.”
Caelan’s mouth went dry, and for a moment he was frightened. He’d actually spoke to Elder Sobna only once, on the day he first came to be enrolled. The Elder had eyes like glaciers, a white beard, and a soft voice as quiet as falling snow. He had made a dry little speech about welcoming the son of Master Beva. Caelan, anxious to avoid favoritism, had said all the wrong things. Since then, the Elder had not acknowledged his presence again.
Caelan straightened his shoulders and told himself not to worry. There was no punishment worse than what he’d already faced. Maybe he was going to be expelled. But as soon as that hope was born in Caelan, it died. No one was ever disrobed from Rieschelhold. He’d probably have to poison a master or something.
Wearing defiance like a cloak, he swaggered out into the corridor with his silent escort.
It was strange walking down the staircase at that hour of morning to find the place still and empty. The air smelled of peat fires and wood polish. But not even the serfs were to be seen.
Caelan looked around. “Has everyone been confined to quarters?”
“All,” said the proctor on his left.
The other glided stoically on his right, close by, his staff held out as though to steer Caelan.
“But why?” Caelan asked. He’d never expected to find himself grateful to be talking to proctors, but even they were better than no one. “What’s going on?”
The proctor on his left turned slightly toward him. “None is to look upon a transgressor.”
“But—”
The proctor on his right lifted its hand. “Silence.”
They walked on, pausing only while the proctors unlocked the doors to the building without touching them. Outside, they paused again, and Caelan heard the bolts shoot home without being touched by the proctor’s hand. He shivered, feeling spooked and increasingly nervous about this.
Caelan gazed up at a pewter-gray sky, then across the snow-draped expanse of garden and courtyard. The air lay still, not a whisper of wind stirring the quietness. The courtyard had been swept of the fresh snow that had fallen in the night, but it might have been twilight instead of day, for not a soul was to be seen anywhere.
I have vanished, Caelan thought with a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold sinking through his wool robe. They can do anything to me now, and no one will ever know.
With difficulty he forced his alarm away, drawing on his own anger for strength. This place thrived on fear, using it as a tool, a weapon to coerce the students into obedience. There was no joy here, no light. Dreams and ambitions faded into the mind-dulling miasma of hard work, stern threats, and punishment.
Caelan refused to let fear conquer him now. He had faced soldiers and lurkers and the unknown. He had even risked meeting a wind spirit. Yet somehow, the silence surrounding him now seemed far worse. For courage he sought memories of his home, E’nonhold, which shone like a refuge in his mind. He thought of days of unhampered freedom when he’d raced his pony up through the valley pass of the Cascades and climbed out on top of the glacier. He thought of the cold wind whipping his hair back from his face and the feathery soft feel of snowflakes on his eyelashes. He thought of hawking—his version of it, not the swift bloody sport of the rich. No, to reach out and share identity with the great predator bird. To feel the rush of wind through its wings. To feel the weightlessness of its body on the air currents, circling, circling, keen eyes alert. To dive in one great, swift, heady rush, the earth hurtling straight at him. Then pulling out seconds before the strike, earthbound and separate once again, gasping with the forbidden exhilaration of it.
Ah, sevaisin, the joining. So different from severance. So much fun, yet absolutely denied.